The Twenty Third

Justifications

2016-09-05T08:48:00.005+01:00

I'm currently sat sobbing my heart out in Cambridge train station, a cup of coffee to my right and enough wadded up tissues to rival the floor of a teenage boy. Why am I crying? Because I missed my train. Not that much of a big deal, until you come to realise that this is going to make me an hour late for my current internship. The internship that I so so desperately need to be hired for after it has finished, as it's the closest I've come to the possibility of securing a graduate job since I left university over a year ago. An hour late on the Monday of my first full week? Even I wouldn't hire me.

I'm struggling a lot at the moment. I'm eating too much and constantly feel like a complete failure. All my friends are out working great jobs, getting married or having children. I'm a bar maid. A bar maid who, last night, couldn't even make a cup of coffee properly. I am nothing, I'm useless, and I'm a complete and utter waste of oxygen. To make it through the day without crying is a world class achievement and I'm dangerously close to feeling suicidal again.

What sucker punches me in the lady parts so much is that I know missing my train and subsequently destroying every chance I have at being employed by my internship supervisors is that I know it's all my fault. I ate so so much last night. Me and Tate ordered Dominoes and I sat repulsively shovelling enough food into my mouth to cure world hunger. I was disgusting, I was revolting and if I could have clawed the food out of my body I would have done. But I can't. That's right, I'm so pathetic and useless I can't even purge.

Knowing your own failure is your fault is soul destroying. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, I'm still too much of a waste of space that I can't stop stuffing food into my disgustingly corpulent body, can't find anyone to love me and can't find a decent job. I want these things so badly, and it's breaking my heart to fall at every hurdle.

I've said this a lot, but I just want to give up now. There's no point in my fighting for happiness anymore. I simply don't deserve it.

xXx

First Loves and Old Favs

2016-08-12T08:33:00.001+01:00

I was blessed with a lot of things in life. Good health, a talent for writing, a decent singing voice and one hell of a good arse. One thing I was not blessed with however, was a decent attention span. Patience is not a virtue I posses and being able to concentrate on something for longer than 30 seconds is a rarity. No matter how hard I try, my brain just doesn't seem to focus.

On good days this is merely an inconvenience, on bad days it makes me want to hurl whatever I'm attempting to focus on off the top of a tall building. You know you're highly strung when you can't make it through a 30 minute YouTube yoga video, and reading becomes very tricky when you're seldom able to concentrate on more than one paragraph at a time. For this reason, I find myself reading the same novels a hundred times over.

In my youth my one-author-obsession was, of course, focused singularly on teen-lit queen Meg Cabot. I owned everything she'd ever written, sometimes in multiple copies, and followed her blog religiously. I had my hair cut to mimic the illustration of Jessica Mastriani from the Missing series, and prayed one day to feel even the smallest modicum of love that Michael Moscovitz and Mia Thermopolis felt for each other. If there's such thing as a literary addiction, I was a full blown junkie.

Having travelled through my back catalogue of old favs not too long ago, I found a copy of The Mediator Love You to Death & High Stakes in Cambridge library during a walk around the city, and decided to give it a re-read. Suze was one of my favourite of Cabot's heroines, most probably because she owned a leather jacket and specialised in kicking paranormal butt, and I was into hot ghost Jessie way before Edward Cullen was even a scratch on a page. I've had the book in my possession for less than 48 hours, a good portion of which I've spent asleep, and I'm already half way through.

When I left for university I felt a sense of embarrassment at still holding onto all my teen favs and ended up donating most of them to a local charity shop. Insecurities work in wild and wonderful ways and apparently this is where my brain saw fit to tear me down. Looking back I would give anything to still have those over thumbed coffee stained beauties in my possession, but thankfully Amazon is a thing and I'm planning on rebuilding my collection as fast as my budget will allow. Bizarrely, as is the case of so many teenage passions, I completely purged my life of something I loved for fear of being laughed at.

The human brain is a fucktard at times.

xXx

Just Breath?

2016-08-10T20:00:00.001+01:00

TW: Anxiety

I've been experiencing panic attacks since I was in high school, not that I knew what they were at the time. One moment I'd be fine and the next I'd be sat on the floor hyperventilating in fear and being transported around school in a wheelchair because I was unable to stand. For the longest time I thought that being unable to breath properly was the only symptom, not attributing anything else to my struggle with anxiety.

Since then I've realised that so many more of the symptoms I experience, collapsing, being completely unable to focus and wondering around in a complete daze, are all connected to feeling anxious. Right now, for instance, I'm attempting to work on an article while my brain is spinning and my chest feels tight, I feel nauseas, guilty and could burst into tears at any moment, the fact that I'm able to write this post is a miracle in itself. Thankfully I'm slowly calming down and, once I've given myself adequate time to feel better, I should hopefully be able to continue with my work by 11 o'clock. Time really is the best healer for me in these situations.

What I think is important is that people realise how many different symptoms can be attributed to anxiety. I'm not saying that everyone who's ever felt a little bit on edge or frightened should be diagnosed, but I know that once I realised my random collapsing was a result of anxiety I was able to learn how to make myself feel better. Drinking a cup of tea with enough sugar to have an entire playgroup bouncing off the walls and lying on my back with my legs in the air is far more helpful than a hundred and one people crowding around me, thinking I need to be taken to hospital and making me feel 100 times worse for wasting their time.

For some people, hyperventilating may be their only symptom, and they should be helped in a way that best suits them. Fresh air, space, anything they need to allow them to feel better. What is important is to not dismiss or ignore what you or the person involved may be feeling. Just because you don't recognise something as a more traditional or tell tail sign, does not mean that the person in question is not being affected by their anxiety in a lesser way.

What I found most helpful was to learn what may be a part of a panic attack for me, and what may not. One of the problems with mental illness is that so few attributes are one size fits all, and it's important that everybody knows and understands their symptoms, so as not to make themselves feel any worse than they already do.

xXx

Cameras and Confidence

2016-08-09T08:37:00.000+01:00

Yesterday morning, as may have been clear from my post, I felt like shit. I had no idea what was going on, I was in a daze and my confidence had already hit rock bottom before I'd even jumped in the shower. I had to have a nap before 11 am and walking to the city left me feeling like a zombie.

Thankfully, a quick text from my husband about how best to utilise free time snapped me out of my funk. I've been feeling pretty nostalgic lately, missing things I used to enjoy back when I had the confidence to do them. I have a pretty big collection of vintage film cameras, for instance, that have been suffocating in my mum's loft since my first year of uni because I'm too ashamed of not being good enough to use them.

Yes, you read that right, I've been avoiding something that I'm afraid of not being good enough at WHEN I'M THE ONLY ONE THAT WILL SEE IT.

I miss my creativity, and as I've mentioned before it only disappeared because of some throw away comment from a complete idiot that I should never have let into my life in the first place. It was always such a big part of my life and now it feels like a shrivelled up weed rotting somewhere in the bottom of a compost bin. At the time I found it therapeutic and looking back I now see that a great deal of the work I produced in high school documented my eating disorder in a way that I didn't notice at the time. I had no idea how much my all consuming desire and need to shrink down to a certain weight was seeping into every area of my life, despite it being glaringly obvious to everyone around me.

I've been berating myself lately for not being able to secure a 'proper' 9-5 job, feeling inferior to everyone around me, believing I'm lesser them because I have yet to find a full time job. It's exhausting, it's making me ill and I feel hopeless and miserable.

Instead of moping and spending my time between shifts at my new job punishing myself but sitting staring at a computer screen desperately trying to muster up a shred of motivation and confidence, that dies before my fingers have even tapped a single key, I'm going to spend it rediscovering things I used to enjoy. Art history research, singing, taking photographs on ancient film cameras and drawing random still life arrangements, that I've put together from a selection of crap I've selected from my room.

Because, regardless of how my career may pan out, staying this miserable will drown me anyway.

xXx

Monday Morning Musings

2016-08-08T09:36:00.001+01:00

I'm fighting with my head this morning. Fighting with my own brain so aggressively that I can't even find enough peace to allow me 10 minutes of relaxation. This is one of the reasons I became a writer, tapping away, destroying my nails, metaphorically vomiting onto the screen in front of me and hoping that at least a single sentence makes the grade I've set for myself is how I breath. Being a writer is good for me, despite how often I may doubt myself.

The fight this morning is between two people. The side of me that, despite my repetitive arguments on the contrary, is killing herself trying to combat the insecurities that plague her in an attempt to follow the path she thinks she is meant to, and the side that I love. The slightly crazy ever so hippyish side that loves to twirl, dance in the rain and has a cackle that would put Shakespeare's three witches to shame. For an obscenely long time I've been obsessed with doing things because I feel that they're what I should be doing, even though I'm really not sure who told me I should be doing them in the first place.

Time has always been a very strange concept to me. The idea that people fight ageing seems bizarre - as it's the singular thing every molecule in the universe has in common. Everything ages, time carries on moving forward, so to fight it seems pointless. But lately I've been struggling with the idea that I'm not doing things in time. That I'm 24 and single, that I've been searching for a graduate job for the last 18 months and still haven't managed to find anything, that until very recently I was 24 and still living at home. These things can be demoralising in their own right, but I've been making a way bigger deal out of them than I need to.

Some of my insecurities I know the source of, some I've brought upon myself. But regardless of how or when they were born, travelling around with the sodden cape of misery wrapped around my shoulders is doing me no favours. I've achieved one of my main goals I set out for myself this year, I've escaped, moved away and found the fresh start I've been craving for so long. To let the same drama that plagued me before ruin this moment would be a pitiful waste of time and energy.

xXx

Under Pressure

2016-08-03T08:21:00.002+01:00

Another graduate-related-misery post I'm afraid. When I finally find something someone will pay me more than £6.70 an hour for I'll stop, until then they'll keep on coming.

I don't know if it's the field I'm looking in, or just the jobs I'm looking for, but almost every single job vacancy I've found at has included 'works well under pressure' in the job description, meaning I'm totally fucked. As someone with a history of crippling anxiety and a mood that changes faster than Lady Gaga's fashion choices, how am I meant to tell someone I work well in stressful situations when that simply isn't the case?

On the one hand, lying is always an option, the fact that I am physically incapable of doing so due to my tendency to smile and giggle uncontrollably whenever I try to tell a fib makes this a tad difficult, but I could aways give it a try. Thing is, once the initial interview is over and (heaven forbid) I actually find myself employed and able to work, all that confidence and mental strength disappears, and I'm back to hyperventilating and fainting in a staff/stock/bathroom until I can stop crying for long enough to explain to people that I can not physically work anymore that day. I can understand why employers find this frustrating, but it's really not something I can control.

Some may say to suck it up, that anxiety and stress are needed to push us forward and that I'll never succeed unless I fight through it day to day. But when you've come from a place where you're physically incapable of getting out of bed, only able to sleep and cry, you become reluctant to do anything that may send you back down that rabbit hole. With or without the promise of a few extra pennies in your back pocket.

Admittedly, the majority of jobs I've worked so far have been retail/customer/sales based, fields that can be horrifically intimidating in themselves. Being constantly on display and exposed to the general public's anger me not having/doing what they want can bring every single insecurity to the surface, and all of a sudden I'm crying because someone has shouted at me for not having the toaster they wanted. This isn't a case of strength, but more a case of how I am able to react in these situations.

That's not to say that I'm not trying to work on my self confidence, that I want anything more than to be able to go through one day without this spike infested blanked lying over me, but this takes a long time. I wasn't diagnosed with anxiety until I was 21, and it's not something you can control over night.

For now I'm going to continue my job search, trying to find ways of demonstrating my ability to work well under a plethora of deadlines whilst simultaneously not outright lying, but it's difficult. And if you ever find yourself at work with someone who has anxiety, maybe try giving them a break? It's not by any means the hardest thing to live with, but it sure as hell isn't the easiest either.

xXx

Road Block

2016-08-02T11:44:00.000+01:00

After a pretty emotionally destructive day yesterday, during which I convinced myself that I have been unable to find a relevant job role because I eat 'too much', I'm back at my desk job hunting this morning. I have my (newly started) bullet journal next to me, a stack of brightly coloured pens and washi tape, and enough coffee to make the ocean look a tad damp. I'm ready to go, and yet I can't. I can't even begin to type or write out a single application, because I have already convinced myself I'm going to be unsuccessful.

I've been job hunting for over a year now and while I've had success in unpaid roles, I have yet to find anyone that's willing to pay me over minimum wage. I'm exhausted, I'm demoralised and I'm sick of holding my phone to my chest, obsessively refreshing my email inbox every 3 minutes to see if anyone has considered me 'good' enough to even call me in for an interview. Even as I type this I'm on the verge of tears (although that may be because of the hideously bad PMS spiral I'm about to fall into). Call me overdramatic, call me defeatist, but the thought of typing out another CV only to be met with a 'unfortunately this role has already been filled' email is making me want to vomit. I simply can't handle anymore rejection right now.

Admittedly, the stress of moving has a lot to do with this. I always brushed off the notion that moving house is one of the most stressful things you'll ever do, but in this case it really is true. Unanswered emails, additional fees, I live in constant fear of my voicemail. Every time an unknown number contacts me I answer the phone in seconds, only to be met by an automated voice trying to sell me life insurance.

Thanks universe, not only am I unemployed but I'm also getting closer to death with every passing minute, I could have really done without the reminder.

I also have a huge problem with people telling me that 'something'll turn up'. To them it sounds helpful and encouraging, to me any comments even remotely along those lines are saturated in patronisation and pity. How am I meant to believe that something will turn up when I've been working unpaid/minimum wage jobs my whole life. If I need your help I'll ask for it, but the more you offer, the more you push me away.

For the next hour or so, my phone is going to reside under my duvet. Partly because I have no desire to even look at another human being let alone talk to them, and any more rejection emails will probably see me crawling under the covers and sobbing hysterically. I know things are going to get better, that one day things will improve and I'll drag myself out of the all consuming and suffocating cloud of pessimism I'm currently living under. But I've put a mass rapist in prison, completed a degree and stopped self harming in the space of a year, give me a mother fucking break!

xXx

The Benefit.

2016-07-27T10:50:00.000+01:00

As someone who spends way more time on Facebook than I should, it's impossible not to scroll through my feed without seeing at least one or two comments regarding the benefit system in our country. This post isn't about dwelling on this, because that's a whole other argument, but I do have an issue with people assuming that living on disability benefits is preferable to being able to work full time.

Towards the end of last year, after having to leave my job at The Body Shop, I found myself completely unable to work. My BPD was at a crushing low and I spent a week in bed feeling suicidal, wanting to self harm and unable to complete the simplest task such as eating or brushing my teeth. At the advice of my mum, who had been advocating me acknowledging and accepting how my condition prevents me from being able to work for years, I finally applied for Employment Support Allowance (ESA), and began receiving fortnightly payments soon after.

I can only speak for myself on this matter as, like pretty much everything else in the entire world, what other people think/feel/do has fuck all to do with me, but having to apply for financial support as a result of being unable to work felt like an all consuming failure. For a graduate who has spent years working towards finding a career, be it through studying, interning or working from home, nothing made me feel worse than admitting I wasn't able to function in the way I wanted to. Add to that the fact that I rarely left the house due to my financial situation, and I ended up feeling only marginally better.

Some may ask why I didn't simply go back to work to combat my house-arrest induced mood, and to them I would say I would have done anything to be able to. When my condition is at it's worst and I can't lift my head off of the pillow because I'm exhausted from spending hours in agony, when I'm sleeping 18 hours a day and sobbing uncontrollably wanting to hurt myself in the few waking hours I can manage, I wish I could work. I've tried, many times over, but employers often find it difficult to get their heads around why I am forced to have so much time off of work. I admit my condition is difficult to understand, but this doesn't make it any less frustrating when people find it so hard to comprehend.

I will agree there are some people that do cheat the benefit system, in the same way that people steal, speed or commit any other form of crime. But please do not assume, just because I seem to be having a good day because you see me laughing, smiling and leaving the house, that I am one of them.

xXx

Mini Mood Lifters

2016-07-26T09:44:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was difficult. There's quite a bit going on in my life at the moment that I can't really control, and control is not something I do well without. I don't remember the last time I felt this fragile and insecure, and I seem to have turned into a bit of a hermit.

On days like these, it's hard for me to find anything to distract myself. My attention span is horrifically low, and I'm so desperate to shut myself away from the world that socialising is as far from my thoughts as humanely possible. But after lying in bed giggling away to myself for half an hour, it seems there were some positive bits too. Here's what cheered me up and inspired me to stay positive last night.

Andre "Black Nerd" aka Black Nerd Comedy.

Sweet baby Jesus I love this man.

I discovered this fabulous human whilst in, what turned out to be, a pretty turbulent and all together unhealthy relationship. Whilst the person in question is no longer in my life, albeit with my copy of Con Air that I still haven't quite gotten over 2 months on, Andre's reviews still have the power to make me giggle even when I've spent an entire day wanting to simultaneously throw up, cry and punch something. Plus Memento is one of my favourite films (I love me some Guy Pearce) so comparing a film about fish to one of my ever lasting loves definitely earns him a few points.

Viola Davis.

How to get away with murder was high on my list of favourites last year, and I automatically found myself in awe of Davis thanks to her portrayal of Annalise Keating. To play such an equally formidable and respected female character who is entirely honest and open about her flaws and insecurities is a phenomenal skill, and I've re-watched the scene where she removes her make up and wig to Naughty Boy and Bastille's Faster than me more times than I can count. In all honesty there aren't a lot of women that I admire, but she definitely makes the list.

Plus this I found this quote of her's on IMDB, which is exactly how I feel about writing,

I can't deal with actors! I can't deal with myself.
We're neurotic and miserable...
I love doing what I'm doing, but while I'm doing it, I'm miserable.

Lindsey Kelk I heart London.

As I mentioned in my review of The Devil Wears Prada, trashy chick lit is one of my many guilty pleasures. Call me a cliché but there is nothing quite like hiding in a corner under a reading lamp and devouring 400 pages of will-they-won't-they romance, and I'm a sucker for a good fictional wedding. I've been borrowing Kelk's books from local libraries for a year or so now, and I finally picked up my own copy of I heart London earlier in the week.

What I love about this series is that it's so easy to read. Not to hate on Kelk, but every book has the exact same story line and you automatically know that Angela and Alex are going to end up riding off into the sunset in the end, despite whatever scrapes Miss Clarke may get into. The books aren't without fault, I mean heaven forbid anyone should write a confident female protagonist who isn't constantly comparing herself to her friends who she considers prettier/thinner/richer than her, but they suit me pretty well when I have the attention span of a flea. I'm now making it my mission to obtain my own copy of the entire six book series, so I can indulge in my filthy habit whenever I want.

xXx

Mental Health Update

2016-07-25T10:13:00.000+01:00

Heads up, this post involves eating disorders.

Mental health wise, I'm really not doing that great at the moment. As I've previously mentioned, a particularly hideous break up pushed me into one of the worst BPD episodes I've ever had, and I've been struggling with my eating disorder ever since. I'm living in a near permanent state of depression, and am constantly exhausted. All in all, it's a bit of a drag.

The thing I'm struggling with the most is my eating disorder. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that I'm never really going to be rid of the thing, that it'll come and go in peaks and troughs and to hope for a relapse free life would be both damaging and impossible. I tend to think of it in the same way I do with my self harming, I'll never say I'll never do it again, because that's simply a promise to myself I can't keep.

My eating disorder sends me into a permanent state of stress and obsession, as I constantly remind myself that I'm only allowed to eat a certain amount at certain times of the day. This obsession then leads to temptation, and I end up eating things on my 'not allowed' list and automatically feel like shit. When I'm in this state there really is no time off, and I'm completely exhausted.

The thing is, I'm actually quite comfortable here. As strange as it sounds I find it familiar, reassuring, and like I'm finally about to reach the level of control over my brain and body I crave so much. I get through the day by constantly reminding myself that, once I've moved, the temptation will ease and I'll feel a lot calmer, but for the next few days I'm still going to struggle.

I'm fully aware of how unhealthy this is, how much damage I could be doing to both my mental and physical health, but that doesn't mean I want things to change. For the moment, as stressed and tired as I am, I'm happy, and that's all I can really hope for right now.

xXx

Jumping Ship.

2016-07-24T15:49:00.001+01:00

As I mentioned in last Sunday's post, earlier this month I impulsively decided that I wanted/needed to get the hell out of Kings Lynn and now plan to move to Cambridge, hopefully by the end of the month. However, I've since come to the conclusion that Cambridge may not be quite far enough away.

As a stepping stone for my health, staying within the confines of our politically fucked island of shit weather and tea is a good idea. I have access to my medication, people I know within driving distance, and can obviously speak the language. For a short term plan it's pretty perfect.

I've since realised that, long term, I need to get out of England, out of the UK and out of Europe in general. They say to never talk about politics or religion but as an adamant 'stay' voter in the recent EU referendum, watching our country's education, national health and financial sectors go to shit is making even my politics-blind brain take notice. There is no point in me sitting around, complaining about the government and wincing every time I see a politics related tweet. I'm a big believer in making your own happiness, and I'm starting to think more and more that doing that as far away from here as humanely possible is the right way to go.

So far, Canada is seeming like a pretty good bet. The UK job market is so appalling that the thought of sending out another application, to be met with the obligatory rejection email, is making me nauseous even as I type. Some may cry pessimism, I call it realism. And if I'm going to spend my time hunting for my dream job, I might as well do it somewhere with less tutting.

That's not to say I won't miss the people around me. I'm very close to my friends and the thought of my brother living on another continent causes a lump in my throat. But I can't put the breaks on my happiness for the sake of someone else. Despite many peoples attempts at doing it for me, only I can go out and really live my life.

I'm pretty nervous, I'm well aware that my impulsivity often leads to failure, rejection or simply me just giving up. Telling my mum I could tell she was very sceptical of the idea, but there really is no better way of me stopping people interfering and attempting to control my life than upping sticks and escaping to another time zone. Yes the idea is scary, but my compensation will come in soon enough and, once my debts to various banks and family members have been paid off, I really want to put it to good use.

Any tips on how to emigrate would be greatly appreciated, but until then I'm off to google the best ways to get a work visa and finish my coffee... I can tell this is going to take a while.

xXx

Trust

2016-07-21T15:15:00.004+01:00

My attitude towards trust is, much like myself in general, a tad unstable. From putting my complete faith in someone to being unable to forgive the past enough to let our relationship move on, I can swing pendulum like from one end of the spectrum to another. I either place untold amounts on undeserving faith in someone, inexplicably confident that they won’t fuck me over and turn out to be a total asshole, or refuse to let them within 3 feet of me. As with every other aspect of BPD, there really is no mid point.

The problem I have with trusting people is not so much the act itself, but the assumption that eventually the relationship will end. Since my early teens I’ve worked on the basis that if you don’t let people into your life, they can’t hurt you by leaving. My condition left me feeling very lonely and isolated as a child, and as much as that hurt it’s nothing compared to the agony of when people left. This may make me seem like an emotionally unstable bitch, but hey if the shoe fits.

A lot of people struggle with my intense and altogether questionable trust issues, being unable to understand why I assume that people will automatically leave my life and cause me to tumble into a Bridget Jones style pity party post the Daniel Cleaver/Lara/ "I thought you said she was thin" debacle. I've had this conversation time and time again.

Sometimes someone leaving your life is a good thing, probably won't seem like it at the time but when someone walks away it can do you a hell of a lot of good. Often insecurities prevent us from doing what we've known we need to do all alone, and a fear of being alone often leads to us putting up with untold amounts of bullshit that no one in the history of the universe has time for. As with everything, it can be a double edged sword.

I'm working on my trust issues, trying to judge who actually deserves my time whilst simultaneously developing my asshole radar, learning when to tell someone to fuck off and when to give someone another chance. Until then, I just have one request, don't lie to me, I'm a busy woman, and really have no time for anyone's bullshit.

xXx

Girl on Girl.

2016-07-20T13:43:00.001+01:00

Heads up, this post has nothing to do with sex, unfortunately.

Recently I've found myself to be guilty of committing some serious girl on girl crime. I haven't poured pig blood over anyone or spray painted the word whore across someone's front door, but I haven't exactly been the epitome of kindness either. In true high school style, my crimes have all been committed from a distance.

I'm not going to write a blow by blow account of everything I've said or done, mostly because I'm not the only one it would incriminate and I'm too lazy to drag someone down with me for the crimes I've committed. But, as a self proclaimed feminist, it's kind of bugging me that I've been such an ass.

My first offence is hating someone who has done absolutely nothing to deserve my rage. I've never met her, I never want to meet her, but I'm still blaming her for something that fucked me up so royally it sped me further along my road to fitting into the perfect holiday cocktail dress than I really would of liked. I can attempt to rationalise the way I feel about her until I turn purple and loose my voice to laryngitis for the hundredth time, the fact is that she's done fuck all to deserve my resentment.

My second crime is a little different. Once again I won't go into details, but suffice to say the whole situation has left me feeling equal parts excited and icky. Luckily, I haven't fallen to far down the rabbit hole just yet, but it was only a matter of time before I ended up sobbing into my iPhone while messaging my BFF, berating myself for being such an idiot while she wilfully agreed that I was a total knob. In a moment of clarity I messaged her last night asking if I should run screaming from the precipice of the shit storm I was about to jump in to, to be met with a reply not dissimilar to 'no shit Sherlock'.

As women, we are often told that men can be our worst enemy. That they are the ones that put us down and that we must stand united in order to combat sexism across the globe, but in reality, hating on each other makes us just as bad. How can an entire gender present a united front and claim to be striving towards equality, when we're doing just as much harm to each other as members of the opposite sex do to us. Never has the phrase cutting off your nose to spite your face been more appropriate.

I'm in no way insinuating that seeing the light on this particular occasion is going to turn me into a 21st Century virgin Mary, mostly because I'm not a virgin. But I am a woman who needs to confront the fact that, for every crime a man has committed against her, theres a good chance she's thrown one right back, only in the complete wrong direction. As always, hindsight is a beautiful thing.

My plan from now on is to spend some time attempting to right my wrongs, not to mention working on clearing the red mist that's been appearing every time I think of the woman in question, partly because I don't want to risk the wrinkles that may scar my face as a result of frowning every time I hear her name. But, for the most part, I'm just going to attempt to be nicer to other women. We're in this fight together after all.

Happy hump day.

xXx

The Devil Wears Self Pity

2016-07-19T13:44:00.002+01:00

One of my deepest, if not very well kept, secrets is my love for trashy chick lit. Yes, I do have a degree in English literature and therefore love me some of the classics and anything with a twisted plot/some kind of addiction/death etc, but give me 400 pages of a blonde hunting round New York for the love of her life and I'm as happy as a stoner in Amsterdam.

When the film adaptation of The Devil Wears Prada came out in 2006, I was as obsessed as the rest of them. A plucky fresh-out-of-university Anne Hathaway making her way into the snake pit of post grad employment with nothing but a satchel and an ill fitting riding boot by her side, only to emerge phoenix like from the ashes of her Forever 21 wardrobe with help from her fairy godfather Stanley Tucci, before none-to-politely telling her boss to fuck herself sideways and returning home, tail between her legs, to try and win back her ex? What's not to love about that shit? I watched the film a bajillion times and, during a particularly traumatic travel experience that left me stranded in a French airport for 16 hours, picked up the book and begun to fall in love with Andy Sachs all over again.

During my most recent, and far less traumatic, trip to France, I decided I couldn't possibly go any where even remotely fashion week related without re-reading one of my old favs. I downloaded the first and second novels onto my ancient iPad to save space in my suitcase and set to work flicking through, eager to remember why I adored each and every line and wanted so badly to be Andrea all those years ago.

Oh how wrong I was.

Call me cynical, call me a millennial, call me whatever you want, but thirty (admittedly very small) pages in I wanted to throw my phone at the self righteous Miss Sachs. To secure the job that "a million girls would die for" and spend it finding mini victories in forbidden fag breaks and fantasising about spitting in the coffee of the most adored-yet-feared woman in fashion made me simultaneously seethe and wince. Originally published a petrifying 13 years ago in 2003, my job prospects may not have been as horrifying, but reading from the perspective of a woman who has been chewed up, spat out and then swallowed again only to be regurgitated onto her bedroom floor onto a pile of rejection emails, my ability to feel anything other than frustration and near hatred for the long suffering assistant was impossible.

I'm not disputing that it's a good novel, or indeed a good film. Weisberger is one of my favourite authors and I've reread Chasing Harry Winston going on about a thousand times. But, if even one of the most skilled and talented writers of women's fiction can't portray a strong and dominating female lead without making her hated by everyone in the continental US, then there may not be much hope for female literature as a whole.

Women can be strong, successful and well liked, and I'm pretty sure it's possible to create these characters without turning them into the devil incarnate.

But, I have to say, if I had to choose only two, I'd be strong and successful any day of the week. My career has always and will always trump other people's opinions of me, hands down.

xXx

Sex Sex Sex.

2016-07-18T09:22:00.000+01:00

As a woman who is very open about how much she enjoys sex, I've decided to start a series much like blogger and youtuber Sarah Rae Vargas's Let's Talk About Sex. The idea came to me after speaking to an old work colleague at a wedding I attended over the weekend, who felt the need to bring up a particular sexual encounter I'd had 6 years ago.

Seriously, somethings people just need to let go.

What baffled me was that, even after all this time, the guy in question felt the need to slut shame me for enjoying sex, as if someone being completely open with their sexuality is a rarity more illusive than an honest politician. This kind of behaviour is boring, it's dated, and it's a total cliché. It's 2016, people who identify as female are allowed to enjoy sex.

Some may ask whether or not this is a good idea, that it may send the 'wrong' message to certain readers. But, as I'm brutally honest with every other aspect of my life, I don't see why this should be any different. All it takes is a few people to start the ball rolling and be honest about what they enjoy, and eventually identifying as female and enjoying sex won't be such a taboo.

I'm fully aware that we've got a long way to go, but this is a good start I guess.

Have a good week.

xXx

Up, Up and Away.

2016-07-17T14:16:00.000+01:00

At the beginning of July, with absolutely zero prompting or influence, I decided to move to Cambridge. Living at home is not good for me, and so moving is most definitely the right thing to do. By the end of the week I'd found a room to rent, and had a job lined up by the next. Although it's considered a black mark against me at times, my stubbornness will always be one of my favourite personality traits.

If everything goes to plan I'll be moved into my new house by the beginning of August. At the moment I'm renting a room in a shared house, but my intention is to have my own flat by the end of next year. No idea where just yet, location doesn't bother me, and I find the prospect of not knowing anyone where I am more appealing than intimidating.

I've always hated the idea of seeming as if I'm running away. After I was raped I refused to leave Norwich for such a long time, I didn't want to show even the slightest hint of an idea that his actions had forced me to leave my home. Plus, Norwich being where I met Matt and the last place I saw him before he died, I had a lot of bittersweet memories attached to my uni city. After a particularly emotional goodbye and what felt like decades of packing, I moved back home and, despite my worries, the thought of my having run away didn't even cross my mind.

This time it's different, in a way I am running, but not out of fear, emotional attachment or loss, I'm moving because I've simply been here too long. One of the things I find hardest about living in such a small village/town is that EVERYONE knows EVERYONE'S business. That guy I made out with in Chicago's one Saturday night when I was 19? Very good chance I'm going to bump into him on a Starbucks run. The person whose house I threw up in 6 years ago? There they are in the queue at Tesco. There is no way of escaping my past here, and there are far to many ghosts and bad memories for me to even consider staying. I'd planned on moving once I'd received my compensation, but I'm tired of waiting. I need something new, somewhere new, and with new people.

I can't say I'm not frightened, I've already had the odd burst of panic although that's more to do with leaving my cat and the bunnies than anything else, but overall I'm confident, excited and optimistic. I can't, nor do I want to, live at home forever, and a fresh start is just what I need.

All I've got to do now is pack.

xXx

Pepper

2016-07-16T08:38:00.000+01:00

I've been feeling pretty low lately. As much as I try to let it not bother me, trying to find a (relevant) job is really getting me down. Sometimes we, myself included, don't realise that what we think of as a meaningless joke has the power to slowly chip away at someone's self esteem, and now every time I open my laptop it might as well have REJECTION written across the screen in red spray paint. I haven't been able to write in weeks, and I've been feeling like a huge failure.

In the midst of this dark patch, there have been some epic bursts of sunshine that have made everything seem wonderful even if I'd been feeling awful 30 seconds before. Just because I haven't been feeling great about myself lately, doesn't in any way mean that I don't feel euphorically happy for other people.

Today, on this gorgeously sunny Saturday morning, two friends of mine are preparing to get married. I've known them for years, we all worked together at Argos and met when we were teenagers. They are blissfully perfect for each other and, whilst at first it made me feel a tad inferior given that they're getting married and I can't make it through the day without having a nap, I couldn't be happier for them. I've had my dress picked out for weeks and I'm picking my date up on the way there, I couldn't think of a better way to spend my evening.

Today's nuptials aren't the only reason I've been feeling ecstatically, if sporadically, happy this month. Earlier this week a friend of mine announced that, after years of trying, her and her fiancé are going to have a baby. Well, babies, their twins are due in the new year. There was no way of describing how I felt when I heard the news. I'm a big believer that just because you haven't given birth doesn't mean your not a 'mum', and she's been a parent since the the day we met. I very nearly burst into tears when I found out and, even though I don't have a maternal bone in my body, can't wait to meet them. They will never know how lucky they are to have a family that loves them so much, and has done since before they were even conceived.

I could sit here for hours picking out the tiny little dots of sunshine that have broken through my week, a friend whose life has massively turned around since Pokemon Go erupted onto our phones, some very exciting news that I'll share with you all in a week or so, but now I'm off to enjoy the sunshine with a cup of coffee, and indulge in my ultimate guilty pleasure, trashy chick lit.

Because, just because I'm not getting engaged any time soon, doesn't mean I don't want to find out (for the thousandth time) whether or not Alex'll stick a rock on Angela's finger by the end of Lindsey Kelk's I heart vegas.

Spoiler alert: he does.

Happy Saturday

xXx

The Twentythird in Paris, part deux

2016-06-27T21:52:00.000+01:00

(This post was originally meant to go up on Friday, but it was easier to find a condom machine than it was to find a decent wifi connection while I was away so I'm a few days behind)

I'M HERE!!!!!!!!

Yes, after being sat on a stationary plane for 2 hours, during which I discovered that a) there are some people stupid enough to allow someone stoned off their nut to drive them home, and b) that plane sangria is most definitely a thing, I'm now getting my hipster on, sipping black coffee and trying to find a mother fucking wifi connection whilst simultaneously drowning myself in Evian.

I don't care how much this fucking bottle cost me, I will do a lot for my job, but I will not dehydrate.

As I mentioned in my last, whiskey soaked, post, this past week has not been kind to me. My BPD reacted so badly to the surge of emotions that comes with being dumped, that I ended up feeling suicidal and almost checked myself into respite care.

Just to clarify, this "episode" was in no way my ex's fault, and I'm not blaming him. This is just what happens when BPD acts up.

Yet, in spite of these hideous few days, I still managed to buck myself up, return to work and travel to another country by myself for the first time in my life. From going to an anxiety and scar ridden suicidal blonde who couldn't get out of bed or make it through two consecutive days without harming herself, I seem to have become something vaguely resembling a functional human being. Pride doesn't even come close.

Yet, for reasons I cannot explain, there are still an upsetting number of people in my life that refuse to accept this. Preferring instead to believe that I can't make I through the day without needing some kind of guidance, and throwing their 2 cents in so often that I really should be a millionaire by now. What these people don't seem to understand is how these controlling behaviours suffocate me, how they make me feel so sick that my skin crawls and, for a single moment, I consider cutting them out of my life just to make this repulsive feeling go away. They just can't accept that controlling me is the last way of going about making sure I'm okay. I'm 24 years old and have put a mass rapist in prison whilst combatting self harm and completing a degree, I don't need, or want, you to hold my hand.

I'm hoping that this trip, and the time and space it is allowing me to bask in, will prove to people that I don't need looking after, that I'm in no way a child and can get by pretty well without their criticism and opinions clouding my brain. Or I'll just get shit faced and eat enough croissants to make Jesus think he didn't bring enough snacks to the feeding of the five thousand. Either or.

But, until then, I'm going to go back to my coffee and spend an hour or so submersing myself in the glorious words of Lauren Weisberger.

Because I could hardly come to fashion week and not re-read The Devil Wears Prada, could I now?

Au revoir

xXx

The Twentythird in Paris

2016-06-24T12:06:00.000+01:00

This past week has been shit. I was unceremoniously dumped via Facebook messenger on Thursday morning, my BPD went into free fall and I spent 3 days hysterical, delusional and unable to get out of bed. I've had worse weeks, but I've also certainly had better.

Luckily, I'm writing this drinking a double jack and ginger on my way to work my second consecutive fashion week, this time in Paris, so things are definitely improving.

Now, I hear you ask while I sip on my delightfully rewarding beverage, very much deserved after finding myself unexpectedly sans boyfriend mid last week, am I preparing myself for for the short but sweet flight fantasising about meeting a tall dark and handsome stranger with hair I could run my hands through for days? Fuck yes. But I'm also thinking of how far I've come.

What people don't understand about my job is that, in order to succeed, you really do have to start at the bottom. If I want to spend my future travelling, writing and absorbing all the delights a career in fashion has to offer, I need to pay my dues.

I spent February hand delivering invitations in the rain and freezing my tits off, handing out press releases to women who's shoes cost more than my car, and now I'm blogging in Gatwick airport, waiting to board a plain to Paris for the weekend to support my boss during the fashion week resort collection. Three months really can make the world of difference.

So to anyone has ever mansplained, mocked, pitied or judged me for the amount of hours I've spent working for free, I say fuck you. When your sat on your sofa in 30 years time hating the same job you've done day in, day out, for what feels like an eternity, I'll have the career of my dreams, in awe of how far I've progressed from being the shy 23 year old graduate who had only just decided what she wanted to do with her life. It's not luck, it's hard work and pure, unbreakable passion.

Au revoir

xXx

Self Care

2016-06-12T21:06:00.004+01:00

TW: This post mentions self harm.

Life has been feeling pretty hectic lately. The combination of starting a new job alongside my internship, meeting an amazing man and spending a good 75% of my time on a train, has meant that I've been feeling a tad fragile. As always, I convinced myself that the kind of exhaustion I was feeling, and the hideous mess that my skin had become, were totally normal, and that it was something I had to do in order to keep my career goals on track. After finding myself in eating disorder melt down, knelt on the floor in Boots holding a pack of razors trying to determine whether it would be more effective to cut or to go to town on the purse full of prescription medication in my hand bag, I realised it was probably time to ease up on myself.

After this potentially damaging episode, a conversation with a friend reminded me how important it is to take time for self care, for something as mundane and cheesy as a bubble bath or painting my toes. Due to my eating disorder, the prospect of exercise leaves me worrying so much about not doing enough to reach my, aforementioned, imaginary 'goal weight', that I end up giving up before I've even started, convinced I'm going to fail at each self inflicted hurdle despite how vital exercise is to maintaining my BPD. I needed to start thinking straight and realising that, no matter how hard I work or train, if I've burnt myself out to the point of no return, success is never going to come my way.

I think maybe these feelings didn't register because I feel that this is something I need to do in order to be successful. As I discussed in my post Millennial Exhaustion, feeling inadequate about the steps I am taking to reach my career goals feels natural to me, and I constantly feel that I'm not doing enough to secure something that even vaguely resembles my dream job. This toxicity is second nature, and I repeatedly find myself asking if I'm meant to feel stressed throughout the day, wondering if it's part of everyday life or something that I should be questioning and investigating.

Since then I've been a little better. I've lowered my hours at work to ensure I get some time off during the week, and I'm making sure I allot myself time to work out even if it's just to squeeze in half an hour of yoga. 30 minutes might not be a lot, but if it's the difference between me standing frozen in Cambridge city centre having a panic attack and feeling calm and happy, I'm pretty sure it's enough.

xXx

#NotAVictim

2016-06-09T08:47:00.004+01:00

TW: Rape

Obviously, I would have to be a tad stupid not to have noticed news stories about the Stanford rape case that are travelling around the internet at the moment. Also obviously, I have no right to comment on the experiences of the woman who was attacked, and therefore am going to say no more about it. It's her life, no one else's, end of.

What I refuse to ignore however, is how she has been described in the media. I've seen countless news stories describing the effects his actions have had her, which I completely agree with, and identifying her as a 'victim', which I don't.

This was one of the main issues I had throughout the trial to put the man who raped me in prison, I really can't stand to be called a victim. To call me a victim gives him control, tells people that he has taken a part of my life and that I am now suffering because of it. And yes, to an extent this is true, but in his actions I found my own strength and did everything I could to make sure that he spends the rest of his life living in misery and fear. A victim I most certainly am not.

To me, it's similar to the phrases you would use to described a person in a wheelchair. Would you describe them as a wheelchair user? Hopefully not, unless they did so themselves, as that is putting their wheelchair at the forefront of their identity. They are a person who uses a wheelchair, it is not who they are, and therefore should not be given priority.

In the same way, I am not just a woman who has been raped. I am a woman with passion, stubbornness, intelligence and so many other things that make me up as a person. Having been raped, whilst having changed me, has not removed or discredited everything else about me. In the same way that I have blonde hair, I have been raped, I am not a 'rape victim'.

So next time you start to use the V word, think about it. In cases like this you may think you're being sincere, but all you're really doing is focusing on the person who has committed the crime, making them and their actions more important than the person they affected. The man involved in the Stanford rape case may have had a severely negative impact on this woman's life, he did not take away who she is.

xXx

The Things They Never Say

2016-06-05T10:22:00.001+01:00

Last week, yet another incredibly offensive article popped up on my news feed about the perils of being in a relationship with someone with Borderline Personality Disorder. At its best Sophie Saint Thomas' Vice article, What Is It Like to Date When You Have Borderline Personality Disorder, describes it as 'hard for partners to focus on other things in their life if their relationship is so demanding', and its worst BPD is described as 'an illness about pain, fear, and struggling'.

Pain, fear and struggling, what a great introduction to a condition that makes up such a significant part of my personality. I may put it on my CV under special skills, "So why should I hire you?', "Because I live each day with an illness compiled of pain, fear and struggling, and I can fit my fist in my mouth". I'd get my dream job in a hot minute!

Obviously, I'm kidding, but that doesn't mean that Saint Thomas' article isn't hideously offensive. Casual observers are quick to judge the bad side of BPD, the screaming, the crying, the cutting and the all around self destructive behaviour, but no one ever even mentions the positive, that for ever intensely dark period I go through, there is an equal high just waiting for me.

Remember when you were a kid, and you'd jump in puddles or throw yourself into a pile of leaves, that pure sense of unquestionable elation that you so seldom feel when you're sat at a desk, drowning in emails and trying to make even the smallest amount of sense out of the words in front of you? I still get to feel that. Be it through meeting someone new, listening to a great song or playing with bubbles when I do the washing up. A date once asked me what it must be like to still have the imagination of a child and, to all intense and purposes, I still do. What goes down must come up and for the longest time I withstood the dark patches, forgoing medication and therapy because I knew things were about to become so euphoric it was worth the pain to get there.

Since then I've realised I can't function without basic treatment and have been taking mood stabilisers and anti depressants for well over a year now, but the highs are still there. The happiness I feel is something I've been trying to explain to doctors, nurses and psychiatrists for years, and I hate that it's so completely ignored in the analysis and description of BPD. You may get to live a stable life with a regular mood, but I feel intense happiness like nothing I could ever describe.

So, Sophie Saint Thomas, next time you decide to write an article about BPD, maybe get yourself a more balanced opinion before you start tapping at those keys. I find it hard enough to meet people I want to date in the first place, I don't need you scaring them off for me.

That's my job :P

xXx

These Boobs Aren't Made For Milking.

2016-05-13T17:46:00.001+01:00

For as long as I can remember, I've been dead set on not having children. Whilst the majority of my friends and family have come to accept this and, with the exception of my Mum's incredibly unsubtle birthday card, have stopped telling me that one day I'll change my mind, for some reason, a lot of people have a hard time believing me. As well as being incredibly patronising, the assumption that I want to reproduce just because I'm a woman is getting kind of old.

A typical response to these sorts of opinions usually tends to be one of selfishness, claiming that I'm being self-centred and somehow denying someone happiness by not bringing another life into the world. A life that, I'm not sorry to say, I would not have wanted to bring into the world in the first place. Would I have an abortion if I did fall pregnant? Absolutely. Not because I'm selfish or incapable of providing love and care to a child, but because I simply don't want to.

Sadly, a lot of people disagree with my claim, and I've heard a horrifying number of people say that a person's life isn't really complete until they have kids. I can't even begin to put into words how much this fucks me off. I refuse to be told that I'm somehow lesser, that I don't qualify as a woman, just because I intend to stay childless. Unless we're fucking or you're giving me a vaginal exam, what I do with my lady parts really is none of your business. Whatever your stance on baby making, I refuse to stretch my vagina ten times the normal size because the world expects me to procreate, I'm happy as I am.

And one more thing, don't tell me that I don't know what it means to be tired because I don't spend all hours of the night trying to sooth a screaming baby. You made your baby vomit and poop covered bed, now lie in it.

xXx

Millennial Exhaustion.

2016-05-05T14:16:00.004+01:00

Unlike a lot of people, I was lucky enough to know what I wanted to do career wise after I left uni, and to have graduated with a relevant degree. From around my second year I knew I wanted to be a writer, and so began participating in extra curricular activities to help me get there.

Thanks to knowing what I wanted to do so early, I now have a lot of experience in my chosen field. I've worked for social media departments, fashion magazines and news paper, at PR companies, student publications and for a fashion designer's, all for little to no money and a fuck tonne of stress. And has working without pay gotten me a job? No, not one. I am about to start my first bit of paid work for 6 months and, whilst I'm excited to no longer living off of prayer and loneliness, it has jack shit to do with my degree.

I get a lot of strange reactions when I tell people how much unpaid work I've done. My dad simply considers it a waste of time, although I can't quite work out if that's better or worse than being out right mocked by people who have been luckily enough to secure a job they love straight away. A small comfort is knowing that I'm not alone in this, a hell of a lot of people are in the same boat, working every hour God sends in order to do something vaguely resembling what they set out to do once they'd downed their last glass of wine post graduation, and the realisation that they actually had to go out and get on with life had started to sink it. For a significant majority, being part of the Millennial generation sucks.

Despite how crabby this post sounds, working for free doesn't bother me that much. I love my job more than I ever thought possible, and I'd much rather spend my twenties dirt broke and doing something I love, than reach my thirties having done a job I semi enjoy for ten years, already beginning to sink into the working-for-the-weekend mentality. I never want to be like that, never want to dread going to work with the same vehemence and despair that I have done in previous environments. I've done the shitty jobs, the ones where I've been bullied, stressed and anxious all for minimum wage. I'm done with it now.

The only problem I do have is that, in spite of what may be written on my CV, I never feel like I've done enough. The ever dwindling numbers in my bank balance are a constant reminder that I have yet to secure a graduate job, that the clock is slowly ticking and I must clearly need to ram more activities into my already over worked schedule, in order to gain that one piece of experience that will make someone look at my application and scream FUCK YES. Even now, as I type this, I am drained and on the verge of tears, trying to fight back the constant cloud of stress and insecurity that has been getting progressively larger and darker over the past few months.

As well as being an epic ball ache, this also puts me in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I'm convinced I'm not doing enough, which in turn amps my anxiety, thus preventing me from writing anything longer than a to do list, whilst also sinking my mood so low I'm too nervous to even step inside a gym or return a library book. All things that, whilst I know deep down aren't related to my strained schedule, continue to remind me that I'm not as successful as my peers. As you can imagine, it's a shitty mind set to be in.

Comparing yourself to others is a piece of piss, anyone who says they've never sat and critiqued their body/career/relationship whilst wistfully thinking of someone else's is out right lying to you, it's simply a fact of life, but this doesn't make it any less destructive. I'm working really hard on taking care of myself at the moment, I had one of the worst burn outs I've had in a long time a few weeks ago, and it's not something I ever want to experience again. As tragically clichéd as it sounds, I'm learning to recognise and appreciate my abilities and self worth, in the hopes that future employers will do the same.

And if you have any friends who are working for free, minimum wage or an amount significantly less than yours, shut up about it. No one gives a shit about how much you spent on lunch, and having people that can actually stand to be within three feet of you is way more valuable that any amount of change in your pocket.

xXx

Writer's Block.

2016-05-01T22:21:00.001+01:00

TW: This post references drug use.

Dealing with writer's block is all well and good, unless you actually happen to be a writer. I could make up a thousand excuses as to why I haven't written a coherent blog post in nearly a month, involving exhaustion, emotional instability and even a two night stay in hospital after a rather unsuccessful game of 'let's raid the pain med stash'. Either way it all boils down to the same thing, I haven't had a clue what to say.

Whilst I'm not giving myself an out, I know I've been a crappy blogger lately, I can hand-on-heart say that stress has played a big part in all of this. I sent off the last of my compensation forms a couple of weeks ago, which of course led me to questioning the justification of reducing such a horrific point in my life to a number in my bank account. To a few digits on a screen that I'll never physically touch.

I mean I like the idea of receiving, what I hope will be, a decent sized pay out in cash, but the Million Dollar Sticky show featured in Matilda really couldn't have been all that pleasant to take part in. Plus I would totally lose some of it.

Understandably, this particular trip to the post office led to stress infiltrating all manner of areas of my life. It's in my body, gnawing at my hyper-mobility addled hip bones and throwing me into agonising misalignment. It's in my face, haunting me with the prospect of premature ageing as I have to constantly check myself to make sure I'm not frowning. It's in my head, an all consuming racket that has prevented me from being able to concentrate on anything longer than a text for what feels like a decade. Stress is casting a pretty nasty ass shadow over my life at the moment, and it's really starting to get on my tits.

Throughout my life long fight with the big S I've constantly been on the hunt for ways to 'calm down', which is quite possibly the most ironic sentence I will ever write. I've tried yoga, guided meditation, calming music and some incredibly questionable coping mechanisms. Whilst the majority worked for a while, I've never managed to sustain anything long term. Either due to life simply getting in the way, or by my chosen method having the potential to get in the way of me continuing to live. Things just don't seem to stick.

I'm dialling myself back a little bit though. This post was meant to be about a quote from the film Blow, but all I was able to do was stare at a photo of HRH Mr Depp and write about Ryan Reynolds' ass, so I clearly need to deal with the extreme case of writer's block I'm suffering from. I'll be trying some new planning methods, making time for exercise and definitely writing again this month, because, whilst it was nice getting away from home for a couple of days, a drug overdose and subsequent hospitalisation really isn't the best way of getting a break.

xXx