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I don't share too deeply about myself and, worse still, I feel myself pull away whenever someone tries to do so with me. I'm working on it, recognising the signs and being more conscious of my actions. I want to be able to build meaningful relationships. I do care about the people in my life.

One effect that I've been confronted with is this view that I couldn't possibly be attractive or desirable. I don't write this in a manner of self-loathing or even self-consciousness, I've just become aware that, in my mind, I somehow view this as a fact.

It's interesting because, as with everyone, some days I feel pretty and other days I don't. And yet even on the days I like the way I look, I can't even conceive of anyone else thinking the same.

Someone confessed their feelings for me recently and they said all these nice things and I felt a whole lot of things, but in the moment the thing I felt the most was uncomfortable. I felt squeamish and couldn't quite decided whether he was messing with me or not. I know he wouldn't say all that for the sake of a dare, we're not children, and yet...

There's this idea that you don't know anyone like you know those you loved in childhood and adolescence. It's romantic but I'm not sure I'm convinced. To be human is to change. After all those years, all those changes, can someone from your distant past truly still know you?

My own personal biases put me against the idea - I had a rather lonely childhood and felt misunderstood by those around me, I was always holding back. I can't think of anyone that I've lost contact with who would still know me deeply, should I run into them today. But maybe that doesn't mean anything in terms of the questions I'm asking, other than that I'm the wrong person to answer them.

If I'm being really honest, the idea of childhood first love being your true love fills me with jealousy more than anything. That the people who I surround myself with now, who I love, will always have those who love them more, who know them better, makes me feel - I don't know. Jealous? Envious? Some other word that's on the tip of my tongue but I can't quite find.

The main character in the book I'm reading clearly does not regard women highly, he sees them more as objects or constructs than as real people. Normally, I'd roll my eyes at this man and probably be a little put off the book. However, consider that the book itself was written by a woman. This made me more lenient, more willing to follow her character's journey and figure out the story she's trying to tell.

This has me thinking about who's 'allowed' to tell what stories; why am I suddenly curious and willing to read about this misogynistic man?