RUNNING DOESN’T CURE DEPRESSION, JOHN.

 

The amount of times people recommend running to me as a way to heal my mental illness/ my insanity is insane in itself. Honestly, you would think that I had never heard of running before. Lot’s of people with little to no personal experience of depression and impulse control disorder like to tell me that exercise is key to getting better. If running is the key then so is chocolate, because they have about the same effect.

Putting aside the fact that – duh – I’ve thought of running, it can start off sounding like a kind suggestion. It sounds as though John P Smith from Essex really gives cares about my recovery and mental health. It sounds like John P Smith might be a psychiatrist. Except he isn’t, he’s some dick on Twitter that is making me feel isolated. I’ve tried running and it’s great, I feel better for 5 minutes, but then I’m back in my head again and nothing has changed. There is momentary relief in finally feeling something but if I was looking for momentary relief I would just keep pulling my hair out, John.

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MY FEMINIST HAVENS ON THE INTERNET

When I was 18 and began identifying as a feminist. A friend bought me Caitlin Moran’s ‘How to be a Woman’ for my birthday and I read it thinking, ‘YES, I AM THIS, THIS IS WHO I AM. CAITLIN I AM U WE R THE SAME. CAITLIN I ALSO AM WHAT YOU ARE.’ I had soooo much to learn but I had no time because I was so busy telling everyone how shit they were at feminism.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ME AGED 18:

Everyone: Hey Rosy, how is your da…

Me: ….STOP OBJECTIFYING ME WITH YOUR MALE GAZE, OVERT YOUR EYES AND LISTEN TO MY POEM ENTITLED ‘DIALOGUE BETWEEN MY LABIA MANORA AND LABIA MAJORA.’

 

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WHY DO I OWN THIS

So I’m moving to London in September, which is exciting but at the same time part of my northern soul dies inside, to be a student again because apparently a Theology degree doesn’t scream “EMPLOYABLE.” Aside from the inner turmoil that is coming with moving to the south, I am having to spend SO MUCH TIME sifting through shit while packing. Usually I would just move all my shit around and avoid sorting it out, but I’m moving in with Thomas and I don’t think he wants the complete collection of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, hardback and audiobook editions, to be in our shared bedroom.

 

Whilst I’ve been contorting myself around the shit in my room, I have discovered some truly distressing possessions that I have been avoiding acknowledging for a while.

 

  1. A signed copy of a Katy Price book.

I can’t even pretend that this was something I won in a raffle, or that I bought the book and it happened to be a signed copy. Nope. I bought the book and the queued up for 3 HOURS to have it signed by Katy Price. I was about 14 and all I remember from the book is that the protagonist is given a diamond thong and I thought that was the height of sophistication. If Thomas bought me a diamond thong I would have him admitted to hospital and sell it on the black market. The woman in the book had it ripped off her by the teeth of her lover but I cannot imagine she did not also go on to sell it on the black market, or at least have it made into a necklace. It is only just hitting me that they probably weren’t real diamonds, they would probably cut your bum, right?

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MY DEPRESSION WAS PRODUCTIVE

Is it fucked up to use meds as props?

I’m writing this post to challenge your perception of depression. If you think that depression is always bed-ridden women, and emotional teenagers then listen up because I’m about to lay down some truth bombs (god I sound like a mother of 3). I HAVE NEVER BEEN AS PRODUCTIVE AS WHEN I WAS IN MY DEEPEST DEEPEST DEPRESSION.

There is this idea that clinical depression is people being paralysed and unable to do anything. Although sometimes I would have to leave a situation, get into bed and pretend everything didn’t exist, I didn’t really stop once during the worst of my depression. Instead of stopping, I went at 1532846382 miles an hour into EVERYTHING. I couldn’t stop. I was running this blog, starting up Every Month, writing my dissertation, applying for jobs, doing stand up, seeing friends and seeing Thomas. Ultimately, you could label all of those things ‘trying not to kill myself.’

It sounds dramatic but it’s true. I thought depression was when you couldn’t move, but for me it was when I absolutely had to move. There was so much terror in stopping because everything was darkness and it’s fucking terrifying to hang out in the dark. I didn’t want to stop because I was scared what would happen if I did. I didn’t watch a film for months and I hated the night time because nobody was doing anything and it baffled me that people were ok with that.

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THERESA MAY TO BRING OUT FIDGET SPINNER

I’m soon to be unemployed and so I’ve been thinking about some things I could do in my spare time. I’ll be a part time student living in London so I’m probably going to want to work for someone with more money than sense so I can get paid £££££ part time. So, I think I’m going to apply to work for…. say it with me…. more money than sense…. Teresa May.

I could be her PR gal because clearly whoever is currently doing it needs to be fired. Even as someone who is not exactly (read: not at all) a fan of T May or any other Tory ever, I think I could do a better job of turning around public opinion on our PM. I propose that in order to get people on side, Theresa needs to bring out a range of fidget spinners. GENIUS RIGHT?

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10 THINGS I WISH I KNEW 10 YEARS AGO

 

I’ve decided to write this post because I read this post by Hannah Gale today and I decided to do my own similar post. Ten years ago I was 13, I looked exactly the same, minus three stone, and my best friends where girls who I still text now when I do something embarrassing during sex or need book recommendations. I was about a million times more insecure and obsessed with having my first kiss. So, here are the 10 things I wish I knew 10 years ago…

 

  1. I was right to live and die by my Moterolla Pebble. Honestly, I have never been happier than when I used to text boys I met on MSN and then stop texting them once I ran out of credit. I honestly don’t think I edited my dissertation with the precision that I used to edit my texts to keep them under one page long.
  2. My Morgan bag was not hot shit. I begged my mum for my Morgan school bag because I thought it was so fucking cool, but really it just hurt my shoulder and didn’t really carry all of my books. Does Morgan even still exist? I don’t have a clue, but I do know that my back still hurts when I wear a shoulder bag. View Post
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25 REASONS YOU CAN CRY TODAY

Here I am being relatable compared to the unattainable heights of Miley

la la la la laaaaa what a happy and relatable post you’ve been craving, amirite? Since I’ve been on this sweet sweet road to recovery I’ve been crying less and less, and I’m begining to worry that instead of getting better I’m actually turning to stone. To ensure this doesn’t happen, to me or you, I’ve made this little list to keep me human….

 

  1. You imagined the birth of your future children
  2. You caught your eye in a mirror and you can’t believe you’re doing this life thing
  3. You tried to start a bullet journal
  4. You missed the bus
  5. You realized there is not a handbook for life
  6. A fart is loud when you thought it would be quiet
  7. You stubbed your poor little toe
  8. You thought about your friends and how much you love them whilst staring at 2008 profile pictures
  9. You saw your 2008 prof pics
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WHATS IN MY BAG – JULY 2017

I would be lying if I said I hadn’t started this blog to launch my career into the fashion industry. I’ve noticed that many cool galz online do a run down of what is in their handbag each month and I thought I should do the same because I think a person can tell a lot about me from what I keep in my bag.

1.TWO PASSION FRUITS.

I am constantly trying to getmy 5 a day and that is why I like to keep some fruit in my bag, so that I can keep myself away from any naughty snacks. Unfortunately, I haven’t a knife or spoon in my bag with which to eat them with but I know that God loves a trier and I am here to say that I am that trier.

2.  ONE UNWRAPPED TAMPON.

Some might say that this is unhygienic but really what else am I supposed to do when advertising makes me embarrassed about my period? Just because you don’t unwrap you tampons before you leave the house in the morning doesn’t mean you can go casting your aspersions on me.

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WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

Can you believe I thought I was holding everything together here?^

I’m back! WOT??! That’s right, it has been about a year since I stopped blogging and I am still a massive narcissist. For a while I thought that this blog fuelled my narcissism but as my ego hasn’t shrunken at all in the past year, I can only assume that it was the other way round and this blog is actually fuelled by my narcissism. Either way, I’m back!

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REFLECTIONS ON CYSTITIS

I can only imagine this is when my mum first told me about cystitis and how it would plague me forever

I did stand up last Sunday and just before I went on I thought, do I want stand in front of a room full of people and pretend to be my boyfriend gagging on my pubic hair? 

Similarly, I am currently sat in my bed and thinking, do I want to write 500 or so words about a UTI that plagues me and then put it on the internet?

I say yes to both because they both concern my vagina and there is no topic I love more than my vaginé…

If you don’t know your UTIs but you know your Shakespeare… Well, in Romeo and Juliet, when Mercutio says, “A plague on both your houses.” That plague was cystitis.

If I don’t like another human I think in my head, A CYSTITIS PLAGUE ON YOUR URETHRA HOUSE! If I love another person I think, MAY YOUR URETHRA BE FREE FROM CYSTITIS FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS!

I’m being serious though, there is nothing worse than cystitis. Apart from ISIS. ISIS is worse than cystitis.

Where am I going with this? Ahhhh… Maybe this is where I should share some tips on how to cope with cystitis. Yes, I think that is what the people want.

Ok, well my first tip is technically stolen from my dearest friend Emilie (you know she is classy as shit because her name is spelt with an ‘ie’) but I think all good things in life are stolen. Emilie says that if you have cystitis then you have to keep your feet warm. The exact relationship between one’s urethra and their feet escapes me, but that is probably because it is science and we all know science isn’t for women.

Another tip would obviously be to drink your weight in cranberry juice. It has to be your weight exactly or it won’t work. Again, this is a tricky one for us women because it involves maths, which isn’t for women, and cranberry juice, which we all know is what the patriarchy was founded upon.

Lastly there is my personal favourite and the only one I would actually recommend as it is ideal for women brains. Self-medicate. I have a nice little stash of penicillin and I just pop them all day everyday until it goes away. It also helps to say a few hail Mary’s. This only works for Catholics though. The Virgin Mother only cares for a Catholic urethra and penicillin doesn’t work on protestants.

Ahhh I really feel like I should finish this with something quippy and wise.

Oh, duh, always pee after sex.

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