I’ve tried to start this post so many times and I don’t know how to be subtle/ slowly build suspense/ not talk about being abandoned by my father in the first weeks of life so STRAP IN… My dad left when I was a baby and since then it has just been my mum, my sisters and moi. At uni I always lived with gals and we went through four years having made no male friends. Now, 23 and at the peak of my fertility I am living with two guys. One of them is Thomas and he’s my boyfriend (sometimes I call him my partner because that’s grown up) from tinder and Lewis is his bestie from when they were babies. It’s pretty fucking cute. Living with them is a 200% increase in the amount of men I’ve lived with.*
Thomas has lived in this flat for two months before I moved in and so I should probably describe the before situation of this room. This will take two minutes because it was EMPTY. Honestly there was nothing on the walls, nothing on the surfaces, and nothing on the bedside table… Obviously there are 5 guitars and a ukulele in here, but there wasn’t even a bin so as far as I’m concerned this was a desolate room in need of my creative flair and talent.
Hey! I’ve just moved to Landan, penniless, medicated and happy, so I must document every day of my life to prove to my mum and the world that I am coping. If you’re not reading Refinary29s Money Diaries then you must quit this crap and head straight there because I use it as my financial advisor. This one is life.
I’m not including travel or rent because I don’t want you to realize how much I lean on my mother…
I’m not saying anything ground breaking to note that I have seen some feminists, learning and growing just like me, be dragged over hot coals for misguided things that they have said. Sometimes a white cis woman has gone onto a comment section guns blazing asking if a black woman can explain to her why it is cultural appropriation if she wears braids in her blonde hair or another woman, Zadie Smith, has said that make up is a waste of time and not something women should be spending their time on. These two examples are different, but the women saying them can sometimes be treated the same, denounced as sexist or racist and told to be quiet. It’s important to call out toxic or problematic* behavior, but sometimes it isn’t done in the kindest of ways.
Tbh public shaming in feminism can be so harsh that I would 100% spend a whole week with someone who describes themselves as ‘35 years young and a graduate of the school of life’ than be called out by a group of feminists that I respect. So, there are certain topics that I listen to others more than I offer my own opinion and then there are some things that I avoid talking about all together. I do not want to be dragged over those coals!
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.
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.
- 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?
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.
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…
- 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.
- 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
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.
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!