You Can Cut All The Flowers But You Cannot Keep Spring From Coming

Last night I dreamt so vividly, it took me a few moments to realise where I was when I awoke – I was safe, in my own bed at home. I patted the sheets around me and stared up at the familiar poster above me and lay for a moment, thinking how very fortunate I am. The dream is a recurring one; I’m in hospital again and being told that I’m unwell. These dreams scare the shit out of me as they’re so terrifyingly similar to the real life process of being admitted to hospital – lots of tears clashing with bouts of euphoria and a whole heap of confusion. The dreams, of course, come whenever they please, but seemingly when my worries about being admitted are heightened,  when the effects would be deeply catastrophic as opposed to a mere inconvenience. I remember I had one such dream last summer, just before I travelled to Budapest on holiday; sobbing and sobbing I explained “I can’t be ill, this isn’t happening… I need to go to Budapest” as gentle voices informed me that I wouldn’t be making my flight. Of course, it was just a horrible dream; I made my flight and had an incredible time exploring Budapest. 

Recently I visited a friend of mine who remains in hospital. I met her in early January of last year, in a local hospital, then saw her again when we were both transferred to a hospital in Bradford. She was incredible to me, sweet and funny, wild and rebellious, and basically kept me going when I felt nothing but despair. I owe her so much. Since Bradford, we’ve taken different paths. I was transferred (again) to a private hospital where I recovered, and was released from. She isn’t quite there yet, which I struggle to not feel guilty about. Last week I went to visit her in the local hospital where we first met. She was on a ward I hadn't seen since being a patient there myself. We sat together in an outdoor area, where I could recall sitting with mum. We had tea together in the dining room, where I had once eaten my dinner daily. So horrible and vivid were the memories that came in a place of such significance, I blinked back tears. I saw my old room, where I had struggled so awfully to make sense of what was happening to me. Hospital is perhaps the strangest place to ever live in, a kind of university freshers situation whereby everyone is completely messed up.

I have so many strange memories of being in various hospitals, stretching back to when Guys had a smoking room on their adolescent ward and a worker there told me to take my feet off the sofa - “this isn’t your home.” Didn’t I bloody know it. Similarly, in a different hospital and 10 years later,  I crushed lavender in my palm and inhaled that rather than smoke on one of my ‘fresh air’ breaks (I would take every opportunity to leave the ward, which meant traipsing down stairwells with all the smokers every few hours) and was told by the most jobsworth man ever that that lavender wasn’t my property, it belonged to the hospital and I shouldn’t touch it. My last hospital admission I became close to someone, stupidly close – but that’s a story for another day. When he left, a girl in the room opposite me bought me a chocolate bunny (it was approaching Easter) as she knew I’d be upset. One of the first hospitals I was in at age 16, myself and a few other patients barricaded ourselves into the communal room at bedtime until the nurses had steam coming out their ears. You can have moments of glorious companionship where you connect so powerfully to the people around you, or it can be the loneliest place in the world. 

That being said, I cannot imagine where I would be without the treatment I received in hospital. It honestly doesn’t bare thinking about. Certain people I met will stay with me forever, and although few of those are professionals, it doesn’t mean that I don’t recognise the importance they played in my recovery. Being admitted to hospital (which usually comes hand in hand with being sectioned) is the stuff of nightmares for me, but it has always seen me recover, whether it has taken weeks or months. Not everyone is so fortunate in this. Over the weekend it was reported that Daisy Boyd, 28, has died whilst in the care of private psychiatric clinic, Nightingale Hospital. I cannot fathom how a tragedy of this scale has occurred in a place where she should have been cared for constantly. Change is needed in these environments, and I hope with all my heart it happens swiftly. 

Every time I Drink I Pour Out My Heart... Every Time I Think I’ve Gone Too Far… I Know That I Would Say It Again

Last Sunday I awoke with a headache like no other. I could feel brain cells dying off, limbs aching and a thirst that was seemingly unquenchable. Also, alongside these horrible physical pains, there were some far more prominent emotional pains. A whole plethora of them, gathering inside and conspiring to make me feel worse than I ever thought possible: fear; mortification; embarrassment and a slight dose of self-pity. Last Saturday I cried and cried, and cried some more. These tears weren’t caught by a grubby toilet, or on the shoulders of kind friends (not all of them anyhow) but they splashed onto my poor, unfortunate ex-boyfriend.

The Saturday that came before the Sunday was beautiful, a day of celebrating my dear Rhiannon’s birthday with two hours of bottomless prosecco and sweet apple and ginger mojitos. Her friends are as lovely as her; I had a grand time getting to know them. We moved on from bottomless brunch to a bar where there was a possibility of free or half-price drinks if you rolled the dice right. It was a dangerous game, and by the time we moved on to our final destination I was well and truly wasted. I could be prim and proper and say I hadn’t been that drunk in a long time, but honestly I came close to it the night prior – not with such consequences, but Friday definitely gave Saturday a run for its money. 

I had been there a few minutes when I spotted his friendly, familiar face. At first it was all very civilized and adult in the way some exes can be – ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’ but then things, for me, disintegrated rapidly. I became incredibly emotional, apparently just at him being in the general vicinity, and felt the most overwhelming need to confess to him how much I truly loved him. I didn’t do this in a calm, dignified, composed manner. I spluttered and stumbled over my words. As mentioned before, there were tears, and no shortage of them. I was seemingly set on embarrassing myself that night. The one consolation I have in this tragic little story is how kind he was, as ever. Rather than walking away and dismissing me as a silly drunk, he listened to my shambolic rambles and hugged me. I can only imagine, (as it’s rather hazy) that this made my heart hurt a little more, as whatever or whoever ended our conversation, I cried for the next 20 minutes. I called my sister, who sweetly calmed me and sent me a bunch of gifs to make me smile. The amazing friends I was with consoled me further and wiped my face dry. All the love to them all.

I write this for no reason apart from I want to console anyone else that became an emotional wreck last night, and feels they may have ruined their lives along with their liver. I mean no harm by writing it – to add to the excruciating embarrassment, ex has a new love and I truly am still in shock that I found it acceptable to put him in the position I did. If you happen to read this – so sorry lovely. I blame the ironically named Bar Soba, along with some emotional issues that I’ll swiftly be addressing.

Heartache is awful, and it can take its sweet time with you. Just when you think you’ve moved along, it ruthlessly stabs you in the back when you look into their eyes, and the love you once had flickers through you. Memories can play their tricks on you though, if you think they’re the only one for you – no. This world is full to the brim of lovely people, so realistically there is someone just as fitting for you, perhaps even more so. If you feel broken, give yourself an abundance of time, be kind and patient. If they move on before you do, be gracious, and don’t look at their Instagram – it’ll give you nightmares. As time slips by, peace will return to you. You’ll regain the pieces of yourself you lose. Whether it takes 3 years or 3 months to overcome the loss of love, have courage. It may feel like your world is ending, but as long as you’re waking fresh in the morning – you have a chance to reshape your world. 

Life's Under No Obligation To Give Us What We Expect

This hasn’t been the easiest year so far. A silly start to it whereby I attempted a career in internet sales (ew, gross) left me stressing full time and bed bound with a horrendous case of tonsillitis. I quickly gave up on that job; I thought there must be better out there. And there was! A short stint at Comic Relief gave me the confidence I needed to go forward and find a longer term role. Except I haven’t. I’ve been unemployed for about 4 months now, and anyone who thinks the unemployed laze about watching Jezza all day dreaming about how they’ll fritter away their benefits – let me offer you another perspective on our situation...

I receive about 7 email alerts a day from various job sites about all the vacancies in the area – some completely irrelevant (bus driver, that would be disastrous) some completely out of my league and most completely miserable sounding. Even if I wanted a day to forget my predicament, these emails would provide a little pinch-in-the-arm reminder that I’m out of work. Then there’s the actual job-hunting. I hate sitting at a computer all day – it’s lonely, and tedious. For all the jobs I apply for, I rarely get a reply and when I do, it’s another little sting. I’ve been fortunate enough to get a few interviews earlier this month, but there are only so many times you can hear ‘you were our second choice!’ without wondering why you weren’t first.

This little post is turning into a right sob story, so I’ll stop all that right here. This is basically what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks, in essay form – berating myself and listing all the negatives until I feel completely despairing. Then stopping. And remembering having a job isn’t quite the be all and end all. This is a temporary situation, and it’s not so awful. Having a job, or rather not, does not define me. If my unemployment does define me to you, that’s your prerogative and it’s a little bit silly to be honest.

It takes a great deal of mental energy to stay positive through being out of work. There are moments when I simply can’t deal. Then I remember to have patience with myself, have some Pepsi Max, a little cry maybe, and carry on. So whatever you may be struggling with at the minute – I hope it gets better soon. Be kind to yourself, always.

The Worst Enemy to Creativity is Self-Doubt

I am sorry for my absence. Not only to those who read when I write (always to thankful to you) but to myself. Hemingway once said ‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ I’ve been fresh out of blood. No ideas, no substance and no confidence.  The thought of trying to articulate anything was too much, so I gave up. Nothing felt worth writing about, things became monotonous and each day dragged.  I haven’t been depressed these past few months,  more vaguely vacant; a worn out faded version of who I think I really am. Not much has changed to drag me out of this lull, apart from a beautiful trip to Barcelona and someone who was kind when they didn’t need to be. She reminded me how important it is to read words that resonate with you.

I was reading a comment that someone had posted on a blog post to a friend, who it seems can have a spiteful streak. After reading this comment aloud, which was complimentary and kind, he retorted that people only read my blog and say these things because they feel sorry for me.  These words stung me into a silence that has lasted too long. For a time I debated whether there was truth in his words. I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t mind so much if there is.  Im fairly sure it’s just his opinion, but if people do feel sympathy for me – well, that’s kind of kind isn’t it? That’s what I’m going to take from it anyway.

It’s a humbling experience to write and bleed, and agonize and then publish your darkest moments, your disordered thoughts and the private elements of your life. It leaves you wondering why you do it, why torture yourself just to tell a story that happened in  a small corner of the world, where little is worth explaining. And then, as if by magic, it is worth talking about. Simply because you tell me it is, you feel (or have felt) the same and in that moment something powerful happens. I forgot that I’ve bled, and instead there’s a page of memories that mean something to me – a jumble of words strewn together to form a full truth. Even better, they might mean something to you.

So, I’m back! I’ll write as often as I can, as honestly as I can. Thank you for being patient with me. I’m so excited to be a part of this community again – it is truly terrifying and daunting to write sometimes, but you all make it completely worth it.

Love xxxxxx