Do You Think Anyone Listens To a Girl Like You? You're Nothing In The World...

The first time I saw Suffragette I went with Mother McKenzie. As we walked into the cinema she turned to me and asked, “I wonder if there’ll be any men in there?” Bemused, I replied “why wouldn’t there be?” It hadn’t occurred to me that a film featuring women, about women and made by women wouldn’t interest men. My mum was partially right; as we walked into the sold out screening the men were scattered gingerly amongst an ocean of women. However, this still didn’t seem abnormal to me – I felt immense happiness that a film based upon such an important part of our history drew so many to see it, proving wrong the people who said for so long that it wasn’t worth making, as it wouldn’t make any money.  And so we settled down with our Five Guys (my first, amazing) and watched Maud’s story unfold. I cried numerous times and when it ended I really, really didn’t want it to. Excitedly I turned to muma ready to discuss how stupendous the suffragettes were, how grateful I was for how they changed the future for us and just generally how brilliant the film was. “So, what did you think?!” She looked at me and pulled a face – “bit slow wasn’t it?” she responded.  I was crushed! Her so-so reaction instantly changed my perception of the movie – was it terrible? Was I just being over emotional? Was Helena Bonham Carter really that annoying?!

I wanted to know I hadn’t been wrong about Suffragette so went and saw it again the following evening with an ever so lovely friend. I snuck furtive glances at her during pivotal moments of the film and it’ll be the only time I was relieved to see her cry. I knew I hadn’t been wrong about Suffragette – it is an important movie and you should go to see it, be you male or female.  Maud repeats through the film, ‘I’m not a suffragette’ in the same manner that women around me utter ‘I’m not a feminist.’ Feminism, in it’s purest form, by definition, is advocating rights of women equal to those of men. We are worth no more, no less than our male counterparts yet there is a disparaging attitude in our society towards being a feminist. So rather than me explain again why I’m a feminist, let me use these instances to ask you why you’re not...

There was a teeny girl recently who was left needing stitches because a boy in her nursery hit her face so hard. Upon arriving at hospital an absent minded hospital worker told her, ‘he must like you’ – such a simple explanation for such inexplicable behaviour. At just four years old this girl had to not only try to comprehend  that she’d been hurt by another person, but also that this violence was actually a form of affection.  It’s an old myth that if a boy pushes you over in the playground it’s because he ‘likes’ you, but what is that teaching a young generation of girls? That you should be flattered if you get hurt by someone? That it’s acceptable or even desirable to have pain deliberately inflicted on you by another person? It doesn’t seem appropriate to telling young people this myth anymore – it excuses violent behaviour, trivialises it and even makes it endearing. If females (or males for that matter) have the idea that you’re being hurt because someone ‘likes’ you, what happens when you become the victim of assault later in life? It’s your fault because you’re just  so cute your aggressor just couldn’t help flattering you with a black eye – no, that doesn’t sound right to me either.

You may have already heard of a girl called Emma Sulkowicz, a Columbia student who carried her dorm (university to us English folk) room mattress on her back to protest the school’s failure to expel her alleged rapist. She carried this mattress around for months, even taking it to her graduation ceremony to ensure her school would have to acknowledge what happened to her.  She entitled her mattress carrying stint as Mattress Performance: Carry that Weight – representative of the burden that accompanies being a victim of abuse. While researching for this piece I read an article written by the NY times about how the accused male felt the mattress project was ‘not an act of free expression, it is an act of bullying, a very public, very personal and very painful attack.’ The accused male had three separate charges against him by three women; when the women heard about one another’s experiences they decided to support each other and file complaints (which the NY times makes it sound although they were sitting around gossiping and ‘colluded’ against him).  There was a groping case, which was initially decided against him, but he appealed. When the case was heard again the accuser was unable to participate in the process as she had graduated therefore the decision was overturned. The second accuser became exhausted by the barrage of questions and discontinued her case. Finally, in Miss Sulkowicz’s case there was not enough evidence, and her request for an appeal was denied. Why was the male’s decision to appeal his verdict granted, yet Miss Sulkowicz’s was not? Even during the trial these women were made to feel inadequate, harassed, or silenced.

‘Everyday Sexism’ is one of the most compelling cases that change is needed in societies across the world. The concept behind Everyday Sexism is that it gives women the space to speak about their experiences - however small, however severe and validate that we can complain about these incidents as they are unacceptable.  Laura Bates took thousands of stories that women submitted to her and compiled them into book format for what (I find) is a heavy, shocking and often harrowing read. There are chapters, ‘Women in Public Spaces,’ ‘Girls’ and ‘What About the Men?’ to name a few. ‘There are times I wish I wasn’t female because I’m fed up of being scared of walking down the street on my own’ is one entry. ‘I was 12 and a guy in a car followed me, saying he wanted to fuck me’ is another. One from the workplace reads ‘A HR manager told me on our first day “If you are going to report sexual harassment, first think about what you were wearing that day.”’ The point of this book isn’t to shame men, rather to help them understand the structure of patriarchy and how what may be an offhand comment to them may be humiliating and shameful for us.

Take that attitudee somewhere else pal

 The struggle to get the vote was a shockingly short time ago; a hundred years ago we were second class citizens. Although much has changed in the years since, we do still have a way to go. I want my grand-daughters to be shocked that there weren’t better support systems for the victims of sexual assault, I want them to think cat-calling is a ridiculous concept and I want them to earn as much as their brothers – I want them to look back on the things that we struggle with now and never have had to experience them because a hundred years from now our society will have developed.*

*I realise the problems I've highlighted are relative to the UK; feminism means something different in England, Ireland and India, each location facing it's own issues. Most of the negative feedback I’ve seen about Suffragette is that it represents a singular view of white women and does not encompass the lives of marginalized women worldwide. This may be true to some element, but that doesn’t take away from this film being an important representation of what happened in England during the nineteenth century. If it gets more people talking about women’s rights not only then but also of the present time, in my eyes that is a very positive thing.

If I Could Be Stronger and You Were Just Older, We Might Last This Out Longer..

Wet are my new favourites. Sadly because of their band name I can't tell you much about them; Google churns out lots of information about a popular Scottish band meaning I can give you plenty of Wet Wet Wet facts if you'd like (nope, not the same, I know). Their songs are beautiful, reminding me of College and Hurts, plenty of synth and whimsical lyrics. They played The Lexington the day after I left for Berlin but I hope they return soon so we can all enjoy them real life. Here's what I've been listening to, on repeat, pretty solidly, for the last few weeks.

Some Of The Worst Mistakes In My Life Were Haircuts..

I’ve wanted to cut all my hair off ever since I was told a bizarre dream by a girl I used to work with. She said that when she got married (it was specific, she HAD to married – presumably so the man had no escape) she would cut all her hair off so it would grow back luscious and fresh; she would wear wigs until she was ready to reveal her untainted hair to the world. I found this hilarious and strangely appealing; what would it feel like to start over with your hair? I’ve had red, black, blonde, blue hair, curly, straight and crimped over the years so it’s fair to say I’d inflicted a fair bit of damage on my poor head of hair.

Pre Baldness Length

The idea nestled in the depths of my mind and I vowed that at some point in my life I would shave my head. The idea popped back up after my first summer working in India. It was the most incredible experience (blog post coming one day, promise!) and I knew that I wanted to raise as much money as possible for the next group of volunteers that were going to work with them – little did I know I’d end up joining them.  So, after not much thought at all, I decided I would shave my hair to raise money in honour of the Bachpan boys who stole my heart. I wanted to do something bold, something different than a cake sale, and show the children I worked with that they meant so much to me I would gladly surrender my hair for them. I already had a pretty severe undercut as a kind of stepping stone to the skinhead, which irritated the hell out of the rest of my hair. I was left with a permanent dreadlock from the shaved section irritating the long hair, so I kind of had to go through with it after that – it needed evening out! And of course, this was something I had always thought about, so my reasons for shaving my hair weren’t entirely selfless; I was curious and charitable all at once.

My friends thought the idea was brilliant and brave, although I’m sure many of them thought I wouldn’t go through with it. My love at the time was not so keen on the idea… This is a huge understatement. We were discussing it over dinner in Paris, arguably the most romantic city in the world, arguing over my hair. He couldn’t imagine me without hair and didn’t care to. I was sympathetic at first, his opinion mattered most to me and I hated the thought that he might not feel the same about me without hair (I obviously hoped my personality mattered slightly more than my looks but ya never know), it was a big change. After volleying our points back and forth for some time I lost patience and told him something along the lines that he would just have to get used to it, because it was happening. He walked out of the restaurant for a much needed cigarette break and left me sitting alone in the world’s most romantic city. With conflicting feelings, as I very much didn’t want to upset him, but I resolved that this was something I really really wanted to do.

After an incredibly stressful summer (which you can read about here if you haven’t already) I went for it. I had it all planned out; I would throw a ‘hair cutting’ party, everyone who donated to my chosen charities would be able to cut a bit of my hair off throughout the night, the highest bidder getting the accolade of shaving my head entirely. The reality was that I had a complete Britney moment. I stood in front of the mirror staring intently at myself in a way I never really had before and felt the overwhelming urge to do it there and the. I haphazardly cut chunks of my hair away, a poor friend observing powerlessly, begging me to stop. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done, and although it probably wasn’t very healthy to cut all my hair off myself (I don’t know if there’s ever a good time for that activity really) it felt amazing. I was hacking away at something that had, unbeknownst to me, been weighing me down. I felt lighter, both mentally and physically. I didn’t have much control over my life at this point so I frantically clutched at what belonged to me – my appearance.  The immediate feeling was relief. I’d talked about it for so long by this point and had finally committed to the action of cutting. Then there was my physical appearance. My features were exaggerated much like a Margaret Keane caricature, but in a rather endearing way. I recognised my face from baby photos; I looked doe eyed and innocent although all the pain I was going through at that point wasn’t really happening. The fresh start I had with my hair reflected the fresh start I desperately needed in life.

The first few weeks of being a peanut were fun. I was incredibly nervous to see boyfriend after the laceration but he was kind, as ever. I think even he was taken aback by how much having no hair suited me, and he enjoyed the bristle brush feeling that comes with having a skinhead. My lovely housemate dubbed me the ‘polite punk’ and I had strangers approach me to tell me how they admired it. I felt strangely powerful having no hair, like I’d somehow managed to snub our modern society’s version and values of beauty; I still felt feminine and pretty without hair, it was incredibly invigorating.

This feeling lasted a few weeks, much like when you make a drastic change to your appearance (think something like piercings, hair dying or tattoos) and eventually you become accustomed to it, enveloping it into a part of you. This didn’t happen to me. Although I knew it suited me and I’d done it for an incredibly good cause (it raised somewhere between £400-£500 I think) I felt alienated from myself and the enormity of what I had done began to sink in. I’d lust after girls with hair, feeling severe pangs of jealousy. There were days when I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror because I didn’t recognise the girl looking back. If I didn’t wear makeup I looked sick, if I didn’t sleep properly I looked sick, if I cried I looked sick. There are very few photos from this point in my life, and absolutely no selfies. Having no hair, which at first felt liberating, now made me feel exposed and incredibly vulnerable. I felt invisible and overlooked, particularly when it came to boys, even though people stared wherever I went.

How I felt I looked majority of the time

What inspired me to write this post was hearing of thisincredible woman who photographed herself every day for a year after cutting off all her hair. I honestly could not have done it. Having no hair shattered my confidence after the initial joy of it. It was this gigantic part of my identity gone and I struggled for a long time to readjust to my face without inches of hair covering it. Now, a year and a few months on I feel like Rapunzel even though my hair is only just below my ears, in some kind of French schoolgirl bob. I can’t wait for it be shoulder length again, which it should be by next summer. I always insisted cutting my hair off wasn’t a big deal (“it’s only hair, it’ll grow back!” must have been said at least 50 times to all the people who asked me why) but it affected me in ways I didn’t think were possible.  I’m super proud that I did it, and I wish I’d had the confidence to experiment more with it, but I was so traumatised that I just wanted the short stages to be over and feel myself again. That was the hard part, not feeling ‘myself,’ which I realise is ridiculous because how could a haircut change the very fibres of who you are? For whatever reason becoming a baldie shook me to the core; I desperately clung to who I was and tried to channel this through my demeanour and a great deal of eyeliner. I most probably won’t shave it all off again, but for anyone who is thinking of doing it – go for it. It was the most interesting transition of my life and as the girl I worked with suspected, your hair grows back beautifully. 

'I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat'

If you're on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram or any other kind of time-killing social network you've most likely seen many a selfie of people, famous and civilian alike, posing with tampons along with the hashtag, Just a Tampon. You may have also seen the word 'Trousers' been thrown around, slightly confusing if you’re not aware of the background story…

Plan UK have partnered with V Point News to break the taboo around menstruation and women’s sanitary items by inviting people to share selfies with tampons (or pads, whatever floats your boat) and text TAMPON to 70007 to donate £3 to Plan UK. The aim of the campaignis to raise awareness of, and hopefully abolish, the VAT on these ‘luxury’ (as if) items. This will hopefully empower women to feel that the period is no longer a subject to be ashamed of, the word no longer muttered from the corner of your mouth to friends when the monthly cramps inevitably grace you (hurrah if you’re already in that place - confidence not cramps). There are two painful memories that spring to mind when I think of periods, my first when I was in Year 5 of primary school (I developed at the speed of light) and I had to run into the disabled toilet at school to change. Embarrassing not only because I didn’t personally know any other girls suffering this (however I knew they existed from the cute range of bags hanging on the back of the toilet door, each holding our precious sanitary items – I still remember mine was white with blue seashells on it) but also because the toilet was directly opposite the staff room. GOD FORBID I was caught sneaking out of the ‘teachers only except for poor little girls on their period’ toilet, it would have crushed my ten year old soul. The other is when, at a much older age, I came on unexpectedly and had to rush to Boots to try and purchase some much needed tampons. I say ‘try’ – I was completely broke. I went to pay with my Boots points and to my horror, and of the woman who was serving me, I was something like 4p too short. What followed was a look of pity and an uncomfortable few hours till I went home.  

Just because men aren’t lucky enough to have the monthly gift from Mother Nature this isn’t a campaign that excludes men; V Point News website states that ‘sharing different viewpoints, experiences and ideas: that is how real gender quality is achieved.’ Okay, so it isn’t likely that when you’ve run out of tampons a man is going to be the saviour handing you the emergency one, but it would be nice to have a little more understanding around the subject that affects women worldwide every month.

The wonder that is Jon Snow (Channel 4, not GoT) was one of the recent celebrities appearing slightly flummoxed while posing with a tampon in aid of #JustATampon. His photo stirred outrage from one twitter user, Bruce Everiss. To Jon Snow’s tweet supporting the abolition of tax on tampons, Everiss responded ‘Why? Many other necessities of life are taxed.’ Other users chimed in, trying to illustrate the point that tampons are a necessity to women, so being taxed on the item was essentially being taxed for being female (you can read the full conversation here). Everiss finally retorted to one tweet that asked him what male only taxes there were – his answer, a simple one word response – ‘Trousers.’ So, it’s far to say the point V Point made about sharing experiences and ideas didn’t account for the views of the charming Everiss. Feeling so enraged about the subject of tax free Tampons, he felt the need to go write a blog post on the subject.  

Everiss introduces himself on his little corner of the internet with the statement that his blog is a ‘reasonable person’s sensible commentary on the political environment.’ Few words of this are accurate; he definitely commentates but there isn’t much of his article ‘Nutty Feminists and their Tampons’ that strikes me as ‘reasonable,’ much less so ‘sensible.’ In fact, Everiss’s short blog (thank gosh for that) strikes me as the view of a man who hasn’t really ever encountered an everyday woman. Literally, ever. It makes me wonder about his dear mum, or perhaps a lack of sisters and the (SURELY) distinct absence of a female gender offspring. The lack of empathy for women and misguided ideas on feminism borders on hatred for females. There is a dangerous lack of awareness and compassion in his blog - read with trepidation. 

He begins his blog by boldly stating that the feminist movement ‘doesn’t care and is doing nothing about’ the young girls and women being raped in the Middle East, or girls being subjected to FGM (Female Genital Mutilation). Apparently we’re more concerned with ‘growing then dying [..] underarm hair.’ These unfounded views are enough of a reason for Everiss to brand the feminist movement as ‘utterly pathetic.’ He fails to acknowledge the work of Amnesty International, an organisation recognised as fighting for the basic human rights that every person should be entitled to, often focusing on women and girls rights as they are so routinely denied to females around the world. The video below is of an art event  Amnesty International held in an effort to end FGM.

I don’t know if the women who attended would label themselves as feminists, but they’re definitely women fighting for a cause they care passionately about – there goes Everiss’s point that women ‘don’t care.’ What baffles me about this flippant point of his is how he can disregard, and ultimately shame women for being feminist in the same sentence that he describes the atrocities that many women face. His definition of feminism is dangerous; it’s his kind of ignorant attitude that makes people think feminism is a dirty word, applied to extremists who loathe men. Feminism, as simply as I can put it, is the principle of advocating rights of women to equal those of men. Anyone can be a feminist. Men can be (and are, believe it or not - click here to see some friendly male famous feminist faces) feminists. However for the likes of Everiss it seems it is easier to dismiss women as image-obsessed, callous individuals ignoring the bigger picture rather than admitting we might, actually, have a really good point about sanitary items being tax free. ‘Trousers,’ to me, is a very weak dispute for women’s liberation.

I Wish You Would Tell Me How You Really Feel, But You'll Never Tell Me, Cause That's Not Our Deal

I'm so excited to finally be seeing Best Coast tonight I thought I'd write a little post for anyone who has somehow managed not to hear their summery vibes yet. Formed of the beautiful Bethany Cosentino (her initials are BC=Best Coast - it took me a while to get that) and the equally beautiful Bobb Bruno, Best Coast have just released their third full-length album, California Nights. All songs written by Bethany, the album tracks the highs and lows of a turbulent relationship, with lyrics like 'We've been taught to get along,respect one another and after all this time we still fight over the small thing'('Jealousy') and 'Guess you spent all your life comparing yourself to her, eventually you will find there's no one like you in this world' ('Fine Without You') , there's likely to be a track that resonates with you whether you're blissfully happy or recently heartbroken. You can hear 'California Nights' in it's entirety here; my faves are 'Fine Without You' and 'When Will I Change?'

Prior to 'California Nights' came 'Fade Away', a seven track EP that bleeds 90's California Pop-Punk. With tracks like'Baby I'm Crying' and 'This Lonely Morning' it seems Cosentino has allowed her self-confessed insomniac nights to influence her lyrics more than ever. Her songwriting could still be disregarded as unsophisticated ('I don't feel fine, I can't walk in a straight line') but Bethany's honesty about her anxieties, whether it be losing a love or growing up make 'Fade Away' one of Best Coast's most progressive releases yet. Get past the rather mundane start of 'I Don't Know How' and you'll be rewarded with one of Bethany and Bobb's best songs yet...

 

My favourite album of theirs (so far) is their second, 'The Only Place.' While writing this I looked up a few reviews of the album and came across a fairly scathing one from Pitchfork (which you can read here). Richardson complains of the album being 'robotic rather than relatable.' I couldn't disagree more. Yes, the lyrics may be simplistic and the songs predictable, 'verse/verse/chorus/verse/chorus/verse/chorus' is a formula that Cosentino seems to favour, but that doesn't make it a weak album. It's familiar and comforting, the catchy vibrant songs stuck in your head hours after you've heard them. It transported me away from a rather grey, rainy Leeds in the midst of third-year blues and took me to the sunny world of Best Coast, wherever it was they had the ocean, babes, sun and waves (Bethany's lyrics, not mine). Here are my favourite tracks form that album:

Last but not least, the debut album - 'Crazy for You.' Setting the scene for albums to come, 'Crazy for You' is classic Best Coast, whimsical lyrics and indie-pop that breaches into surf-rock for a few of the tracks.Bethany's songwriting is simple and honest, you can't help but feel endeared to her - 'I wish my cat could talk' ('Goodbye') - well, don't we all?! Also, the video for 'Our Deal' features the amazing Chloe Grace Moretz and is directed by Drew Barrymore. 'Crazy for You' wins hands down for me in terms of videos though, it's directed by cats and features a cheeky bag of 'cat nip.' Watch both below!

Be The Change You Want To See In The World

It’s my year anniversary today. I’m not likely to get any flowers for it, Hallmark definitely don’t do cards for the occasion and I could well be the only person who remembers it. The past year has been a weird one; I moved home from Leeds, broke up with my first real love and left a job I cherished.  The things that got me through were caring texts from friends, spontaneous trips to the seaside and copious cups of tea. This day last year was the day I was admitted to Ward One of the Becklin Centre in Leeds because I was in the midst of a psychotic episode.

I wish I could say it was the first and only time it has happened to me, but those of you who know me from school will remember a similar thing occurring in the run up to the GCSE season.  I’d always been a happy, cheery girl with a pretty positive view of the world. I believed in the kindness of strangers and liked my happy go lucky lifestyle. School was fun; I was in the selective class (Pine sluts, wheeey) and predicted A*- B’s in the forthcoming exams. I had a part time job selling shoes, hung out with my friends on Saturdays and was seeing a boy I’d been crushing on for months.  I was a pretty average girl, until suddenly I wasn’t.

Stress is one of the key triggers of a psychosis; traumatic experiences can also contribute or as it can occur as a result of drug or alcohol misuse. In fact, when my episode begun at the tender age of sixteen everyone around me was convinced the bizarre behaviour I was exhibiting was due to drugs, until my cousin stepped in and reminded everyone that I was utterly opposed to them!  It just didn’t make sense, one week I had been doing a Sociology project on the objectification of female figures in the media (I was a feminist before I even knew what the word meant) and the next I was in a secure hospital taking medication to keep me from becoming ‘elated.’ My life was in tatters, the foundation of my world crumbled and reality had, quite literally, escaped me.  Psychosis is a mental health problem that causes people to perceive or interpret things differently from those around them. I personally felt like I was in the Truman Show; everyone was analysing my every move and staring at me behind my back. It was the most horrible, uncomfortable feeling – I have a great deal of empathy for celebrities now!  I seemed erratic and weird, babbling about things that made no sense, peculiar and very ridiculous. It wasn’t until I saw my dad (a mental health nurse) that my family realised what was happening. I was hastily driven to A&E where I was assessed and sectioned. I cried and cried and cried, told my dad I hated him and begged him to take me home.

In total I stayed in various mental health hospitals for about three months, encountering people with far worse conditions than I. I witnessed my friend crying as she cut into the tops of her legs, saw a boy wander down corridors all day as he patted his head mumbling and a girl with schizophrenia afraid to leave her room because of the monsters she saw. I felt lucky in comparison, yet still felt that my life had effectively ended because of my illness. I hadn’t finished school; I had no GCSE’s and had no clue how I was going to integrate back in society.  My positivity had been crushed, I felt like I’d been punished for being too hopeful. The reality was I hadn’t coped well with the pressures of school and the disintegration of my parents’ marriage; a few small factors had combined and overwhelmed me. Doctors said my illness was almost inevitable; I was the type of person who was bound to experience this type of illness at some point in my life. I should at this point add how incredibly supportive my friends and family were. Whilst also coping with the shock of what had happened to me, they put their best brave faces on and reassured me that everything would eventually be okay.  There was a small party held for me on the last day of my stay in hospital (June 2017), I was given cute cards from the other patients, there was a cake and best of all my mum was there to finally take me home. I remember Roland (another patient) and his lovely mum being there; she leaned in and hugged me and whispered in my ear ‘this is the first day of the rest of your life.’

What she said was truer than I could ever know at that point. For the first few weeks of me being home I pretty much slept constantly, leaving the house seemed ambitious and I watched waaaay too many episodes of Friends. I became a kind of recluse. By this point I was grossly overweight (a combination of medication and being in hospital for so long) and my confidence was non-existent. However I so badly wanted my life to be better I enrolled at a college to study for my A-Levels come September…  It was awful! My brain was still reeling from everything that had happened so concentrating in class felt impossible, my medication made me fall asleep every afternoon and I just desperately wanted to crawl back into bed every single day. By Christmas I had dropped out. Instead of retreating back to my duvet and admitting defeat I set myself the small, simple task of leaving my house once a day, every day. I started off simple with popping to the shops and eventually built that up to taking long walks. Walking was a form of therapy for me; the book ‘The Philosophy of Walking’ states that ‘by walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history… The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone.’ The further I walked the more I forgot about what had happened to me. After a few months I decided to get a job until the next academic year begun. I got a job (which felt like a big victory at the time!) and was paid something like £3.92 an hour. I eventually left that poorly paid position and joined a workforce of girls, got 50% off clothes and finally begun being happy again, a feeling I once thought had forever escaped me.

Fast forward a few years and I had gained my distinctly average A-Levels, hurrah! I secured  a place at Leeds Metropolitan University (now known as Leeds Beckett) to study English Literature and it felt like my hospital days were way behind me, my life was finally back on track. University was amazing, the best thing I’ve ever done. I met my lovely boyfriend, went to India twice and travelled to America for summer camp (where said lovely boyfriend met me after in New York).  There were times through my degree when I worried I might be getting poorly again – a combination of late nights, essays and scarcely eating – but I got through my degree unscathed. I wrote my dissertation on how the figure of the mother in nuclear families had changed from the 1950’s to the present day. I gained a 2.1, which I’m more than happy with.

The worry had always been that university would be the catalyst for me getting unwell again, so when I completed it with my sanity intact there was a surge of relief. If I could survive university, I could surely survive any other kind of stress, yes? It was this dangerous kind of thinking that got me into the 13^th of May 2014 predicament. Once I stopped looking for the signs of becoming unwell they became rife, oblivious to me.  I was blissfully happy living in Leeds post-uni, I had the most amazing housemates you can imagine, a cute vintage bike to get me into town, lovely boyfriend had asked me to move in with him, I volunteered at the local cinema every Friday fortnight and I literally thought things couldn’t get any better. Then cracks started to appear.  Money worries were abundant, I rarely paid my rent on time, I ate infrequently and I received a hefty bill for council tax that reduced me to tears. One of my amazing housemate’s mother passed away, an awful thing to happen to someone so young and my heart broke at seeing her go through such a loss. It made me miss my own mother terribly and I yearned for home. That’s when the final thing happened. As much I loved the ever so lovely lovely-boyfriend I couldn’t move in with him. I just couldn’t. I hated myself because I loved him so much, and by this point I was in a job I adored (and was good at!) but something felt off. Little did I realise I was days away from suffering my second psychotic episode.

How often a psychotic episode occurs and how long it lasts can depend on the underlying cause. I believe the cause for this episode (besides money worries and career pressure) was the complete and utter fear that I had failed lovely boyfriend because I didn’t want to live with him anymore. After telling him my decision, and after lots of talks and tears, I went full blown batshit crazy. The damage of making such a consequential life-changing decision propelled me into mania and I once again lost my grip on reality. One of the main symptoms of psychosis is suffering from delusions, believing things that are obviously untrue. There were horrible, completely terrifying moments when I thought both my parents were dead. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the back of a police-car, handcuffed, barefoot and crying I realised I was suffering another episode, but by this point it was far too late. I couldn’t do anything to stop the episode, all I could do was recite my parent’s phone numbers and hope that the episode would be over soon. The next few hours of my episode are hazy; I just vividly remember being pushed by the policeman, so I pushed him back. He grabbed me by the back of my head, smashed it against the door we were standing next to and pinned me to the floor. All I remember is screaming in pain. After a few hours of frantic calls I was transferred to the Becklin Centre (you can read some reviews of the ward I stayed in here) and my parents had been contacted; they rushed up to Leeds immediately.

This stay in hospital was brief; I recovered quickly and was out of hospital within a fortnight after being on day release for a week. Strangely I wasn’t worried about this episode – I’d been through it before so felt like I knew what it took to recover. I spent these days quietly playing scrabble with my friends, cooking dinner with lovely boyfriend and celebrating one of amazing housemate’s birthday. All seemed well and everyone was impressed with how quickly I’d recovered. My family decided it best that I moved down to London temporarily to be looked after and cared for under their watchful gaze. However, when I arrived home my support networks (boyfriend and housemates) weren’t there, I was left alone for long periods of the day while my mum was at work and for whatever reason, I suffered another manic episode. This time, it devastated me. I felt like I had (unwittingly) sabotaged my life and I, once again, couldn’t piece it back together. Coming out of an episode is like waking up after the most raucous, destructive night out and realising you’ve sent everyone you know naked photos of yourself (no, I never did that). I was mortified at my actions, blushed at Facebook status’ and cringed at letters I’d scribbled. Worst of all, mid-episode I’d felt compelled to tell lovely boyfriend something so heinous, completely reprehensible that he’d been forced to break up with me. I truly had lost everything I valued dear to me.

Recovering from the most recent episode was most definitely hardest of each of my encounters. When it happened at sixteen it was a new experience, no one could have predicted it coming and I was blameless. This time, I was an adult; I felt I should have known better and looked after myself properly. I blamed myself, persecuting myself every day for how stupid I’d been to overlook the signs and push myself into a manic episode. Only now is that guilt beginning to subside.  There’s a song lyric I love, ‘it’s hard to accept yourself as someone you don’t desire, as someone you don’t want to be.’ I had turned into someone I desperately didn’t want to be:  I was negative; miserable; overweight (again, bloody medication) and permanently lethargic. Family and friends promised that I would feel like ‘myself’ again one day but I couldn’t see it coming.  Things definitely got worse before they got better and over Christmas and New Year I had my real first depressive episode (which means I’m now categorized as being Bipolar, a label I don’t really agree with – who wouldn’t be a bit depressed after all that happening?!) which was most definitely the lowest point of my life. I lacked direction- when I was sixteen I knew the plan was to get to university, I had a goal to achieve.  This time I knew the only option I had was to get a job, which I didn’t know how I was going to do as I couldn’t get out of bed and talking to people I didn’t know was incredibly overwhelming. I don’t know what pulled me out of it, maybe seeing how much I was upsetting my poor mum, but I finally got back on track. I spent a few months recuperating, reading books I loved, spending time with my family and watching Gilmore Girls on 5* (good thing I have a job now cause the series is nearly over, boo!).  That time was absolutely vital to my wellbeing – I tried to stop worrying about what I was going to do next and just focused on one day at a time and slowly, very slowly, my condition improved. This brings me to the present day. I don’t feel quite so much regret now; I’ve come to accept my illness isn’t my fault but it is a part of my life and I need to take certain precautions to ensure I never get poorly again. I’m about to start a job that is something I believe passionately in (it’s a place for men with mental health problems who aren’t ready for society yet but aren’t ill enough to be in hospital – it’s a place to prevent a relapse, like what happened to me), I have a good circle of close friends and I’m on good terms with the lovely ex-boyfriend.  I’m feeling happy again, cheerful and hopeful for my future!

I’m not telling this story to get attention, sympathy or pity. It’s (ironically) Mental Health Awareness week on the anniversary of my Leeds hospital admission so it seemed appropriate that I finally share my personal experience of mental health. People with psychosis have a higher than average risk of suicide, it’s estimated that 1 in 5 people with psychosis will attempt to commit suicide at some point in their life and 1 in 25 people with psychosis will kill themselves – pretty terrifying statistics.

 I often wish that I could talk more openly about what happened to me and how it impacted on my life, but there is unfortunately a lack of understanding that shrouds mental health issues. I’ve lost friends who not knowing what to say, have said nothing and distanced themselves from me. In order to combat this, I’m sharing my story in the hope that others won’t feel so alone if they’ve experienced (or know someone who has experienced) a mental health problem.  What I went through was truly traumatising, this essay doesn’t scratch the surface of what happened to me and how truly awful I felt – but things do get better. I never thought that I was weak, but what happened left me completely vulnerable. It was the small joys of life that made me eventually smile again – letters from friends, long walks and listening to my favourite songs on repeat. Never underestimate the power of being kind if you know someone in a similar situation; just knowing that friends were thinking of me made me want to get better, because I had people to get better for. Thank you so much for reading my story.

You Know You Could Have Been Here Honey, Sitting By My Right-hand Side

I've wanted to go to Live at Leeds since I was a fresh faced first year student, but sadly it always clashes with Papa McKenzie's birthday so I've never been able to attend. This year, however, dear father's birthday is on the Monday after the festival so I'm free to attend 2015's Live at Leeds, huzzzaaaah! I can't wait to run around Leeds seeing as many people as possible. Here's my Top Ten Wishlist of all the bands that are playing, old and new...

1. MARSICANS. I hadn't heard of this band until I trawled through the LAL's website and saw their sound compared to Mystery Jets (my guilty pleasure pop) and The Beach Boys dubbed as one of their influences. They've played LAL for the last three years! This year they're playing Leeds Uni Mine at 12.15pm, a lovely cheery way to start the afternoon :)

2. THE ORIELLES. I loved this band as soon as I heard them, they reminded of me Alvvays and Hinds which is no bad combination. Formed of two sisters, Sid & Esme (sibling bands are amazing, think The Staves, Haim and Wild Belle) and a guy called Henry their sunny sounds and whimsical lyrics are lovely. Catch them at Leeds Beckett at 2pm.

3. AMY STUDT. Yes, you read that right, the amazing queen of teenage angst Amy. I've included her in this little list because I think 'Misfit' was one of my favourite songs when I was teeny. Apparently she withdrew from the spotlight because of ongoing stage fright but she's been working on her music and is due to release an album later this year. If you want to hear her new stuff she'll be at Leeds College of Music Recital Hall at 9pm, hopefully overcoming her stage fright!

4. LUCY ROSE. I adore Lucy Rose so much. I've seen her a few times now and she's always on point. Her first album 'Like I Used To' was made up of lovely songs such as 'Shiver', 'Bikes' and 'Night Bus' and she's set to release her second album this summer. After playing Glastonbury last year The Independent Review dubbed her as "the stand out female vocalist of the weekend." She'll be playing at the rather special venue of Holy Trinity Church at 10.15pm.

5. MENACE BEACH. Another band I found by scouring through the LAL line-up I was instantly drawn to their name (lame I know but anything vaguely beachy seems like a good formula - Beach House, Best Coast) and they didn't disappoint. Hailing from Leeds they're formed of Liza Violet, alongside  Matthew 'MJ' Johnson of Hookworms who also produced their debut album, 'Ratworld.' They'll be playing the Dr Martens stage at Leeds Beckett at 5.30pm.

6. MISTY MILLER. I first heard of Misty Miller when she was featured in the Burberry Acoustic series years back. To say she's grown as an artist since then is a big understatement - I'll post the before and after so you can see for yourself, it's not likely you're going to see her playing the ukulele with flowers in her hair again any time soon. She'll be playing Leeds Uni Union Stylus at 5.45pm; definitely worth seeing.

7. DRY THE RIVER. One of my all time favourite bands. I first saw them as support at the wonderful 02 Academy and they completely captivated the audience. Their beautiful lyrics ( I even quoted them in my dissertation!) and heavy guitars combine for a spectacular performance - definitely one of the best bands I've ever seen. You can catch them at 2.45pm at the 02 Academy. 

8. SPECTOR. I started listening to Spector just before I left for summer camp in America circa 2012 and I listened to 'Chevy Thunder' repeatedly, it's summery vibes and American nostalgia put me in the best mood for my overseas adventures. Deservedly one of the headliners of this years LAL; I've never seen them live but I'm so sure they won't disappoint. If you want to see them they'll be playing Leeds Uni Union Stylus// Gigwise Stage at 7.45pm.

9. SWIM DEEP. Another headliner, Swim Deep play melodic psych-pop with catchiest chorus's. Their summery mood was perfectly encapsulated on their debut album, 'Where The Heaven Are We.' They've released their first single from their new album, the acid-house inspired 'To My Brother.' They'll be playing the Leeds Uni Union Stylus// Gigwise Stage at 22.45pm.

10. PINKSHINYULTRABLAST. Last but definitely not least (how amazing is the name?!) Pinkshinyultrablast are a five-piece band from Saint-Petersburg, Russia. LAL describe their sound as 'sharp, icy electronics' which sounds pretty cool. Playing at Brudenell at 4pm head down if you want to see a band subverting the electonica genre in the best possible way. 

Say Something, Something Like You Love Me...

I'm Not the Man I Used to Want to Be...

They know that I loved you but they'll never know why