Life lessons on everything
Thief
Pebbles ground up,
Around your neck,
As we lie in a twist
Of sea air
Forgotten myself
In the clasp of now
My face is a blur,
In my muddled up hair
The water creeps up
And bites at my feet
Is it cold?
It’s frozen, not there
My life in a box
Was wrenched from my side
I notice, too late
Do I care?
Social media blows my mind. The power it has over people is one of the greatest mysteries of the modern age. It’s addictive; fuelling the insatiable appetite we have to define ourselves, whilst giving us just enough control over the way we wish to be seen. So, what does that tell us about how we interact with each other?
Almost every social-media platform has eerily evolved from a means of communication to a voyeuristic wonderland. People no longer tend to chat on Facebook, they use it to stalk people. We follow people we don’t know, based on the way they look. The newest platforms focus on imagery alone. Everything is visual and photos have to be atheistically pleasing to be worth posting. You could have the best night of your life but the pictures won’t make it onto your profile if you didn’t look cool or attractive. We’ve been bullied out of posting ‘normal’ pictures because everyone else’s fake ones look so much better. Our pictures are all becoming posed, especially the ones we want to look the most natural. I can say all of this because I’m a prime offender.
I’m also a hypocrite. I hate the fact Intagram plays such a big part in how we view the world, but then I use it to advertise my blog, or showcase my day. We’re professionally and emotionally dependent on virtual connections. We’re in a never-ending talent show, liking, liking, liking all day, every day. We’re constantly on show, constantly being judged. Even the people without social media are being judged. How weird…he doesn’t have Facebook.
My relationship with social media fluctuates between completely compulsive to carefully considered. Sometimes I settle down to read or write and immediately start scrolling through Instagram instead. 30 minutes go by and It’s like I’ve been possessed, flicking through picture after picture, barely pausing to focus on a single one. What am I looking for? I have absolutely no idea. Inspiration? Probably. Reassurance? I guess so. In reality, I’ve wasted my time. It’s plain old procrastination. Other times, I use social media in a constructive, useful way, with site statistics and cultural affairs dictating what I write and what I search for. As if having a real persona and an online persona wasn’t schizophrenic enough, we have so many different uses and agendas for different types of social media – each one demanding a new version of ourselves. Much like we turn to certain people for certain things in real life. Both our real and online personas are subject to same human tendencies, so how can you determine which one is the real you?
Our identities are simultaneously the most fluid and the most controlled they’ve ever been. As a writer, I’m obsessed with the dichotomy between the real and not-real. Everything you read on my blog is ‘me’ through and through. It’s my voice, my opinions, my personality. And yet, I haven’t uttered a single word out loud. It’s all online, created for a purpose. Is this my virtual persona? Or are my posts a snapshot of the real me? If you find reading them a positive experience, it really doesn’t matter either way. So, here’s my advice: learn to recognise when social media leaves you feeling unnecessarily shit about yourself, and then walk away.
Last week, I went for a drink with a few old work colleagues. I was really surprised and grateful when they told me they’d been reading my blog after discovering it on Facebook. I felt instantly connected. This is when social media does the job it’s supposed to do. Similarly, since setting up my blog, I’ve shared uplifting conversations with people online that I haven’t spoken to for years. It’s really humbling to think that amongst all the selfies and filters, we still have a simple desire to connect with each other on an emotional level. As emotional as you can be when you’re just a few words on a screen.
The cracks and gaps in the pavement,
Don’t tread on them or you’ll break,
That little voice in your scurrying mind,
It told you not to tempt fate.
Your body will split down the centre,
Casting half of you here and half of you there,
With your heart in the dirt,
And your brain in the air.
Each bone will snap and litter the ground,
If you admit that those cracks are there.
More than just a Daddy’s Girl, I am my father incarnated in female form. We are identical in so many ways it’s actually quite weird. Our eyes, mouth, nose, ears, legs (cheers Dad) and feet all look exactly the same. And more than that, we often think the same. We’re moved by the same things. We’re not afraid to say how we feel and we like to think we’re pretty in-tune with our emotions. We’re over-thinkers and people watchers, happiest either staring out to sea and pondering life or dancing to loud music with an endless supply of beer.
I have learnt more from my dad than I could ever say. Not only did he perform the miracle of ensuring I got an A in GCSE maths, he’s had me believing I can achieve the unthinkable ever since. Almost 10 years on, I might have forgotten Pythagoras’ Theorem, but I’ll never forget the importance of working hard to get what you want. My dad’s ambition, work ethic and motivation are qualities I feel incredibly lucky to have witnessed firsthand. They are the reason my sister and I went to good universities and followed our dreams of living and working in London. They paid for family holidays to beautiful places. They ensured we all lived in a spacious house in a nice area. They provided security, health and opportunity. The very foundation of my life has been outlined by my dad’s hard work, which is pretty amazing when you think about it.
My dad is really good at giving advice, but, like most of us, he doesn’t always practise what he preaches. When he dropped me off at my halls in Exeter for the first time, he handed me a note that told me to work as hard as I could whilst having as much fun as possible. My whole life still revolves around this rule, but I’m not convinced that my dad, or many people of his generation do the same. And there is absolutely no reason why they shouldn’t. If I’m not still dancing until sunrise on my 50th birthday, then something has gone horribly wrong. If anything, once you reach your 50s and 60s and your children are able to support themselves, you have more of a right to have a good time than the average teenager. You’ve brought up happy, ambitious children who love and respect you. Surely the rest of your life should be one big celebration?
Father’s Day seems like the perfect time to document some of the most valuable lessons my dad has taught me, whilst hopefully reminding him and others to take his wonderful words of wisdom on board.
As a writer, one of my biggest fears is having nothing to say. What if I just wake up one day and my mind is an empty space where all my ideas used to be? I suppose I’d write about feeling frustrated. I’d write about my apparent sense of nothingness until my feelings of uselessness vanished. Accomplishment regained. That is the beauty of my profession. If I want to write, I can. Even when I’m writing about nothing. There is only ever a problem if I do not wish to write. That is a different story. You could say that the same goes for life; if we wish to live zealously, the best we can, for as long as we can, then we will. Even when we’re not doing anything particularly exciting. If we lose interest in life however, having lost control of the narrative, we’re forever staring at blank pages. The only person who can kick-start the story is the author – you.
I want to talk about what inspires me to stay focussed on the things I love doing, even during the times when I don’t feel like doing them. It can seem like your life is on pause when you lack the necessary motivation to simply have a ‘good day’. If you ever do a questionnaire about depression, it will ask whether you ‘have little interest in doing things you used to enjoy.’ I don’t want to talk about depression, but I do want to address the feeling we all get from time to time that saps us of inspiration. It’s completely normal, particularly when a lot of us have the same routine day-in, day-out. I don’t know many people who jump for joy each morning at the prospect of simply being alive. And in all honesty, I wouldn’t want to. There is so much pressure on all of us to be happy happy happy all the time. We are allowed to be miserable too – ups don’t exist without downs. However, feeling happy and feeling inspired are quite different things.
Seeking inspiration in your darkest times can be one of the best ways to gain something beautiful from them. When I was a teenager, I broke up with my first love and was completely devastated. I scrawled vast amounts of THE most cringe-worthy songs, poems, letters etc on any bit of paper I could find, and from that embarrassing, weirdly poignant adolescent experience, I learnt that anger and pain can make you feel like creating something: something that represents your emotions and releases you of them. Painters, musicians and authors have been doing it since civilization began. This can only really mean one thing – a lack of inspiration doesn’t necessarily come from some deep-routed unhappiness, it comes from monotony and a lack of life experience. Similarly, in some ways depression isn’t sadness at all, it’s feeling uninspired. With achievement comes a purpose in life – the one thing we’re all searching for. Without inspiration, we feel hopeless. Anyway, casting depression to one side, how do we keep ourselves feeling inspired on the really dreary can’t-be-arsed days we all know too well? Here are a few pointers that work for me:
The reason I’m writing about this is because I have to talk myself into ‘doing things’ quite a lot. My natural reaction is often to shun people and hide under my duvet, and this is something about me that I hate. It is possible to ignore the voice in your head that tells you to say ‘no’, you simply say ‘yes’. Next time you’ve got that I’m-so-bored-but-I-can’t-be-bothered-to-do-anything feeling, give yourself a little shake and remind yourself that THE ENTIRE WORLD is at your feet. It’s never too late to pick yourself up and start again, ever.
I came across a quote the other day: ‘Work is fascinating, I could stare at it for hours.’ You don’t have to be a writer to recognise the feeling of staring at a blank page for a really long time, willing something to happen. The truth of the matter is, whether it’s words, work or life, it doesn’t happen to us, we happen to it. We write the stories, we put in the effort and we reap the rewards.
The Shade
Pin me down against the shade
Your eyes like holes they take and take
They sap the liquid from my tongue
The lamplight down, the blisters come
I know your name your name is mine
I know your game I know the time
I know it’s fixed, set to implode
I know the floor, the ceiling’s low
I grab the rope you pull back tight
The safety shore cuts out the light
The safety shore is filled with clay
It sets a mould and here I stay
Reaching up I grab at clouds
They shrink to dust and then the sound of
Thunder shudders up my spine
The stars disperse, then realign
My pupils bolder needing more
Summon strength to leave the floor
I’ll pin you down against the shade
My eyes like holes they take and take.
Flawless skin fascinates me. Perhaps this is because I’ve worn foundation since I was 13, or perhaps I’ve read too many magazines. Either way, a perfect complexion is something I will probably never have. And I’m ok with that, most of the time.
Anyone who has ever suffered with acne, scarring, eczema, psoriasis, warts, thread veins, poor circulation, dry skin or any other unwanted skin complaint will understand the psychological implications that inevitably come with them. It’s one thing feeling completely dependent on makeup to feel like you, but it’s something entirely different feeling like you have no control over your own body. You feel at war with yourself. You’ve tried every medicated cream, cleanser and herbal remedy on the market and still the soreness, redness and itching prevails. Problem skin is expensive and time consuming if nothing else. You feel as if on the surface, your body isn’t performing the way it’s supposed to. You feel disconnected from yourself, like there’s something wrong with you that you don’t understand, or that you’re being punished for something you didn’t do. It’s a frustrating battle, but, reassuringly, one that many people can relate to. According to the British Skin Foundation, acne affects 80% of women in the UK before the age of 21.
I think a lot of my insecurities are linked to having acne as a teenager. Your teenage years are awkward enough without having relentless outbreaks of painful spots all over your face. I don’t think anyone can fully appreciate how it feels unless they’ve experienced it firsthand. Imagine you’re 15 and planning a party, you’ve spent all your money on a new outfit, the boy you like is going to be there, you wake up with a load of spots in the middle of your face and all your confidence and excitement goes completely out of the window. I assumed I’d outgrow my breakouts eventually, and I did to some extent, but there rarely goes a day where I’m 100% spot-free, particularly if I’m stressed. On top of this, I have terrible circulation (a running joke with my friends), so my skin tone has a mind of its own, too. I think as you get older, you learn to laugh at yourself a lot more. Thank god. Taking your appearance seriously all the time is exhausting.
The reason I’m writing about this is because having problem skin can feel alienating, embarrassing and a bit hopeless. In reality, of course, it’s completely normal. The lucky few with flawless complexions are the anomalies. And besides, how lucky am I that the rest of my body is perfectly healthy? Far too often, we become so preoccupied with the things that are obviously ‘wrong’ that we take all the good things for granted. I might have been applying multiple products to my face every morning for as long as I remember, but if that’s one of my major complaints in life then I should probably keep quiet. I know it’s long, I know it’s uncomfortable and I know it seems endless, but it could be so much worse. If you feel hard-done by, or like you don’t want to leave the house, read about the struggles of people who physically can’t leave the house. Focus your energy on the fact that some people are allergic to sunlight, and then force yourself to go about your day the way they wish they could.
It’s not easy to cast your insecurities to one side, so here are a few little tips from one acne sufferer to another:
Perhaps the biggest piece of advice I can give to anyone feeling uncomfortable in their own skin is to remember this: our personal interpretation of perfection is only desirable because we are programmed to want what we can’t have. The sooner we learn to appreciate what we do have, the happier we’ll feel.
Festivals have different rules to reality.
At festivals, I wear gold Lycra. I fall over in the mud and genuinely don’t care that it’s in my hair. I wee in strange places. I talk to strangers. I survive on warm cider and cereal bars. I’m drunk as a skunk at 11am. I dance with my eyes closed like no-one is watching. I’m covered in glitter. Glittery mud. I’m on a permanent high from hearing my favourite songs. With my favourite people.Feeling so much love as a collective. I’m part of a group. Part of an atmosphere. Utter contentment.
Festivals aren’t for everyone, but for me they are the epitomy of the Great British Summer. The anticipation, the planning, the unpredictability – all shrouded with hope and excitement. We unite in a mission to make this year the best-year ever. It’s addictive, infectious and something to focus on. There is nothing I enjoy more than packing up four outrageous outfits and heading for the fields with a crate in my arms, breaking away from the monotony of everyday life, if only to learn how to fully appreciate flushing toilets again.
I love festivals for exposing a part of me that remains hidden for most of the year. The part that doesn’t worry over the tiniest problems, like chipped nail varnish, or hoovering, or holes in my tights. For a few magical days, the most important things in the world are who’s on stage and who’s on next. And beer. And burgers. And more beer.
Some of the most memorable moments in my life have taken place at a festival. I sparked up an instant friendship with my now long-term boyfriend, bumping into him as I emerged bleary eyed from a porta-loo. I cried to Elton John singing Rocket Man on my birthday, while dressed as Elton John. I danced for 12 hours straight and forgot to eat, covered in sequins and wearing a blue wig. There is something magical about being with a huge group of friends and knowing, just for a minute, you are all thinking and feeling the exact same thing. You’re all detached from real life but not from each other, and the bond you already shared is eternally stronger.
There is no hiding at a camping festival. Everyone sees you in all your glory. For someone who never leaves the house without makeup on, this is both incredibly scary and profoundly liberating. You remember that it’s ok not to care sometimes, and to take yourself a little less seriously. Suddenly there are more important things in life than deadlines, work and money. For four – maybe more – blissful days, having fun becomes your sole occupation. You’re a teenager again. The beauty of it being that you eventually crave the routine and cleanliness of your old life, ready to return to your bed and dry clothes.
Anything that encourages creativity is to be commended. To ensure people learn to let go, dance, have fun with their friends and listen to amazing music. Life really is too short not to. If you haven’t already planned to go, to treat yourself to a few precious carefree days this Summer, I can’t stress enough how much you should.
Growing up can be a lonely experience. Gradually, it becomes more and more inappropriate to share our weird and wonderful traits with people the way we might have at school or uni. We become more proper and more private with age. Having touched on mental health issues and with it being Mental Health Awareness week, I’ve been thinking about the things that put us at ease, starting with confession. After I posted about my anxiety, I received so many lovely, reassuring messages from people simply saying ‘hey, I feel like that too sometimes’. So not only was confessing to receiving CBT a way of unloading my issues, it seemed to benefit other people just as much to hear it. One of the most heart-warming things we can experience is a collective emotion. Connecting with people about a negative experience often equates to a positive outcome. For this reason, I’ve decided to list all the ‘abnormal’ things I do but wouldn’t usually talk about. Chances are I’m not alone in doing them, and it might make you feel less lonely too.
Although it’s important not to let your struggles become your sole identity, I hope my weird confessions encourage you to embrace what makes you you. I would love to know if you can relate to any of the above. Who wants to be normal anyway?
Honey
Honey, down in the depths of the pot
It stops if you reach its core
The glistening dulls to a mucusy blot
That clogs to rot in the back of your throat
It turns to dregs but the barrel is bare –
You licked it clean of its salt.
The hand that grabs is met with a snare
But the fingers that linger are forever without
They open and close like the mouth of a fish
Gaping at bubbles of air
You swallow at rocks ’til your body is sick
But you know that the hunger’s still there.
Like Her Type 