An open letter to the empowered woman.

I’ve written, re-written, deleted entirely and thrown this post out about five times now. What I thought would be one of the most natural things to put into words has turned into a journey in itself.

Someone I know has recently embarked on a beautiful journey of self-discovery, using blogs, Instagram and her own words to convey a story which is as inspiring as it is honest. Like many other woman I have followed posts; passing silent judgement, taking note and ultimately looking at things with that niggling doubt of myself that comes with social media comparison.

And you know… I hated it.

I hate that despite how happy I can feel within myself, I still have this insatiable need for validation that only the internet can provide. I don’t know if it’s something that has always been in me, or if this is a culture that I’ve allowed myself to become tangled up with.

Either way, it’s got me thinking. This; coupled with the words from an empowered woman have led me to say something I’ve wanted to say for a long time, but never really had the opportunity to. Or perhaps I’ve never grasped the opportunity before now.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t give you enough. To take the time to see past the perpetual display of perfection.

I’m sorry I felt anger towards you. Feelings that were only built from a gross misunderstanding of my own insecurities and the words of others.

I’m sorry for what you’ve had to endure at the hands of a man that didn’t deserve the woman he had. People are cruel and heartless and just downright awful sometimes.

But it is how we learn and grow that determines who we are. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for helping me see that. I hope you know how much the world needs people like you. How much we, as woman, need your voice.

Shout louder for the ladies at the back.

Sincerely,

A newly empowered woman.

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Self Care 101: Great Balls of Bicarb & Laptop Gordan Ramsay. 

I’d like to share something with you all. 

I know my posts have been few and fair between lately, mainly through a lack of inspiration and a comfortably chaotic social life. (That’s right! I get out and about nowadays!!) – so I’ve perhaps lost the momentum I may have had previously. Nevertheless I started this blogging venture as a way to keep myself on track as and when I needed to. It just so happens that I don’t feel I need it as much anymore. 

Not for my personal use anyway. 

As with any platform I feel like it’s important to remind yourself of the message that you’re putting out there. Even if your words have an effect on only one person, that’s still something; it’s still an impact. It’s just whether or not it’s a positive or a negative. Or both? Or neither? Whatever way its taken, aknowledgement is key. 

So I wanted to take some time to reflect and take a look at how things have changed since day 1. 

I’m still the same person. Yet I’m totally different at the same time. I still get scared. Anxious. Lonely. Manipulated. Manic. Impulsive. And at times I’m still destructive. 

I’m also breathing. Loving. Standing. Holding on. And not for dear life. 

Since making the decision to put my own health and wellbeing at the forefront of my mind, it’s opened up a whole new world of sunshine. I’ve attracted other beautiful humans into my circle and I couldn’t be more grateful for that opportunity. 

Sure things get on top of me. And my mental health is still a constant everyday struggle. But it’s also an everyday success. I’m not afraid to want to live. For the most part I feel like I deserve to. And as much as that feeling shouldn’t be alien to me, it is. 

But if I have learnt anything over the last few months, it is that embracing self-love and self-care is the most important thing you can do on the road to recovery. 

You don’t need to question yourself by the actions of others. Do you. 

And the rest will come. 

I choose love.

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I’ve taken a break from writing lately as I managed to successfully confuse and terrify myself in equal measure with my last post. Despite that I feel like there is an awful lot I need to get off my chest. Not that I’m going to do that right now, a lot of it is still in the fuzzy phase. But I started this blog as a means to express my feelings, regardless of how debilitating they may be, and that isn’t something that I should begin to shy away from.

Firstly I would like to make a formal apology to anyone who may have been hurt or upset by my last post. It was not my intention. To be honest I’m not sure what my intention was. I think I just needed to speak and couldn’t think of any other way to vocalise the sheer terror I was experiencing at the time. I’m lucky that I live in a world where I can make my thoughts known, but it can be difficult to gauge how much to share. In the same vein I feel like I have the right to navigate myself through the darker days in whatever way I deem appropriate. Everybody advises you to scream when you need to, but nobody is ever comfortable with the manner and volume in which you do.

I like to think I’ve always had a way with words, preferring a heated debate to resorting to violence. But lately I’ve wondered, maybe violence would have been a more suitable response. Maybe instead of internalising everything and calmly analysing the way I’ve handled the last few months, it would have been far more pertinent to just meet all my adversaries with a swift brick to the chest cavity. It’s no secret that I think most people are awful in their own way. But most tend to own their mistakes, rather than project them back onto the only people who ever took the time to know them. Perhaps I should have channelled all this rage and hurt and unsolicited disgust at myself directly to it’s source.

Instead I have been as diplomatic as possible and built a resolution that I’m not sure I would class as roaring success.I kept telling myself it was because I refused to become someone I’m not because of someone else’s bullshit. Now I’m not entirely sure that in doing that, I’ve succeeded in building a foundation on which to grow. I sort of feel I’ve become a husk of the person I was before. I’m not sure how to think, or that I even want to. Never again will I put someone else’s heart above my own when they can’t even begin to comprehend what to do with that level of respect. All I know is that no matter how damaged I am now; it’s nothing compared to what could have been.

Surrounding myself with beautiful humans and kind souls has been my greatest achievement to date. And for that I am truly, irrevocably, grateful.

Reality.

Nobody ever speaks about suicide. 

It’s this elusive state that people dismiss as over dramatic and selfish. A unforgiving notion that, if successfully, is felt tenfold; unsuccessful is contemplated for months on end. 

But nobody ever talks about that moment beforehand. Nobody ever begins to contemplate how terrifying, and yet how methodical, it all seems. The notion that everything will stop. The voices and thoughts and perpetual gnawing will just disappear. We wouldn’t have to worry about how we appear to others. Nor how we need to swallow the growing lump of guilt at just being. Knowing you’re a burden. Knowing you’re a stain on the otherwise mediocre existence of your peers. Convinced that life would be easier without you as an after thought. I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused and chased and giving two ton of shit about. 

I’m tired of fighting for something I’m so sure does not exist. Fighting for an emptiness I’m being forced to fufill. Fighting for a life I don’t want. 

But it is a life I need. Because it’s not just mine. I don’t want to think these things. I don’t want to die. 

I just want the pain to stop. 

My Anxiety is… 

Pretending you’re not bothered about that one night stand you had where the guy was gone before you’d even caught your breath. 

Telling your friends you’re sick because you’re too scared to get out of bed. 

Missing a birthday because you have to work optional overtime and hiding when the postie knocks.

It’s asking questions without hearing the answer. 

It’s being terrified of being asked a question, when you don’t know the answer.

When you do know the answer. 

Junkie shakes and headaches. Bad skin, filled skin, smooth skin, all different kinds of everything. 

Overeating and undermining yourself. 

Under sleeping and running on empty. 

It’s functioning within a social world that sees you shine, while you’re exhausted from the bar you set yourself. 

It’s over compensating and putting things inside you to make it all stop. 

It’s blank, noisy places wedged between bravery and regressive memory. 

Being unable to drive through towns where you forgot yourself.

It’s voices and muscles and people and faces and lying and saving and loving so completely that you forget to protect your own selfish needs and feelings. The way you protect everyone from the side that we’re all hiding from each other anyway.

Food Before Fuckfolk.

Despite my slightly doughy exterior holding me back from fitting into my favourite dress, food has never, ever, ever, steered me in the wrong direction. People on the other hand are the worst.

I wanted to write something poignant and meaningful about the current political climate, or how I managed to control a panic spiral by frantically cleaning someones bathroom, but that wouldn’t be fair. I have something I’d like to get off my chest. And I’m worried it’ll grow into something horrid and bitter if I don’t. It’s probably worth taking note that I am in no way making a statement that all men are evil.

I am making a gesture towards the notion that there are evil people out there.

I had my first ‘boyfriend’ when I was about 10 years old. His name was William and I thought he was the bollocks. Had my first kiss with a game of kiss, cuddle or torture in the school playground and wondered what all the fuss was about. It took a whole other decade for me to find out that there was quite a lot to be fussed about. I’d been pretty confused about all that kind of stuff anyway but nowhere close to how confused I would become over the next 17 years. Finding out that there are some people out there that just have so little fucks to give, that their every action is followed by a half-hearted apology and a whirlwind of lies.

My relationships have been one continuous hangover; and like a hangover I can never seem to put the bottle down, despite the outcome being perpetually soul crushing. I did manage to whittle my experiences down to 3 different categories, all named after my ethanol induced guilty pleasures:

Make mine a double. Maybe.

Fuckboy Fishbowl: You probably met through a website like Tinder or plenty of Fish. They didn’t really look like their photo but that didn’t matter. They make you laugh and takes you to nice secluded restaurants so they can ‘have you all to themselves.’ Everything is peachy until you get about 2 months into whatever this is and you realise you know nothing about them. The mystery turns to confusion, and they slip out of your life as quickly as you let them slip in. The fuckboy fishbowl is that relationship you find yourself in post-break-up/dry spell territory. We’ve all been there. but if I’m honest? I’d marry for funny.

The Pornstar Martini: This is the one that makes the good impression. Too good an impression. Your friends like them, and they reeeaalllyyy like your friends. Next thing you know, in their eyes, you’ve gone from a magnificent martini to the cheap-ass prosecco on the side; downed at the bar quickly so your host can move on to the main event.

————————— P.s: YOU ARE THE MAIN EVENT. Remember that. —————————

The Green Russian: Ahhhh… the jealous one. You may never have spoken to anyone else in your e n t i r e life, and these people will find a way to hide their own infidelity with the notion that YOU are a cheating bastard. How dare you wear your hair like that, put on that dress or go to gym?! Who are you trying to impress? Who’s that guy at work you’ve never mentioned before? Give me your phone. Hacking into your emails. But God forbid! you ask for the same in return. Everything is your fault, the universe is a hologram, Jay-Z is in on it and you’re being played. Smashing.

IPA on Draught – This is the one you don’t see very often. The one that only seems to come out of the woodwork once you post an ambiguous meme about not needing another person in your life to validate your existence. They’re the ones with ‘Netflix and Chill,’ takeaway pizza and who you don’t mind sharing all your most depraved sexual deviance with. They’re exciting and mysterious in the way that getting shitfaced and fucking in an alley is both dangerous and horrendously unhygienic. They’re also 97% absent and only get in touch when the self-loathing can’t be contained to just one set of genitals.

Tequila Slammers – I saved the most painful for last. Probably because I’m in danger of coming across as a deranged psycho bitch with nothing positive to say, but I’ll try my best to keep it light. Apologies in advance.

The  Tequila Slammer is the one you can’t let go of. The one that you gave everything you had to because you saw a life ahead of you for the first time that didn’t revolve around the consolation prize of Dinner Date. They will have seen you at your most vulnerable, and you at theirs. The level of mutual understanding is unfortunately shadowed by the lack of love and respect that they have for you. You want to up and leave but some kind of misplaced loyalty keeps you rooted. Just like tequila seems like a good idea at the time, you’re coaxed into a false sense of security that this person is the key to your future.

Here’s the kicker though: they’re not. Some other faceless person is, and you’re just another notch on an already broken bedpost.

150mgs of Gin-treline.

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Taking risks isn’t something  I would advise when trying to figure out delicate situations. There are times that require tact and patience; and others that perhaps call for intoxication and the kind of ugly crying that goes along with your shopping bags breaking on a wet and windy day whilst walking up a hill. Just ensure you don’t wind up in a spiral of regret, drinking other peoples sorrows and pretending you’re not in a K-hole.

So there’s this whole new thing I’m trying at the moment which I am 100% on board with. I call it:

How not to be taken for a fucking mug. Re-thinking, relapsing, re-pouring.

Seems simple right? Plod through life, make some friends, trust, pretend, really enjoy a few of them for a while.

Behind the curtain, cameras, smiles.

Share secrets while you’re intoxicated. Talk about your ‘feelings.’ Leave me unattended.

Try not to be bitter about the past. Try to care about how long you last.

Underestimate their intentions. Overestimate generosity. Live. Laugh. Fuck off.

Share your philosophy.

The fact is, I really thought I’d seen it all. The longer I dwell, the harder we fall.

That’s just the natural course of human thinking. But what if I could reverse this way of sinking?

What if the reason I feel so ill is because I’m disgusted by the way you’re leaving.

There’s very little worse than being crazy. Apart from the people that try and save me.

I’m not oblivious to what’s in front. The issue stands that I simply stop;

re-think; relapse, shake, move on, you told me her name and I’m supposed to look on, and without her you’re dying and I say it’s alright when really I’m hiding my face in the night. The anger, the torture, the reasons to care. Fuck you, you’re nothing and you never were.

There’s got to be more than this blood on my hands. A moment, or someone, that just understands.