14/08/2015 06:30 BST | Updated 13/08/2016 06:59 BST

My Own Mad Fat Diary

My brother. Gosh. Now where do I begin? Well, in my eyes the man is a hero. He took over legal guardianship of me at the age of ten after our mum passed away, while working three jobs to support us. Do not be fooled by his sweet exterior though because this man has a dark side. Have you ever seen My Mad Fat Diary? Well, my brother is Rae's mum, to a t (he will kill me for saying that).

I always believed that as soon as I turned 21 the whinging would stop, and I would be a 'free agent' as so to speak. I would move out, and spend my days curled up on the sofa watching movies as opposed to spring cleaning (ugh). Now let me just give you a small idea as to my brother's standards of cleaning. When I was a child, roughly seven or eight, Matthew spent a small fortune redecorating the living room for our Mum. It was beautiful, I cannot lie. He purchased new furniture, new curtains and carpets, and bought a new sofa. She was so happy. They honestly do not come more generous than my brother. He would give his last pound to anyone he thought was in need. And I could not be more proud of him. Now, when it came to the sofa there was a catch. None of us, not even mum, were ever allowed to sit on it incase we left a mark (I am laughing now as I write this). Who buys a white sofa anyway? When my friends came over to play we were allowed to watch the television but only if we sat on the rug. Now I was a hefty child and there were three of us sat on that one piece of fabric, which was not fun, let me tell you. To get to the rug we each had to leave our shoes at the door, put our socks on, and jump so as to ensure that our feet never touched the carpet. Once sat down we were too scared to even move because he had us all convinced that security cameras had been installed and he was watching our every move. Yeah, cheers for that.

No, it was just my luck that I ended up with various illnesses six months beforehand and needed my brother more than ever, meaning that he had the power to put his foot down ten times harder. Joy. While I know he would give everything to take this all away from me, and I have never doubted that for a second because the man adores me, I know that he secretly relishes in his new found authority. His eyes sparkle when he receives positive feedback from my therapists or support workers telling him how good of a job he is doing with me. While he of course deserves all the praise in the world, this will only make him go even more Agatha Trunchbull on me. He works in children's services and I can imagine the children lined up on the driveway waiting to meet him from his car, and him screaming "You're going to the chokey, young lady!".

Jokes aside though, I could not love my brother more. I would not be standing without him. He will research my conditions daily, looking for new ways to help me through this. He will pick me up when I am down, buying me little presents and flowers to brighten up my flat. He will Facetime me as a grounding technique, but, above all, he understands. He 'gets it' as so to speak. He has always had my back, believing my depersonalisation disorder when nobody else did, including supposed medical professionals. Thank you, Matthew. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You might be an olympic whinger, but you are the best brother I could have wished for. I feel blessed to have you in my life.