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Saturday, 8 October 2016

Why Am I Like This?

Anxiety. I feel like it's all I write about, and nobody wants to read it anymore. Maybe I'm talking to myself, maybe I'm talking to you, or maybe I'm just talking about it because if I don't talk about it, I'll have nobody to talk to about it and then its just be and my mind, and that I sense could eventually be catatonic.
 Often when i'm open about how I am, and unashamedly so, I'm criticised and called a bad mother, that I clearly 'cant cope' and that people with mental health 'complications' as it were, shouldn't be parents, and that I specifically, shouldn't be able to parent my daughter. It makes me scared to speak out, and to be judged, so awfully, for something I shouldn't be ashamed of, and I'm not ashamed of. 
I speak regularly with other mothers who like myself, are women with at times, severe anxiety, but also highly functioning and it makes me realise how fucking normal it is, and how anyone criticising me only shows themselves to be weaker. They can live with that, but I'll be sure to bring my daughter up knowing that she is free to feel however she feels without judgement and blame. I want her to be able to own her feelings, if she's upset, she's allowed to be upset and not feel bad about it. So despite the fear of constant judgement I persevere to own my feelings and to be honest with the way my irritating mind decides to process things. 

Recently, my anxiety medication was changed, I've come off a combination pill and ive been quite unwell and its all evidently connected with hormones too. So my hormone levels have been changing more than what could be compared to a room full of 13 year old girls. To top it off, my epilepsy meds are also used for people with bi polar, so they are constantly trying to level my brain function, well, re-wire it, stop it from short circuiting etc. All good really, my body is at war with my mind and my mind is at war with itself. An internal battle of possible disaster. 
I just dont know who to talk to about it, everyone always says they are there, but in reality, I cant talk to them. The problem with anxiety, is that you question everything, and every question is based around a negative. Examples of my anxiety thoughts are as follows;
  • I probably shouldnt tell them im struggling, i'll probably just irritate them and theyve got enough on without my incoherent ramblings about things that only matter to me and probably dont matter to them because why would they?
  • Maybe I should eat, im not hungry, where are the crisps?
  • This person doesnt even understand and I probably just annoy them and they just think im needy, im not needy am I? I try not to be, maybe I shouldnt of asked for them to help because I just look weak and why would I want them to think im weak. Nobody likes someone thats weak. I'm just a constant burden.
  • I hate being cold. 
  • I'm not good enough, nobody will ever care about someone like me, why would they?
  • Every redeeming quality about me is laced in a negative you cant control and that scares people and then i'm hassle and too much effort. Nobody likes effort. 
  • I wonder if the trains will be delayed this weekend?
  • Why do I do so much for no appreciation, I must look ridiculous to everyone, always trying to do things to make others happy, but nobody ever does anything to make me happy.
  • What if I cant afford my bills this month?
  • I need Charlotte.
  • I'm not worthy of happiness. 
  • Why cant I just be kind to myself for five minutes?
  •  I wish people could see how much I care about them.
  • I hope they dont all think I dont care about them. 
  • I hope they dont think im ungrateful
  • I think everyone's cross with me
  • Why am I like this?
Thats about a general run through of 15 seconds in my mind. It makes you hate yourself, because youre literally telling yourself that you're worthless constantly, when in reality I'm really not. I know I have some really great qualities, that I'm proud of, but they are just shrouded in this cloak of negativity that pushes people around me faster that stone cold Steve Austin can orchestrate a stone cold stunner. 
The last few weeks have been really, really hard. A lot of my time has been spent in absolute silence, but internally screaming until my body is exhausted, I've hardly seen my friends, I'm almost in hiding, avoiding everyone because I just don't know what to say. I'm enjoying my time with my daughter, a happy distraction, some would call a tonic. She just makes me so happy, and she unintentionally goaded me on to do better within myself. Shes the driving force to being alright, and i'll make sure that every day she will feel as loved as she is. 

This week, I found a poem, a slam poem to be exact, performed by a man named Neil Hilborn about his Bi Polar. Something I dont have, but everything he said, it related with me on such a level. I was so taken aback by it, I didnt see it coming. It was like this guy had reached into my mind and regurgitated everything I think and felt, and also what I try and say to myself when I'm also telling myself I'm all these horrible things, The way I see the world is different, but its special. My logic may be somewhat off-key but at sometimes its magical, and I am a super mum, despite what some people think, I may not be a catalogue mum of the year but all our struggles are subjective, and I have to juggle so much at once but I still make sure my daughter is happy and healthy and learning, growing. Everything she's meant to be. So to me, I am super Mum, and to my daughter I am too, and that's all that matters. 

So I'm just counting down the weeks, days, minutes, until my hormones and medications are all levelled, and I can feel a bit more like myself, a non self deprecating self that can actually enjoy normal day to day functions. I'm just going to keep talking about it, writing about it, so people understand and maybe the narrow minded, judgemental people can get over their stigma of anxiety and mental health. We are just normal people you know, so many people experience this, I just dont want to give in to it, and I dont want to be ashamed of it. 

I'll add the poem by Neil Hilborn underneath. Its truly moving, in a way I've not experienced before, and I've watched it every day since I found it. Everything is going to be ok.


Thursday, 15 September 2016

Misplacement.

A friend inspired me this week. Someone that’s so close to me started to write, and asked me to read it. The saying goes that you are your biggest critic, and for me it’s never been so true. Not just in my writing but in everything I do. I constantly question my own decisions and the paths that I create. The fear of doing well, the fear of achievement. The fear of people acknowledging your success.
Many people will find that unusual, mainly people that are driven to succeed and driven for people to acknowledge all they’ve done, and that’s all well and good but two and one are not the same and for me, one is perfectly fine where as you may prefer two.

I find myself in my writings, it’s the only place where I can go and be myself with only my own judgement. My own truths. It’s where I acknowledge myself, and express where I can’t with spoken word. It never seems to come out right if I say it. All in all though, I feel lost. I can never bring myself to write, I open up word countless times a day and carry round one of my journals with me like a severed limb and it takes an evening like this one where I’ve found myself so inexplicably cross for me to be able to actually emulate it into written word.

I have a lot of things to be cross about, I have a lot of things to be upset about, and I’ve kept quite the cool head for so long that I was bound to lose it. I can’t be calm all the time, its unnatural. I can’t go along with what everyone else wants all the time and to forgo my own wishes to accommodate theirs. The fear of confrontation. The fear of getting hurt.

I’m so, so exhausted from constantly trying to protect myself from further pain. I’m so exhausted of trying to be this hardly emotive person who doesn’t feel, and who just sits back and lets it all happen to her. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t enjoy myself and I can’t speak up because I’m so scared of losing or offending others. That’s what it boils down to, being scared.

I’m so scared, I’m terrified of my life, I’m terrified of losing people, I’m terrified of upset, and most of all I’m scared to be myself and the worst part is, this is because someone beat me down until I felt like I was less than worthless. Every time I tried to be myself I was persecuted, every time I tried to speak up, mainly in a hope to change it, I was manipulated into thinking that it was my behaviour causing me to feel the way I do. Manipulating those around me to think that I was ill, and it was all in my head. Although I'm not angry about it anymore, I'm just taking my time processing it. I worry more for the other people who will experience it in the future, and be too naive to see, just as I was, and for the women who are just as scared as I was, and am.  I’m not afraid of how absolutely shit scared I am of everything. It almost drives me to overcome it more, exposure therapy almost. I've always had the drive for change, for being resourceful when needs be. 

For the first time in a long time, my environment is a safe and secure one and that brings me joy beyond belief, and finally I am home, but its time for me to admit that I’ve come back in pieces. Fragments of the person who left to try and make something of herself. In reality I’ve returned in a babushka doll and someone’s misplaced some of my insides. I'm also a lot of the time missing the one thing that makes me who I am, a Mother. 

You know what though, it’s OK, well, it's not, but you deal with it, you adapt. I have and always will live my life as who I am, I don’t pretend to be someone I am not. I don’t pretend that I’m not in pain, but it’s time for me now to acknowledge it. I will never be the same again. I will never be that person I once was. Flowers die, but some plant seeds in the process.

I need to find some peace with myself, but what I know now, which I refused to believe before, is that I am more than the person I once was. I am allowed to be upset, and to be angry and to feel. I’m allowed to feel, and if you feel something, it’s real, and that is your truth. Never apologise for your truth. You will tire from searching for something to make you whole again, when the piece missing, or lost, is lost for good reason.

You’ll find what is missing within yourself, that’s what I tell myself, everything’s an adjustment. I know my worth is in there too, and it’s not insecurities. I’m secure in knowing that I’ve been through a hell of a lot and got out the other side, albeit slightly bruised. 

If people can’t see my value, then I can’t see any of theirs, and if something makes you happy, and sad, and cross and confused, it makes you feel something then that’s the value you need to keep hold of. It reminds you that you’re real, we are human beings after all, there’s no point fighting nature. 

Perhaps I'm less lost than I thought I was, maybe I just needed reminding. See, that's the magic in writing, and reading, you never know what you might find at the end of it. A little piece of yourself. 

Wednesday, 17 August 2016

PMS is ruining my life

Once a month it would appear that I turn into the devil incarnate on and off for a few days.  Today just happens to be one, I say today, It's 2.30am on a Wednesday morning and I cant sleep because every ten minutes I seem to be having a very difficult to control urge to get a wooden chair and smash it against a hard surface whilst simultaneously screaming and listening to Pig Destroyer.
Instead, (and more maturely I may add,) I'm in bed listening to This Will Destroy You in an effort to calm the fuck down after I've just had to once again apologise to someone I actually for a change, give a shit about for snapping at them for absolutely no reason for the multiple time this week.
I used to say I was jealous of men, because they didn't have periods, and didnt have to deal with the very irrational mood swings, the pain of your ovaries trying to re-enact the great escape with internal meat cleavers, exhaustion, or sore boobs, let alone the fact that we bleed for up to a week constantly. I don't even trust things that bleed like that and dont die, why arent we dead? (I do know the answer to that.) Unfortunately for them, and quite incorrectly on my behalf, they really do have to deal with it, as it were anyway, as they have to deal with us and despite their complaints, mostly put up with it, or ignore it (or you).
Sometimes, for about five minutes at a time during this wonderful monthly occurrence I do forget that I am a rational human being, and not a hell demon sent to this realm to destroy everything in my path, and I'm unsure if I should be apologising for my behaviour, but I often during this fantastic time also get quite paranoid and question whether or not the tightrope I sense I'm walking on getting thinner and thinner with certain people. However, that could be attributed to my ever present anxiety that could probably be a lot less present if I drank less coffee.
So in this witching hour I've decided for the first time in my life, look up how to get rid of it, and thanks to health.com which I cant be bothered to research into enough to find out its credibility because everything on the internet is true and webmd.com told me my common cold was going to kill me so it must be.
The answers are at best, questionable.

  1. Improve your diet, eat more fruit and veg - Lol, no. This is the one week that I actually crave chocolate and carbs so if you think I'm going to purposefully starve myself of this special time in my relationship with food, you can quite frankly, get tae fuck pal. 
  2. Exercise more - This I will actually agree with as its just come to my attention that I haven't been for a run or to the gym in nearly three weeks and I've felt quite claustrophobically anxious, more so than usual since, and I've only just realised that at this very moment so, sorry everyone I've been in contact with. Back to the treadmill post haste!
  3. Try Vitamins - Due to other pre-existing health conditions I have to already take 5 different tablets a day so its not happening pal, I'll just have a berocca and hope for the best.
  4. Check out herbal remedies - I'm a big supporter of herbal remedies actually. I like lots of natural things, and old wives tales. Unfortunately they've recommended evening primrose oil which I think smells like the scented equivalent of rigamortis and old peoples homes. They do also recommend raspberry leaf tea which I have got knocking around from when I was trying to get my child to evacuate the building three years ago, probably gone off but i'll try anything once. (That also doesn't work for inducing labour so don't bother with it, waste of money.) 
I'm already bored of this list, and after reading it all, and realising it didn't have eat everything in your periphery, hug everything and attach yourself to your nearest loved one like a limpet begging for constant attention, I think its full of shit.

All in all, it's not ruining my life really, just maybe some relationships. Nah, i'm just being melodramatic and in a few days I'll go back to being somewhat relatively normal, but not after I beg everyone to love me forever and tell them I hate them simultaneously until then and expect them to understand explicitly and still like me after. Although, I might still go for a run.

Saturday, 25 June 2016

Ciao London

Tonight is my last night living in a refuge. I came here six months ago, running from a situation where I lived constantly in fear. It's been a safe house, its been in all senses of the form, a refuge. Initially I imagined refuges to be a horrible type of hostel, almost like a halfway house like the ones people go to when they leave prison. You don't come here unless you're desperate, you can't.
I know that some friends reading this will be surprised, as they didn't know that I've been living in one, it's very unassuming. Perhaps they imagine I've been gallivanting round West London drinking juice baby's and running poorly to Ken High St and back having all the fun in the world. The reality is very different.

I came here a shell of a person, worn down completely and exhausted. I'll be leaving tomorrow the complete opposite. The confidence I've gained through constant on call support has been indispensable. The greatest lessons I've learnt are that sometimes, people for no rational reason, are relentless. I've learnt that if you don't feel safe, you have to do everything in your power to change it. Lastly, and most importantly, that I have worth. I have so much worth. I am not everything I have been told and made to believe I am. I am strong, and I am courageous and I am valued not just by myself, but by others around me.

Learning to love yourself is something people harp on about all the time, but it's so important. I know myself again, I know what I want, I know how to get it, and I get it. I'm not perfect, nobody is, I am who I am and I will not apologise for it. I will never again in my life be made to feel like I'm worthless, and that everything I do is wrong, and that I'm not wanted, that I'm not loved.

I feel like this whole experience has been invaluable, it's also not been easy. Sharing a house with 11 other women and their children never would be. Not being able to tell anyone the road you live in, also not easy. Not having people round, never having company, that's very lonely. Not being able to have anything sent to you and living technically in a PO BOX is also somewhat undesireable but very much a first world problem. Seeing my daughter interact with children at all times has been great. She made a little friend and I made a friend for life with his mother. We always looked out for each other and it's been quite lonely since she moved on. She showed me traditional Morrocan music and I showed her Metallica, which I don't think was appreciated but you can't win them all.
I've also had so much support, and weekly meetings with a key worker and a specific domestic abuse health visitor. It's like on call counselling, its great. They also help you with moving on. Unfortunately in London, that's a terrifying prospect. If I had applied to the borough that I live in, I would have gone into sheltered housing for another 6 months and if I did get housed it probably wouldn't even be in London, and if it was, I wouldn't be able to afford the rent.

London has exhausted me. I've been here on and off the best part of nearly 10 years. When I was a single girl, working with no children it was great. The best place in the world. I was always skint but I was always having fun and experiencing things, but now it doesn't feel so safe. I fear Arabella's being exposed to too much. She's not even three yet and in the past six months shes witnessed the aftermath of someone being hit by a train, shes seen violence in the street and she witnessed myself and another girl on a bus being sexually harassed which for me was terrifying, let alone her.

They say home is where the heart is, and that's where I'm going. I'm going home. I'm going back to where I feel the most safe, where I can have a settled life and finally be truly happy. I have a support network of friends, family and extended family far greater than what I have here. Sure, I'm going to be bored out my tree within five minutes and the monotony of the place with be mind numbingly dull but maybe that's what I need, safety, security. Something I don't think I've ever actually had, but the place once you leave to a big city for a lengthy time, is so much more desirable. I want to be able to go on dog walks through the country, and look up at the sky and see the stars. I want to know my community, I'm so fed up of ill mannered people shoving past you and not even looking up to say sorry. I want to know my neighbors names and see my friends at the park who also have children on a daily basis. I want to sit in a field and listen to Bob Dylan, and write and just be free.

So now, I'll go and pack the rest of my things, (impossible when child is awake.) Tomorrow I'll drop her off to her paternal grandmothers, come back, load up the car and I'll be gone.

I really do urge anyone that thinks they are in an abusive relationship or thinks that they could be, to get in contact with Womens Aid and The National Domestic Abuse Hotline and if they tell you to go, fucking go. The sooner you do, the better. I kick myself for not going earlier, and it's given me more than I could have ever imagined. That's why I will never be silenced, I will never, ever stop fighting for other women who need help, I will never stop fighting to stop DV and mental health being stigmatised, and I will never stop fighting for myself. I am proud of myself because it is terrifying and it is unbelievably hard and its taken every single fiber of my being to get to where I am today. People that try and silence you or stop you,  only prove further that you are right, and don't forget that.

So au revoir London, I love you, but I really have to leave you.

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Anxiety, and Dads.

Today was a bad day. 99% of days are good, but everyone has the 1% sometime. You can keep yourself afloat most the time but it’s inevitable that you’re going to have just that one day that throws you off.
Someone recently asked me what anxiety feels like. At the time, I probably didn’t explain it so well. It’s hard to describe it to somebody who doesn’t understand. Most people think it’s a mental thing. That it’s like some kind of panic, which in reality it is, although it’s not all it is. It’s physical and it feels different to everyone.

For me, I feel like I can’t breathe, or think, or rationalise. I’ve said before it feels like drowning, something I’ve actually experienced and I’ve never really forgotten it. I guess that’s why I use so many drowning based metaphors, because that’s the only way I can describe it and try and have it make sense. Sometimes, usually whilst I’m walking somewhere, I feel like I've been shot. The pressure on my chest in unbearable and I could almost fall to my knees. My mind races to all these thoughts that don’t make sense, that are completely irrational. It’s like white noise, you can’t make out exactly what it means but its there and it’s deafening.

My childhood was unsettled at best. I went from spending 7 years in an all-girls private boarding school from age 5 to going to a largely populated mixed school. To put it bluntly, the school I first attended consisted of white middle class very privileged girls, whose sole focus was their academia. The latter I have no qualms about, it took me years after I’d finished school to realise how vital that was and how much I really enjoyed it, and enjoyed being academic and also creative. The school I went to after was like walking into concentrated culture and as I had next to no sense of reality of the real world and its people, I was consumed by it. I got myself involved with the wrong crowd, I was in trouble all the time. I went from getting A’s to D’s and that’s if I bothered going to school at all. It was around then that I can first remember having what I could describe as an anxiety attack.

We didn’t know it then, but I’m autistic, and at private school I probably benefited from it. Being intelligent, wasn’t something critised by others it was supported, and specific intelligence would go unnoticed because everyone strived to do well. I was on pretty much every sports team and frequently competed, I had vocations. At the second school though, it all just fell to shit really. For example they put me into German classes and refused to put me into French even though they knew I was nearly fluent and enjoyed it. Everybody knew each other, I didn’t know anyone. A new girl in a class of 500 instead of just an average girl in a class of maybe 40 at best.

Part of my autism, especially then is that I couldn’t read people’s faces or signals and I struggled with new people and especially groups of them. It was completely overwhelming. I couldn’t understand why I was being mocked for being attentive in class or why someone I thought was being nice to me then stole my phone half an hour later. People thought I was rude, people thought I was really, really weird. I just remember regularly coming home and completely breaking down into this uncontrollable fit of rage and anger because I didn’t understand what was happening around me, and nobody was supporting me or even trying to help me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, and all I could do was just scream and lash out at anything in my path. All I wanted was for someone to hold me and tell me it’s going to be OK. That everything was going to be OK.

I didn’t even make it a full year in that school before I was sent to live with my Dad and go to school in Bristol. By this point I almost felt as if I’d been lobotomised, like an exoskeleton, an empty shell of a child. Luckily my Dad is patient and saw me as a priority and no matter how many times I kicked through doors or trashed my house or kicked him and screamed at him and spat at him, he never ever once gave up. He got me into the priory and into psychotherapy, he got me tested for learning difficulties, and helped me learn how to overcome them. I may have spent the last ten years teaching myself how to read signals and interpret body language, but he taught me how to overcome my anger and frustration and to have confidence in myself again.

That’s the problem with anxiety disorders, they strip you of all your confidence and self-worth and make you question every decision, every thought, every word said or being said to you. They distort your reality to the point where you don’t have any idea who you are anymore.

There’s so many solutions to anxiety, and a plethora of ways to overcome them, but only a third of people will get help for them and that’s mainly because they don’t think that what they feel is valid because you can’t see it, and it seems so irrational.

Breathing helps. Christ, always remember to breathe. At the time it seems so hard because you’re disorientated, but if you breathe slowly and count the seconds, focus on it, you’ll rationalise soon enough. In the last year I’ve started doing yoga most days, just beginners videos on YouTube, but there’s a way to centre yourself and take a breath at the same time and that works wonders, when I do it, it’s almost like I can feel the electricity of my anxiety moving through my body to the floor and then it’s gone. I will tell myself regularly that I’m being irrational and that the thoughts I have are just a trick. I’m now quite a pragmatic person and I know that there’s solutions to most problems and if there isn’t, then there isn’t much point getting myself worked up over it.

When I was a teenager I was so aggressive, even in the way I spoke and confrontational, angry. All a ruse designed to deflect from the problems I was having, now however seemingly obvious. People that knew me then and know me now often comment on how different I am. I’m not loud really, not at all confrontational and I’m quite calm within myself, albeit still a bit rude, what they don’t know is the years of work I’ve put in (with the help of others) to get to this point.

The problem with other people and trying to get them to understand doesn’t in my opinion lie with them always, I think it lies with us. We can’t expect people to understand or try to unless they are willing. I’ve spent a very, very long time resenting certain people for not being patient and at times provoking, but there’s no point. I didn’t need them to overcome my problems, I needed me to.

The times ive gone and got professional help, were the best decisions I made because not only did it help me become a normally functioning human (to an extent,) they helped me feel like one, and that’s really important. So I’ll keep going to therapy and I’ll still take the pills the doctor ordered and I’ll still do my weird breathing exercises and yoga and I’ll be fine. Even when like today, everything seems to be going wrong and I’ve made some poor decisions and someone sets fire to your house, I’ll be fine, because if you don’t want it to, it won’t last. Nothing is ever permanent, and that’s not so much of a bad thing.

So here’s to Dad’s and to not isolating yourself and getting help, and to the bad days, they remind you that you’re real.






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Thursday, 7 April 2016

Aquatic Metaphors and Bad Phone Calls.

In general terms, I'm not one to favour myself as being described as a victim or as to have suffered in any sense. My life as some will know, certainly hasn't been as one may say, a walk in the park. Although often in situations, I haven't made it easy for myself nor have I taken simpler routes that would have a guaranteed positive ending.
However, I have had many negative life experiences at the hands of others and other entities, if you will, that I have had little to no control over.
I find the term victim, in correlation to my own being, offensive, as with the term suffering, that it weakens you and you almost lose any dominance of a situation that you may still be grasping to.
If you search for synonyms of the word, what you will find is not only 'casualty,' and 'sufferer,' but also 'pushover,' and 'sucker.' I refuse to be any of those things.
I'm not a fan of people who victimise themselves intentionally, its a form of self pity and attention seeking that I cannot welcome as a favourable behaviour. I've witnessed those behaviours becoming all consuming not just of the person, but the people around them. A continuous draining of mental resources that could be used in a more pro-active way that helps you move forward, which in turn further enables you to learn strengths that you didn't know you were capable of. It's actually quite enlightening when you get over the initial hurdles.
The easy way out of a situation originally always seems to be to give up and wallow in the misery, unable to foresee a future where they will feel any better. Unable to see that every single day, and every hour you are awake, circumstances change. I always promise myself when I'm struggling to come to terms with something, that I will not allow myself to be in this same place that time the following year. It's easy to say that though, I understand how it really feels to not be able to see a way out. That thats it, life's done. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone, not even the ones that have wronged me in the most extreme and malevolent ways.
Today I was travelling back to London from spending a great week in Somerset with my friends and family, a time that for once stood still and I didn't have to worry about what would happen day to day, and I didn't have to worry about what kind of passive aggressive email I'd receive, (out of office and turning notifications off are great features.) All I did was spend my time with my beautiful daughter, the longest period of time I've had with her since Christmas, and enjoy life.
On said journey, I received a phone call, and in that moment it was as if time stood still for a different reason. I couldn't see forward.
I always knew that there was a strong possibility of that phone call, but id put all the meagre hope I had left for retribution into not receiving it. I cried, on a train full of people, something I really avoid at all costs as it draws attention to yourself even when you're trying very fucking hard for nobody to notice. Numb is an adequate way to describe how I felt, all my senses seemed to lay dormant as I grappled to hold my mind together. You get over it though, that moment when you've stopped crying and you take a second to breathe, those big black clouds start clearing, and although you may not have any more clarification of the situation that you had ten minutes prior, but you almost know the worst is over.
It will hit you again, when you least expect it. It will over power you, and it will keep happening, and every time it happens it doesn't last as long, and it continues getting shorter and shorter until one day it stops and you almost miss it. To get through those waves you have to swim through, even though it sounds like a cliché, if you stop swimming, and it wraps you up, you drown.
The mind and the ocean are quite similar if you think about it, unpredictable and for the best part, unknown. Im sure theres more metaphors that are better suited and feature the sea but that will do for now.
My waves aren't going to stop for a long time, like a continuous drip of a broken faucet, sometimes the flow gets stronger and then its back to dripping. A relentless force of water until someone fixes the framework. Another water based metaphor.
You persevere though, if you can't change something, move on. If you can change it, do it. Everything always seems harder in the beginning, and like myself today, you may not get the ending you were hoping for, but at least you tried. The regret of not trying isn't worth the energy. Tomorrow's another day.

Friday, 25 March 2016

Dating Sucks And Charismatic Twats

Since becoming single last year, I have stuck my toe into those tepid dating pools that are full of regret, uncertainty and utter confusion.
I’ve also come to the ominous conclusion that I have a type; charismatic twat.

I never used to think that I had one, aesthetically I’ve always been interested in very unusual looking people. The only thing I can categorise really between the majority of my past conquests is that they were really skinny, almost frail looking. One ex even looks like a pensioner. Anyway, personality wise, they’ve all been quite different.

Realistically, dating isn’t at the top of my never ending list of priorities, I’m just trying to spend some time meeting new people and throwing myself out the safety zone into troubled waters now and again. It just seems so much harder now than I remember before.

Back in my formative dating years, the only people I knew on dating websites were middle aged, divorced parents who spent all their time on friends reunited trying to reignite old flames. Now we have a market aimed at our generation and more than ever, I feel the pressure is on.

When I was in a relationship, I enjoyed the idea of tinder but now after being on it for about a day every month or so it’s evident that it’s over saturated, and especially on the male side, with people that just think it’s some new-age grinder for all orientations.

I don’t really understand what goes through people’s minds when they create their profile. If I’m browsing for a prospective conquest, there is no chance in hell I’m going to like you if your picture is either of you topless, in a club holding a small bottle of vodka in one hand and a sparkler in the other, or you sat on the bonnet of a sports car which you probably came across parked behind Harrods. Someone please explain to me why men think that any woman would find that attractive? So Tinder, I’m sorry, but you’re out.

Saying that, I am on an app called Raya which is exclusively for creative types, essentially it’s Soho House but a dating app. I won’t divulge too much into it but it has been somewhat more successful for finding like-minded people.

I do have quite high standards in a sense, I’ve wasted enough time on boys with no ambition, devoid of the concept of taking responsibility for their actions because Mummy and Daddy told them they were perfect and everything they do, no matter how bad the things they do are, are good, and it can’t ever be their fault because their precious little babies just couldn’t be responsible for anything remotely negative. You guys, you’re in the bin, go and date a conformist, submissive type who resembles your Mother. So girls, if you’re into being a housewife, and that’s cool if you are, come to me, I’ve got a catalogue of names that I can hook you up with, just don’t be disappointed when you realise that you’re second best to Mummy and you hate her.

I’m assertive, ambitious, opinionated, at sometimes arrogant, and I’m intelligent. Common sense is another matter, but I’m a strong willed woman and that terrifies the men I’ve just described, which is good, because I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in Men. Men that are successful in whatever they do, that keep moving forward, that are creative, respectful and fun. Unfortunately, here we are being brought back to my biggest vice, the charismatic twat.

Oh charisma you little bastard, you are such a double edged sword. In my mind, dating a really charismatic guy is like taking some kind of hallucinogenic drug and while you think you’re floating on this cloud of warmth and exciting safety, when in reality you’ve climbed on top of a shed and jumped onto, or into, your neighbour’s rosebush. Yet that feeling of being on that cloud, it’s addictive, so you attract these guys that make you feel like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, that’s just invested for as long as he can be bothered. Typically what my friend Mandy June would call a ‘we’ll do this’ guy. We’ll go for dinner here, we’ll write this together, and you can come and do this with me whenever you want, but then suddenly they disappear and it’s as if that fire they ignited in you has just been doused by the volume of water predominantly found in a swimming pool. Every now and again they creep in unexpectedly and fuck your game up and you can’t get the little shits off your mind to the point of insanity and then they have the audacity to be like, ‘girl you mad.’ Yes I am mad, mad to be infatuated with the charismatic twats of the world that make me question myself inexplicably. We all know a charismatic twat, and we’ve all been one of those females staring at their phone waiting for them to text you back, making you feel bad about yourself because they are so wrapped up in their own existence and even though they may tick of your ideal guy boxes, they are still a charismatic twat and will make you loco, and there's just so many of them.

This is why I think dating sucks. Nobody meets each other in the flesh first, we hide behind these online personas of ourselves that really aren’t real. Behind that 150K on whatever there’s still a girl that worries about whether or not she’s going to have bad skin when she wakes up, or that she’s scared she’s not achieving enough or wondering whether or not she should shave her legs after three weeks of them being wild. The same as these charismatic twats that are so deathly insecure and conscious about how they are at all times that they have to put out this artificial charm that masks the fact they don’t know who the hell they really are.

We don’t have real conversations, we talk on first dates about the things that we do and are interested in, which is just a blanket for what’s relevant at the time. Especially within London scenes, people tend to base their worth on their popularity, or other people’s perception of it. Although beneath that surface, their worth is so much more.

I am surrounded by women that I find so empowering, that are so interesting, not just because of what they do but because of how their minds work, their truths, and their pain that they’ve experienced that’s ended up making them these incredible people. Yet because of society, and the way that social media has such an influence, they don’t see themselves as worthy of others attention because of fucking Instagram. Its madness. So when you finally sit down face to face with this guy you’ve been texting for a couple of weeks and his expression starts glazing over as soon as you start mentioning your real interests, like politics or that you really enjoy high renaissance art so much that you go to the V&A every week to look at the Raphael Cartoons and every time it nearly reduces you to tears, just realise that if this guy can’t be on your level or at least pretend to be remotely interested in something that isn’t him or his interests or if Kanye actually sends those tweets, then get out of there, not worth your time, despite how beautiful his face is.

What even is all this game playing crap? I’ve got someone in one ear telling me to text this guy first because it shows I’m assertive, and someone else in another saying to wait for him to text because otherwise it shows that you’re too keen and that he gives a shit. How about, if I want to text him, I will text him and if he doesn’t reply then he’s a bit of a bellend but now I know not to waste my time? I just don’t get it. I have not got the energy to go around chasing people, I am not 15. I don’t think I even chased people when I was 15. Unless I actually like you, but even then I shouldn’t need to.

I’m exhausted and I don’t really even want a boyfriend, I’m just bored.



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