The Pessimist

Olive

Olive Gail

I hated my name.
I always have done and always will.
Olive.
Why did my parents have to name me Olive?
The constant curiosity and teasing I had to endure because of it. No. My name is not Olivia, and no I do not come stuffed. They always told me it was because they wanted me to be unique but other kids just saw it as an opportunity to make fun of me. I actually liked the name until I was in secondary school.
I barely finished my last year of school. I was in and out of therapy sessions and hospital. I had given myself so many panic attacks and negative thoughts that my parents didn't want me going straight into university. No. Instead I was nineteen years old working in a small book store getting paid minimum wage.

I attended a therapy group twice a week and had to meet up with another woman, Melanie, to discuss, well, me. But I enjoyed our meetings. We would go to coffee shops or parks. It wasn't the sort of therapy you'd imagine, all cramped into one room for an hour.
I didn't have many friends, but I didn't mind. I liked my work and being surrounded by books. I had come to enjoy my own company, I had learned to be lonely.

I had this positive block in my head. My brain wouldn't allow me to think positively which is why i was constantly negative and anxious. I took multiple tablets which I despised taking, so much so that when it was pill time either my parents, my boss or my therapist would have to watch me until I had taken them. It was a pain because I hated taking pills, but they made me feel better.

Living in London was stressful enough on its own. I had to constantly fight against the people rushing to get to the train stations in order to get to work most mornings.

Me and Mum lived in a little house near Hyde park. It was quaint but lovely. Our home was very simplistic in decor, but the style of the house was old and traditional. I liked it but I longed to have my own house, I would make my home so modern and slick. I don't think I'd be getting married and having children. I don't think Mum thinks I'll be providing her grandchildren. I would worry about having children. I wouldn't want to pass on whatever I had onto them, even though Mum constantly told me it wasn't genetic.

My mother's name was Bonnie. I guess you could say we were a family of peculiar names. My mother and father separated when I was ten years old. It wasn't a good environment between them. They were both a lot happier since they left each other. I rarely saw my father, Melanie thought it was for the best.

Melanie was a kind woman. She was probably around 35 years old, with blonde hair always tied back in a ponytail. She almost never wore any makeup, but she didn't have to. She was naturally pretty. Unlike myself.

I never went out of the house without makeup on. My skin, blotchy, my eyebrows, barely there, my eyelashes, too short, and the only way for me to get any definition in my cheeks was through contour. I liked my hair though. It just brushed my shoulders and was brown at the roots but the rest was blonde. I liked changing my hair. It once reached my waist and was deep brown, but I changed it after I had a mental breakdown over my mock examinations.

I had never had a boyfriend. Boys had asked me on dates before but I always said no. I don't believe in love and surely you can't fall in love at nineteen. So I decided not to humour the matter of love and just never got into a relationship.  Relationships only brought disappointment.

I was fine. Everything was normal.