You Are Allowed To Do Things Differently

‘That’ll look good on your CV.’

One of my least favourite things to hear, this little saying sends shivers down my spine and a look of discomfort onto my face.It’s packed, I feel, with heaviness. The overarching double sheet of A4 paper, dominating your life and condensing it into x amount of words on the various experiences of your life. The highlights, the lowlights, written there starkly in a formal font, black and white begging for approval from someone who has no right to judge your life. 

I realise that it’s a seemingly innocent statement - but what about when things don’t look good on the CV? What then? I’ve had numerous gaps in my employment history because of hospital admissions. I’ve left jobs after three weeks because they were wrong. My ‘career’ hasn’t really ever got going - the false starts still haunt me, because they were such an ill fit. As I grow older, I’m coming to the conclusion it’s all okay. Would I rather have a linear job, a solid 40 years of service in one environment or a life scattered around, dipping my toes into various worlds of work? I’m in no way saying there is anything wrong with sticking to a certain job or career - there’s a lot to be said for that element of stability in your life. Don’t quit your day job just yet! I would, however, like to not be thought of as less because I haven’t chosen that path. It’s okay to flit between jobs, experiencing different things and feel the quaky uncertainty of where your next pay is coming from. 

It may be a generational thing, but the notion that you should do things because they’ll look good on paper is not a reason to do them! Do it for the thrill, the fun, the education! There isn’t enough time to pass on the experiences you may love for fear that it won’t fit into your curriculum vitae. It might be worth saying, I also think it’s a control mechanism to deter people from embarking on hedonistic adventures. It instills fear into us that one day we’ll be rejected from our dream job because of that summer spent in Thailand/America/destination of choice. The condensed version of your life shouldn’t fill you with impending doom (like it does me) - it isn’t a reflection of the true experiences you’ve had and the life you’ve lived, and that’s my trouble with it.  We have to be able to fuck up, to chop and change, leave jobs that make us miserable without the fear it’s a stain on us.

So the next time someone tells you that your next adventure will look good on your CV, smile and know that there’s far more value to your life experiences than being able to pop them on your bloody CV when they’re complete.

I Wonder What I Could Have Done with all of the Time I Wasted Wondering if I Was Good Enough, Pretty Enough to Exist.

Pick, pick, pick. All you do for me, and all you allow me to do – I will still tear you apart every day. I prod and poke you; I would rip chunks from you if I could. I have pulled you apart to see what I’m made of. Nicks and freckles align over skin stretched tightly, little markings of a life lived. Stretch marks scattered here, there, almost everywhere. What does it matter? You are my home. You belong to me. Only you and I will truly know where we’ve been. We have dipped our ten toes into salty oceans, hot sandy dunes and trod upon dew drop blades of grass at dawn. We have kissed loved ones on the brow, on the cheek and ones we have loved all over. You let me do this. I know, I do know, how fortunate I am to have you. I apologise for tormenting you.  You bring the bully out of me – but it’s not your fault, it really isn’t. Something has gone very wrong along the way if I think you’re not good enough for me.  

I wish I could change the way I see myself. I wish I could remember that that is the true root of the problem; it isn’t what I actually look like. There would be flaws to find even if I were a dream version of myself. I have been slim. I have had long, beautiful red hair, blonde hair, brown hair. I’ve had smaller boobs, bigger boobs, a teeny waist and a face with cheekbones. These past versions of me were no happier than I am now, not really. But – they were more accepted and celebrated in society. I conformed to the idealistic western standards of beauty and didn’t feel the sting of judgement that I now do because I am overweight. I remind myself, daily, how fortunate I am to be happy and healthy. I know that when I look in the mirror, I shouldn’t feel disgust or shame. The language I use about myself shouldn’t be spiteful or malicious. I shouldn’t feel such hatred for what in the simplest terms is a shell to carry me through this life. However, there are days when I do. There are more days I do than I don’t. Isn’t that so wrong? It is so sad. I can’t even imagine the time I waste worrying, endlessly worrying about something as simple as the way I look.

I hope you know how beautiful you are. I hope I learn to tell myself the same, then believe it too. The shame I feel about my appearance endlessly impacts my mental health, and that alone is a reason to curb the bad habits and start to be kinder to myself. There are so many things worth worrying about, but our bodies and the way we see them should not be one of them.

“Tell your daughters how you love your body.
Tell them how they must love theirs.

Tell them to be proud of every bit of themselves—
from their tiger stripes to the soft flesh of their thighs,
whether there is a little of them or a lot,
whether freckles cover their face or not,
whether their curves are plentiful or slim,
whether their hair is thick, curly, straight, long or short.

Tell them how they inherited
their ancestors, souls in their smiles,
that their eyes carry countries
that breathed life into history,
that the swing of their hips
does not determine their destiny.

Tell them never to listen when bodies are critiqued.
Tell them every woman’s body is beautiful
because every woman’s soul is unique.” 
― Nikita Gill

Still I Think of Her When the Sun Goes Down. Never Goes Away, But it All Works Out…

The shock of the fall is one way to describe what it felt like to lose her. It was a swift, sudden, tablecloth whipped out from under plates piled high kind of motion. One moment she was there, the next, she had vanished. Except this wasn’t a magical trick designed to implore applaud – it was harsh, and brutal. The plates crashed from the table, you might say. I made promises to her, and when it mattered most, I let her down. I pushed too hard and now I’m slowly learning my lesson. I have been left to rethink each small comment, things that I thought insignificant and easy criticism over decades of love have fractured and fragmented the most important relationship I have ever found myself in outside of family bonds. She became family. The lazy days we spent playing scrabble, over and over we played scrabble – in her back garden with her uncle, in my front room as I “breathed too heavily” and distracted her, even on the plane to Spain – these are some of the favourite moments of my life. She has stood by me through hospital admissions, one time even figured out I had escaped, called every person close to me and made sure I was safe – even if from a distance. Even if, deep deep down I know this is for the best, I miss her incredibly. Every bloody day.

I hope she knows how I love her. I am so happy to have had a friend that meant so much to me that now I feel utterly numb without her; this pain must be a testament to how much I cared about us, because I can’t possibly feel this destroyed without it meaning something. It’s too much to bear. I go to call her, to tell her about my day and hear her voice of pure joy – and then I’m jolted back to this reality that she doesn’t care about my day anymore. Someone said to me, it is like she’s dead now. I was so struck by this, but it is. I have no choice. I can’t call her. I don’t get to hear her laugh anymore, make her laugh or have her laugh at me. I look at old photos of us and it truly hurts as though I’m mourning her. A world without her is something I never thought I’d face until one of us passed – so that person was maybe more right than they knew when they said it was like she had died. However bereft, life carries on. I’m so glad she is alive and well. It is just truly saddening that I don’t get to be a part of the wonder that was her anymore. We are anecdotal to each other now, relics of what we once had, and just a sweetheart friendship gone wrong.

Slowly, so slowly, I’m coming around again to the notion that I’m not rotten. It wasn’t entirely my fault this happened. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It is just one of the saddest stories of life that nothing lasts forever. I am glad I met her. Maybe our paths will cross again one day, but for now we navigate the treacherousness of our late twenties separately. I know it will be much harder without her, and I’m sorry not to have her in my life. Hopefully, and  hopeful – perhaps foolishly so – that it will all work out. Because eventually, one way or the other, it just does… But if you ever have any doubt I loved you. I did, I do and I always will. 

Wybie x

“I Want You Always to Remember Me. Will You Remember That I Existed, and That I Stood Next To You Here Like This?”

It makes me so sad to write this post, as it’s something that still shocks me and doesn’t quite feel right, although it is a hazy, half-forgotten nightmare. It doesn’t feel like it happened to me, but I know it did. I’m reminded by the pale, faded little white scars on my wrists that I attempted suicide a few years back. I had been absent from this world for weeks, months before I thought of doing something to leave it. I was deeply, horribly miserable – the kind of misery that refuses to leave and sets up home in your heart. Everything was tainted, there was no happiness and no hope. Nothing bought me joy. I cannot pin these feelings of despair on one single thing, but I hadn’t had an easy time for a few years before. I didn’t see my life continuing, more over I didn’t want it to. Everything felt hard and strained, all I wanted to do was sleep and cry, and eventually, I just wanted to die. 

It came to surface after new year when ideas turned into plans. I had a last day with my mother, wrote letters and went to bed thinking I wouldn’t see another morning. How glad I am that that night I was weak and tired and didn’t die.  I felt so many things sitting in A&E the next day sandwiched between my mother and younger sister. I felt embarrassed and foolish, sad and scared. But there was something else too; a miniscule, ever so slight feeling of hope. What I had been feeling, the sheer magnitude of misery, was out now, it wasn’t my burden alone anymore. Although I had terrified my mother (I slept with her a few nights after the night that I attempted), she was calm and formidable, an absolute pillar of strength. I don’t know if she felt it, but that’s what she conveyed so by following her pattern, I gathered slowly but surely my strength back. There was a part of me that was glad I hadn’t succeeded in my plans that day, and that part has grown each day since.

There are never days I am not thankful for being alive. I still have shitty days where I need to go to bed at 7pm or call friends up in tears or eat a big bowl of pasta – but it’s all been manageable. Should you ever be in the most horrible situation where you don’t think life is worth living – my heart goes out to you completely. If you have the energy to, employ every tactic you can think of to bring you happiness again. Rely on those around you, eat good food, know that people love you – because they really do, and stay. Because there are adventures to be had. If you don't have the energy, allow yourself to be carried for a while. The world needs you, you deserve to grow old and your now is not your forever. 

I've Been Waiting For You, To Come Around and Tell Me the Truth About Everything That You're Going Through - My Girl You've Got Nothing To Lose

As Mental Health Awareness week draws to a close, I thought it time again to write a little about how it is to navigate this world as a person diagnosed as Bipolar. More appropriate timing than ever, we’ve been discussing psychosis in class this week. I lose track of how much I’ve told you all by now, but my episodes can infringe on becoming psychotic (psychosis is a mental health problem that causes people to perceive or interpret things differently from those around them, which might involve hallucinations or delusions). I completely and utterly believed that I controlled the weather – tears equaled rain, smiles equal sunshine. How bloody bizarre are our brains that I ever thought I overruled the entire complexity of the WEATHER! For a period of about three days I was so elated I couldn’t shake this notion, and as I lay blissfully under the baking sun that March 2014 bought, I truly thought it was I who had provided it. 

Four years ago this week was my second admission to hospital (you can read about here, if you wish) which came with the loss of many things, some of which I’m still coming to terms with. One of the things it feels like I lost, was my identity as a fit, healthy, kinda-sporty girl. She was replaced ever so quickly with an overweight, huffing puffing, struggling-to-get-fit-again girl. One of the side effects of medication the medication I was put onto is weight gain – and not just a few pounds, like an ‘I can no longer shop in Topshop’ kind of weight gain. After I left hospital I ran every day to combat this side effect, I was so determined it wouldn’t happen to me again after my spell in hospital aged 16 where I ballooned from a size 12 to size 16 in pretty much in a month. It may sound superficial, and you may think that I should have had more pressing issues to worry about (controlling the weather, for instance) but not feeling at home in your own body can have such detrimental effects on your self-esteem, self-worth and ultimately your mental health. I stopped running two months after leaving hospital, after one particularly drenched one where my mum kindly consoled me and let me know that I didn’t have to run every day. The weight gain caught up with me, as I’m sure it would always have even if I‘d continued running, and I’m now trying to figure out what size I’m supposed to be, and be to peace with that too.

Our brains are brilliant, and complicated, and sometimes completely erratic and out of control. Be kind to those fighting to preserve their sanity – it’s the strangest process losing touch with reality, and then being thrust back into a society that isn’t catered for compassion. We can make changes in the language we use, the way we interact with strangers and the way we go about our communities. Let’s encourage each other, praise diversity and let people know you are there to help them... or perhaps, that you need a little help. There is no shame in that. I wish you all a happy weekend, sending lots of love and compassion to you all. Try to be courageous, and always be kind xoxo 

And Here You Are Living, Despite It All

This evening I’m going to see the wonderful Rupi Kaur perform at Leeds Museum. If you don’t recognise the name, chances are you’ll recognise her brief lines of poetry which are paired with line sketches, from all over Instagram, Pinterest and the like.

Back in 2015, Rupi Kaur created the theme of a university photography project (she has a degree in rhetoric studies from the University of Waterloo) around the taboo about menstruation. Doing so, she started a censorship ‘war’ with Instagram – who removed the image below, twice.

She fought back, writing the following on Facebook: "Thank you Instagram for providing me with the exact response my work was created to critique... I will not apologize for not feeding the ego and pride of misogynist society that will have my body in underwear but not be okay with a small leak when your pages are filled with countless photos/accounts where women (so many who are underage) are objectified, pornified and treated less than human."

Instagram eventually reinstated the image after Rupi Kaur’s post was liked by 53,000 people and shared over 12,000 times. They apologised to her, writing in a message: "A member of our team accidentally removed something you posted on Instagram. This was a mistake, and we sincerely apologise for this error."

 Fast forward a few years, Rupi Kaur is now a #1 New York Times bestseller, with milk and honey (her first collection of poetry) selling over 1.5 million copies. She has now released her second, the sun and her flowers. Rupi states she purposefully writes in lower case –

although i can read and understand my mother tongue (punjabi) i do not have the skillset to write poetry in it. to write punjabi means to use gurmukhi script. and within this script there are no uppercase or lowercase letters. all letters are treated the same. i enjoy how simple that is. how symmetrical and how absolutely straightforward. i also feel there is a level of equality this visuality brings to the work. a visual representation of what i want to see more of within the world: equalness.

and the only punctuation that exists within gurmukhi script is a period. which is represented through the following symbol: |

so in order to preserve these small details of my mother language I include them within this language. no case distinction and only periods. a world within a world. which is what i am as an immigrant. as a diasporic punjabi sikh woman. it is less about breaking the rules of english (although that’s pretty fun) but more about tying in my own history and heritage within my work.

Below is my favourite piece by her, a poem that resonates with me again and again.

If You Ever Need Someone, To Just Love You... If You Ever Need Someone, To Simply Adore You - I Will Be There, Standing By Your Side

I’m sitting here in one of my favourite tops, a billowy romanticist white shirt with floral embroidery at the top. Today it has mustard on both billowy sleeves and a button broken at the top – it’s been a bit of a messy day, with Big Cow burgers at Nation (yeah, being Vegan hasn’t quite kicked in yet) and fire alarm exits and texts to the ex. Today was a day of norms, full of special people and time spent in my favourite place, the place I’m proud to be calling home again – Leeds.

Today is International Happiness Day, and the first time I’ve blogged in months.

I’ve been coerced into it by a little university project, and I’m now going to go and blog about blogging (mind boggling) – however, I’m so happy to be writing. It feels like I haven’t had the time or volition in a long while to say anything, let alone anything worthwhile. I’m constantly torn between writing about hospital experiences and how being bipolar affects my life, or keeping quiet – I don’t want to seem like there’s nothing more to me and that it defines my life. Because honestly, for the most part it doesn’t. I forget how hard things have been. I forget I only left hospital for the last time two years and two days ago. Instead, I remember the feelings of happiness at my cousin and I winning articulate at every family gathering (dream team). I remember my friend’s sunny faces even when fogged by distant memory. I remember the way my sisters laugh when they collude, crumpling into each other on the sofa in my dad’s flat. I remember the way my dad lovingly rolls his eyes at me when I pop on another moody acoustic indie girl singing. I remember the way my mum tells me she’s proud, and my step-dad decorating my room with daffodils and yellow roses to welcome me home.

These things accumulate and make me who I am – not a mental health diagnosis. We can often find who we are, in what we are not. I’m not the best student, or very good at packing my lunches. I’m not a natural athlete, nor am I as fast at reading as I used to be. These things are all fine. They make me happy in the way that I know they are some little quirks that build me up and give me the identity I have today.

Today is International Happiness Day, and the first time I’ve blogged in months.

It isn’t always easy to do the things that make us happy – sometimes these things are terrifying, expensive or you just don’t bloody well know what makes you happy some weeks. We live in a world where we’re taught to crave more, expect less and live by the margins of what is socially acceptable. Well, how about we stick it to the man, watch Captain Fantastic (or Mulan) and always, ALWAYS try to remember you’re doing amazing just for being here. This isn’t simple, and life will hold different meanings for us all – but I figure the best we can do is to muddle through this together, be brave, be excellent to each other, love, and make this world a happier, slightly smaller place. 

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

Whether You Succeed Or Not Is Irrelevant, There Is No Such Thing. Making Your Unknown Known Is The Important Thing – and Keeping the Unknown Always Beyond You.

It was never a conscious decision to become poorly. Many doctors would speak to me, quizzing me about the events leading up to a manic episode. Their questions are edged with a slight accusatory tone – ‘were you aware you were becoming unwell?’ At this point I’ll shift uncomfortably, because the answer is yes. I try feebly to explain, like the adulterous partner, ‘I couldn’t stop it from happening.’ And this for me is partly true. The grip of mania is vice like, so forceful that there is no way for me to wriggle out of it and shrug my way back to sanity. When it’s happening it’s like a snowball gathering momentum down a steep slope; the snowball clings to every flake of snow it possibly can whilst hurting towards an inevitable collision with the earth that will break the staggeringly colossal sphere of bright white into a fragmented mess, the beautiful purity of it ruptured into dirty muddied flakes that had been previously been whole. 

I cannot deny the impact my mental health issues have had upon my life. I will have spent a quarter of this year hospitalized come 2017. I toyed with the idea of not writing anything today, I haven’t been feeling so articulate of late. That would have been silly though. I don’t know many others who know what it’s like to spend a chunk of time in hospital for mental health related issues, besides the people I was in hospital alongside. Although I’m not unusual in that this has happened to me, I am slightly unusual that I feel able to speak freely about it. I speak because I can (Laura Marling, my hero) to anyone who thinks they’d like to listen. I have Bipolar (not sure what type though, I’m a bit rubbish) which sometimes leads me to have episodes of mania whereby my energy levels are persistently increased and I lose touch with reality. It has once led me to have a depressive episode, whereby my pleasure in life diminished, I was constantly fatigued and lost all sense of hope. This I find much harder to talk about than the manic episodes. I bare scars I wish I didn’t, but they are a part of me now and for that I am glad. The alternative is much sadder.

I adore the Georgia O’ Keeffe quote from which this blog post pinches its title from. My margins of what I deem to be a success have shifted hugely. I still have ideas of how I’d like to succeed in life but they are irrevocably different to what they were a year ago. I judge that me spending the remainder of this year without spending any time under section would make it a great success! But as O’ Keeffe says, that is irrelevant. I am making my unknown known. I have been depressed. I have been elated. I have been scared. I have thought shoes worn outside the house as optional. For these reasons you must always have hope. Try not to google ‘positive mental health mantras’ when feeling blue – most likely being told ‘you’re never alone’ in a cute font with a sunset backdrop isn’t going to make you feel less alone. Try talking to your family if you can. If you can’t, talk to your friends. If you can’t, talk to the Samaritans. Buy your favourite food. Read your most loved book cover to cover, if only a line at a day because that’s all you have the energy for. Have long baths, short showers. Basically, do all the things you can to maintain your mental health. It’s really bloody important. Don’t aspire to being happy, it’s the most nondescript word around (that and ‘nice’).  Be jubilant, be fearful, be hysterical, be furious, be gleeful. There is a spate of healthy emotions far more interesting and human than merely being ‘happy,’ 

You Are Terrifying and Strange and Beautiful, Someone Not Everyone Knows How to Love

I know sometimes

It’s still hard to let me see you

In all your cracked perfection,

But please know:

Whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun

Or the nights you collapse into my lap

Your body broken into a thousand questions,

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I will love you when you are a still day.

I will love you when you are a hurricane.

- Clementine von Radics

This was all I wanted to hear, what I longed to hear. To be loved despite becoming a hurricane force destroying everything in my path. I had become ugly and frightening and I saw that all etched on his face. Horrifying and volatile, he’d seen something in me usually reserved only for the darkest depths of my own buried mind. He couldn’t love me anymore. To him my illness became me and I could not be extracted from the dark, thick, tar like mess of mania that had smothered me. The lightness and clean love we had known was in the past now, what was left were fragments of a relationship that had been balancing precariously on the edge of sanity. I had fallen, and he didn’t want to follow. I cannot blame him for this, but it hurt to have my safety net wrenched from under me. He was there but not present. There were no gifts, no flowers, no magazines, no letters – no condolence. He was afraid of this nonsensical being I had become. And what was worse, it was him that I’d run to.

He heard the strangest things fall from my lips, they hung in the air between us, little clouds of poison polluting the normality we’d known. It would never be the same after this, I’d disturbed him. My peculiar utterances shook rid the logical, sweet girl he’d known and I became a kind of mystery you don’t want to unravel. There was a Jekyll and Hyde monstrous moment, and the revelation that there was another version of my being that was unassembled and dishevelled shook us both. However, I knew myself, what I truly believed and why I behaved the way I did. Although the actions I displayed seemed erratic and chaotic, to me they strung together like little mismatched remnants haphazardly forming some kind of togetherness. They were an integral part of my being. He didn’t know this, and I couldn’t explain it to him. There is only one love I deigned to disclose the inner workings of my distorted head to, and she smiled and nodded kindly as I unfolded these wistful and grave ideas and laid them at her feet. I didn’t have that affinity with him. I’d lost him. We didn’t speak about what had occurred, and the silence engulfed us. I told him I felt lonely once and he asked, why, was I not with my mother? As if the simplicity of being alongside someone so familiar could cure the ache of losing my mind. No, I was not with her. I felt lonely because I was alone. 

I Hope That the World in Which You Find Yourself is Better Than The One You Leave Behind

I don't really know where to start with this post, but I guess a good place to start is to let y'all know I'm okay - genuinely, I am alright! Although it's been a whirlwind few weeks and my memory of certain parts is hazy,but I now feel content and calm. Being in hospital with 17 other people you don't know isn't always easy (imagine halls/big brother but with everyone dealing with a lotta lotta issues) but I'm fortunate enough to have met some extraordinary people here. When I was first admitted to the ward I was incredibly confused, and quickly tried to carve an order of semblance into my chaotic life. I lined up my make-up on the mottled green bathroom side in the order in which I would apply it to my face, as opposed to delving into my make-up bag like a lucky dip. I drank untold amounts of builders tea, which I don't even like! Somewhat more embarrassingly I also instagrammed the shit of my weird life. As the lucid moments passed I was left with the sometimes devastating remnants of a psychotic episode. Each time this occurs in my life it is although the world I have become a part of is destroyed (hence the blog title, taken from 'Curve of The Earth' - Mystery Jets new album which is BEAUTIFUL) and I have to piece a new one back together from the shattered remains of the last, with improvements and alterations.

 I read somewhere that predictability is the cousin of death. My life had become mildly mundane, but I loved it. I had time during my commute to read and message friends, my job bought me enormous joy and at the end of the day I'd swim or see friends. This,it seems, was not quite good enough for my wild head. This is my third initial hospital admission - lucky number eh! I know what I'm leaving behind this time, and what I'll be taking with me. I'm often guilty of trying to make things 'nice', cuter and more appealing in general. No more. I'll still be using my panda highlighters on a regular basis but trying to make you look like a better human isn't my responsibility anymore. I've done some horrible, nasty, spiteful things - and I'm fine with that, I can live with myself. I done them for a reason. I cannot take them back, nor would I want to. I am not afraid of the darkness I embody, I like this intrinsic element of life and the way I still surprise myself by not always being pleasant and kind. In no way am I saying I'm going to become a foul person and start joyriding in my grandma's car, but I won't be trying so hard to make excuses for you being a bit of a !@#$%^&* person anymore.

I met a kind man this admission. He was younger, and cute, and has an alliterated name so I knew immediately he was brilliant. He calmed me down, made me tea (more tea!) spoke his secrets to me and stroked my hair as I read. He saw my worst and at no point was afraid of my mania, my incoherent ramblings and erratic energy. He didn't look away. He enveloped it and soothed me, and for that I will never forget HH.

It was the briefest of moments in which our worlds collided, however he made me feel truly safe. One particularly frustrating day I was running up and down the corridor (12 bedrooms, it's a fair length for laps) and he stepped out of his bedroom into the line of fire. 'MOVE!!' I hollered at him, laughing. He grinned and held his arms open and I quite literally ran and jumped into them, Ryan Gosling Rachel McAdams Notebook style! He was a slight thing but he caught me like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. He kissed my cheek and told me he would always catch me - what a cutie right?! This incredibly short, sweet encounter (he got kicked out after about a week of me knowing him) taught me a great deal, making me realise what I need in my life and what I need to let go of. By nature I'm a fairly nostalgic person, however I think it's been slowly damaging me constantly looking to the past. I've been harboring a love that's dead, and I think I'm finally over it.

That story is one of many I've collated this admission. One morning, just after coming out of my episode I rose early, before sunrise and made a tea (MORE TEA!). I stood at the meshed patio door to the bleakest courtyard I've ever seen, pressed my forehead against the cool metal and cried. The tallest girl I've ever met, a fellow patient, came and stood next to me. I whispered, more to myself than her, 'how am I ever going to get out of here?' The simple beauty of her answer will stay with me forever - 'Hope' she replied, 'your password is Hope.' That moment of clarity is made even more precious by the fact that she didn't speak to me again for a week or so. Her words struck me and I remembered the importance of possibilities, and the hope for the unknown being exciting rather than terrifying.

After that morning things became easier. I sleep late now, read poems, drink Vanilla Redbush (tea I actually like) with my friend and enjoy the nothingness of being here. Whatever becomes of my life, whether I'm in a dead end retail job, a relationship that isn't quite right or, worse case scenario, am detained under the Mental Health Act, I will not cease being wildly optimistic - it's just not in my nature.

Peace, Love and Vanilla Redbush to y'all, thanks for reading! xxx  

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.