Breaking the Bridal Body Belief

It's a long and stressful road for a woman in the run up to her wedding. Not just for all the obvious planning-related stresses (which really IS very stressful, go figure) but also because a bride, on her wedding day, is expected to look the most perfect version of herself. And when I say 'expected' I don't just mean the imaginary pressures we put upon ourselves of what our family and friends will think, because really, everybody there should be people who love you and would think you look beautiful weighing 58 stone and wearing a plastic bag on your wedding day. It's the added pressures of the beauty standards of all the millions of brides you've seen in bridal magazines, on Pinterest, or on 'say yes to the dress'. It's social media and all your beautiful dancer friends. It's the fact that these photos will last FOREVER AND EVER. But mostly, mostly it's the fact that so many other brides that you've met over the years has put themselves on a strict regime of eating nothing in preparation for the big day. It feels expected. 

Each and every little comment from fellow brides who look at you like they're just two eyeballs on a toothpick but their 'dress still doesn't fit' and from people telling you 'don't worry, you'll lose more weight anyway just because of the stress'. All these little niggly comments build up to make you feel more and more inadequate and feel more and more pressure to be perfect and THIN on your big day. 

Now, if you've followed any of my blog posts in the past you will know that I've had a very long and complicated relationship with body image, food and diets so I think it would be fair to say that I'm over sensitive and susceptible to the image pressures of being a super slim and perfect bride. After such a long timeline of extreme eating habits from verging on anorexia to dabbling with bulimia before full throttle binging, I've been spending the last couple years trying to cure myself and reach a place of total body confidence. And I've been doing really well. But the stress of the ideal wedding image has started to bring out my old nasty habits and A LOT of internal bullying. 

Two weeks ago I had a break through. I just stopped being nasty to myself and started telling myself how beautiful I am. I started to revel in my differences from other girls that I saw all around me and just downright refused to call myself fat anymore. I was in bliss. I had NEVER achieved this for more than five minutes let alone a whole week or so. I put it down to a mixture of the ageing process of not caring what people think so much anymore and also all my hard work and self discovery into beating the food demons. 

But, of course, the last couple days, with the wedding only a week away, the little demons have started to tap me on the shoulder and pinch my hip fat once more. 

All of the internal stresses and excitement of our upcoming nuptials has caused celebrations, nice food, alcohol and legitimate reasons to be too busy to go to the gym and the girl in the mirror is starting to threaten me again with self deprecating words. 

But it needs to stop. We, as women, need to stop confirming to each other that it is important to starve yourself before the big day. That being skinny on your wedding day is the most important aspect and that if you don't you will forever hate yourself in your photos. EVERYONE looks beautiful on their wedding day because they are happy. They are so happy that it beams out of their eyes and smiles and surges from their butt cheeks and armpits. 

My dear friend who recently got married said that it upsets her when she sees a perfect cardboard cut out of a starved bride on her wedding day. That she would rather see the 'real' person any day. I now agree with her (though at the time my first thought was 'easy for you to say, you are beautiful and a perfect size 8'). But she is right. I don't want to be the most perfect version of myself. I just want to be my ultimate real self. 

I am a human being. I am a woman. I am a bride. I may stress-eat my way to the wedding. I may be bloated with booming tits up to my chin because I'm due on my period. I am real and I am thankful for the body I have. Yes we can always eat better and exercise more. But ultimately it doesn't matter on this day. What matters is that you are there, and he is there, and the people you choose to share it with you are there. What matters is that you smile so much your cheeks ache. What matters is your union. 

I hear by promise to rock whatever body I wake up with next Sunday. I promise to cherish it and dance and feel like the most beautiful and loved woman that has ever lived. 

I promise to love myself. Because in the words of Whitney Houston "learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all".  

*Cracks open a beer. Breaks a nail. Calls off wedding* 

Learning from it. Accepting it.

So, this is a follow up from my blog post a few days ago about self acceptance and body image.

Firstly, I cannot express how much writing it down has made me feel so much better. It was a piece I have been wanting to get down in writing for many, many years but haven't felt ready to talk about it or admit all my issues. Mostly because some evil part of me hoped that I could still, in the future, shrink down again and keep all my demons a secret, as most people who suffer with eating disorders do.

But no. I have written and shared and admitted and I feel different now.

I make a promise to myself from here on in to love myself.
That is a scary thing to promise when you've dedicated your whole life to punishing yourself for not having a body that resembles an air-brushed barbie.
I had a lot of responses to the blog both online and also over the telephone, all of which have been helpful and interesting and allowed me to accept that it's all out in the open now. I thought that I should put what I've learned into a plan of action, both to help me stick to it but also to help anyone else out there who may be in a similar, recovering postition.

Here is how I promise to love myself:

1. When I look at the mirror at myself, or at photos of myself, I will not immediately look at myself from a place of judgement. I will smile, un-screw those brows and just look at myself as a person. I will not compare the width of my arm in a photo to the width of the girl stood next to me. I will see myself naked and be thankful for what I have. I am not skinny, but I am BANGING. You heard it here first, back off all those who think otherwise.

2. Eat what you want, when you want and stop when you are full. You are damn right I'm going to eat that cake but I'm not going to wolf it down and pretend it didn't happen, I am going to enjoy everything mouth-watering gulp and stop when I am satisfied. If I restrict myself or make myself feel bad I know that I will later binge and feel worse. Eat what the hell you want. If you tell yourself you can have pringles every moment of every day, very soon you will not want pringles anymore and you will be reaching for that salad. I love healthy food, I bloody thrive on cooking and eating it. No more good and bad foods. Just food.

3. Wear clothes that make you feel good. We all have those items that we love but that don't fit us properly. Whether they are too big or two small or just the wrong shape for us GET RID. Sell, donate, throw away but don't keep them in your wardrobe haunting you. The hardest but ultimately most satifying thing to do is to give them to your friends who they do fit. At work we have a bit of an ongoing swap-shop in our dressing room. Yes, it is hard for me to give away an awesome pair of trousers that don't fit me and see them looking incredible on someone else but look at how happy that person is with their new trousers? And if you love that person then surely it should give you a sense of pride that you made them look that good. Which brings me to my next point...

4. Stop comparing. The comparing game is an easy option but it will NEVER make you feel good. NEVER. If you spend your life picking out people's good and bad bits and not looking them in the eye truly then you will be unhappy. WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT. Look around honestly, beauty is confidence not waist size. EVERYBODY has hang ups. I share a dressing room with 9 other women. I see 9 other women naked every day. It's really hard not to compare yourself. But thankfully these 9 incredible women and I have implemented a safe place to be. The compliments are flowing in that room I tell ya. So much so that I dance around butt naked at least once a week. I think this helps too. Get naked. Get comfortable. Embrace yourself.

5. Stop reading beauty magazines/fitness magazines/reading pop-up stories about weight loss or gain. CUT IT OUT. Do not support an industry that is making you and your future children feel inadequate. Get angry at adverts that make you feel bad, tweet about it, post about it. These adverts are not the truth, they are selling a product. Be the change you want to see.

6. Exercise for your soul not your butt. I know that I feel bloody fantastic after a good session. Much like I feel fantastic after eating great food and not sluggish. Relearn what makes you feel good and introduce variety and excitement back into your exercise regime. Don't go to spin if it makes you hate yourself and want to vomit, go to dance class. Don't go to dance class if it makes you feel insecure, go for a breezy run in the sunshine alone. Go to yoga and stretch and learn about this body that you have a new respect for. Respect your body and it will respect you right back with strong muscles and a long healthy life.

7. Treat yourself as you treat your loved ones. No more negative self talk. You have to implement this now and work on it slowly. Just simply don't allow any negativity. I realise this is hard, especially on those days when you are due on, your belly is an angry football and you've eaten an entire packet chocolate eclairs. But talk to yourself as you would talk to your daughter, husband, mother. A few women talk about how having a child can make them see a younger version of themselves. Remember that you were a young person once. Treat that person nicely.

8. Shake what ya mama gave ya. Walk with confidence, head held high, shoulders back, smile on face. Sometimes when we're stuck in a rut we need to work from the outside in. Believing in your own confidence will build it up. Accept the compliments that will undoubtably come, store them in your brain bank and most importantly BELIEVE them. Other people don't need to compliment you, be glad that they have, be thankful.

9. Finally, you must share. Whether that be writing like me or calling a friend or coffee chats or whatever. You have to talk about how you feel. Otherwise the negativity inside you will fester and grow. We are all excellent puppateers and the puppet shows in our head are crazy, negative, spiralling stories that only get worse not better. Talk openly and honestly to your chosen friends or family, it is good for everyone. You will feel better for sharing and your chosen person will feel special for being trusted and will be more likely to come back to you to share in the future. Compassion and connection is what we all need and thrive on. Give yourself the gift of truth.

And that's that. This won't all happen overnight by any means but at least I see now what I need to do. And I hope you do too.

Good luck!
xxx

Self. Body. Acceptance.

So usually in my blogs I try to give advice through my own experiences. Before, I have posted personal advice about dealing with depression, anxiety and everything else that goes with being an overly complicated and over-thinking millennial. But this time, I think it is me who is asking for advice, for help.

My name is Joanna, I am 27 years old, and I cannot accept my body.

No, I don’t have a disability. Yes all my limbs work. I don’t have a degenerative disease slowly taking away abilities. I am not overweight (at least not by average everyday standards – I don’t think). I can even dance a little.

I just simply cannot love my body.

Sure, there are days when I look in the mirror and I think ‘ooh, that bit looks nice today’ or ‘wow haven’t my legs improved with all this exercise I’ve been doing’ but as soon as you can shout ‘HORMONES-A-COMIN!’ I am staring at myself and poking my wobbly bits, convincing myself I have cellulite for days, fat gigantic arms and a stomach that resembles a 5 month pregnant lady.

It frustrates me so because in every other aspect of my life I seem to have brought myself to a place of peace, of acceptance, of euphoric and celebratory weirdness.

When I was younger I suffered from eating disorders. I used to starve myself for say, a couple weeks, drop lots of weight, be overwhelmed with hunger and stuff myself silly with everything I could find. One day I would pouring crumbs of cereal into a bowl and a dash of milk and leaving it in the sink so my poor mother would think I had eaten breakfast and the next day I would be eating icing sugar with a spoon. I used to throw away my lunch, be ‘too tired’ for dinner and eat a pint of ice cubes at my evening am-dram rehearsal. I tried making myself sick for a while and it worked but I didn’t enjoy it much and it made my voice red-raw so I opted for taking the Cadbury’s chocolate mini rolls into the toilet with me and chewing them up and spitting them out so that I could ‘just get the taste but not the calories’. I ate kitchen paper, smoked cigarettes, became a diet coke addict, all so that I could have a body like Britney Spears. Her super low-slung jeans and her oiled-up stomach haunted my dreams at night and my every waking thought. It was all I wanted. And if I got it, I told myself I could achieve everything I ever dreamed.

Now, I’m sure a few people out there are utterly shocked at this and a few others (including close friends of mine) are unfortunately thinking ‘that’s nothing, I was hospitalized, I couldn’t stop myself and I nearly died’ and here’s where it gets really horrible. I was JEALOUS of those people. I wanted to get so thin that I might break. I hated anyone who could resist eating for just a day longer than me. I went on pro-ana websites and printed off images of seriously ill women and pritt-sticked them into a sketch book next to lyrics I’d found that encouraged me to keep going. If I caved and ate anything I was a failure. So you can only imagine how I felt after an almighty binge. A dear friend of mine told me how she was hospitalized when she was young and how horrific it was and all I could think was ‘I’m so jealous, she is so much stronger than I am to get to that point’.

Yep. Totally fucked up.

Anorexia is an illness that affects more of us than we realize. But unfortunately until that person is literally dying from starvation no one really has the guts to do anything about it or help. It seems, to most people, that it’s not really a problem until it is REALLY a problem. And up until that point it is mostly attention seeking. I never got help. It’s not that my parents weren’t loving and attentive – my Mum certainly noticed the fluctuations at times. But I was a well functioning kid. I got good grades, I never passed out (much to my disdain) and to be honest, apart from a few brief moments in time, I would usually have been described as more ‘chubby’ than thin.

It didn’t get easier on my move to drama school. Now there were boys. Proper boys that lived in their own house-shares and could party all night with us at our house with no curfew. I had only just turned 18 and I came from Somerset. This was big news. I fell in love rapidly with no chance to stop myself. I told him everything. I wrote terrifying poetry about my need to be thin and my unhappiness in my own skin. Obviously the poor sod thought this was a bit full-on and quickly broke up with me (while I was naked in his bed – thanks mate) and so I was heartbroken and the cycle continued. At this point I got very thin. An average day’s food intake would be about 30g of frozen veg quickly zapped in the microwave. People started to show concern. Family and friends would seem alarmed and be checking that I was ok. Teachers, on the other hand, would congratulate me on my fantastic weight loss and ENCOURAGE ME TO KEEP GOING.

And, here’s the kicker, I STILL didn’t like my body. I felt awkward and un-womanly. I looked at myself in the mirror confused about who I was and what I was supposed to do with this strange and gangly body.

I spiraled back and forth for a number of years. Shortly after this thin period I suffered 4 losses in my life (yes, 4) and I got very fat. Crisps are a brilliant comforter. Returning to drama school I was told that I was ‘too pretty to be fat’ and that I needed to change. On and on it went through graduating, working, comments from older actors advising me that I would work more if I lost a few pounds (like this wasn’t already consuming the inside of my brain day in, day out), through breakups and house moves and unemployment, back and forth I would go. Constantly trapped in a never-ending self-hatred.

This was my main overriding thought: I do not want to be the type to conform to an ideal body size in order to obtain leading roles. But, I do not want to never fulfill my dreams because of my body size.

Just over a year ago, a friend suggested a wonderful book to me called ‘Intuitive Eating’ and I can, hand on heart, say it changed my life. The ideas in the book are perfect and would help anybody. I’m not going to tell you what they are, you just need to read the book. But anyway, the book changed my life, I have formed a relationship with food that is mostly healthy, I rarely binge, I NEVER starve myself and most importantly, the idea of crazy crash diets has long been thrown out the window. So, all’s well that ends well, right?

Well…..

I tried on my wedding dress the other day and I thought I looked fat. Now this is the most beautiful dress I have ever seen, let alone spent a lot of money on (thanks parents, Grandma). Why the FUCK (sorry parents, Grandma) did I think I looked fat?

I am not a size 8. And my ass is not a size 10. I think I am taller than I actually am. I look in the mirror and I CANNOT SEE WHAT I AM. I cannot tell if I am fat or thin or just right or in proportion or if I have weirdly large thighs, thin arms, fat arms, tiny waist or just tiny because the rest of me is super large. Am I pretty? Or am I just alright at make-up? Are my boobs banging or are they flobby pieces of lard that hang unattractively from a not-as-bony-as-I-would-like chest?

I am sick to death of it.

Hello, my name is Joanna, I am 27 years old and I can’t even SEE my body for what it really is, let alone accept it.

So what do I do? Well, old habits die hard. I exercise twice daily and put myself on a calorie restrictive diet. I become obsessed and hostile towards other people’s perfect bodies. I become angry. All the while in the back of my head, a resilient little voice is going ‘you don’t need this, you’ve come so far and you KNOW this isn’t right’. At the end of a torturous week I step on the scale to see I’ve GAINED half a pound.

Next thing I do is throw it all in the pan, eat 2 plates of curry and a chocolate bar and buy several self-help books on amazon. Yes, I realize I am a walking cliché. No, I don’t know what to do about it.

The thing is, I think, unless I torture myself, this is the shape and size my body is supposed to be. But I still yearn for something that it’s not. It begins to consume me and it bloody wastes my time. Most of me realizes that the only answer is to just keep going. Keep exercising (for your health) and eating fresh (for your health) and the rest will just fall into place. Most of me understands this. But there is still a large part of me that aims and wishes to be something other, something unachievable.

I need to learn to ACCEPT myself as I am, right now.

I don’t want to be the old lady that regrets that she spent her entire young life worrying about how fat she looked in high-wasted skinny jeans.

How do I do it?

I am at my wits end. I want to love myself. I want to embrace myself. I want to walk with confidence and not feel uncomfortable in every outfit that I have lovingly and elegantly put together. I want to walk into a room and feel that I’m being greeted with love, not everybody inwardly commenting about how chubby I am. I want to feel beautiful. I want to accept my body shape. I want to change my undying and unconscious opinion of what beauty is.

If I want all of this so badly then why can’t I find a way in?

Answers on a postcard, please.

Love,

Woman writing at laptop with cute cat sat on her slightly too wide lap. 

xxx

CRISIS

The mid-twenties crisis is a real thing and I am living it.

Once upon a time I was a cool, often inebriated, young thing, that partied all night and ate pizza all day. I had bleached blonde hair and wore crazy clothes. I sang in strip clubs for money, drank 4 bottles of Cava and rolled home in a taxi covered in glitter and McDonalds grease. I slept all day like a starfish in my house-share in Walthamstow, did every waitressing job possible to pay the bills and stripped off my clothes at every lock-in while fellow drunks proclaimed me hilarious and fun.

That girl is no more.

What is it about reaching your mid-twenties and completely reassessing your entire life structure? I’ve felt it coming. I slowly went through every hair colour imaginable coupled with drinking in every swanky cocktail bar I could find. I started feeling more shy and reserved, spending money on furniture and craving nights in with a cheesecake and a single fork. 

Eventually I have ended up here. Staring at myself in the mirror like I’m a giant question mark.

Nowadays I have brown hair and I wear a lot more jeans. I make green smoothies for breakfast and my google history reveals things like ‘the benefits of quitting drinking’ and ‘how to become a buddhist’.

I realize that both the bleached blonde and jean-wearing-brunette scenarios sound completely bonkers and like an idea for a Bridget-Jones-meets-Girls sitcom but I think I’m onto something. And I’m not alone. I only had to mention to the other girls at work that I couldn’t really drink anymore without turning into a suicidal snap-dragon and everybody my age completely agreed. The girls over thirty looked at me with a knowing smile. They knew. They’d been through all of this and come out the other side realizing that there’s more to life than trying to find out what will happen if you finish an entire bottle of tequila. But how do we get to that comfortable 30-year-old place? How many more embarrassing nights out, hair colours, fitness routines, religions and sparkly Asos mini-dresses do I need to get through before I become a well-rounded, stable individual who doesn’t overthink every waking moment of the day?

I think the problem is this: I am an adult now. I have a proper job and a house and a fiancé and I often feel broody and think about which shade of beige will look nice in the en suite. But by letting go of my past wildness I feel like I am losing a part of myself and like I never really knew who I was in the first place. Was I always just playing a role? Am I now just playing a new role? Who the HELL am I anyway?

How do we get back to ourselves? How do we pursue true happiness? Answers on a postcard, please.

Personally, despite the fear I have about change and the fact that sometimes when people I ask me a question I feel like I no longer have the skills to answer truthfully because I JUST DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL, I know I am on the right path. I am forever trying new things to explore who this new me should be. And instead of moving through it with obsessive fear I should try to enjoy these new discoveries about myself. I enjoy learning, so why not make myself the new project of ambition?

I have given up social media to see what that was like.

I have died my hair back to my natural colour to see how that makes me feel.

I have stopped drinking and challenged myself to a big night out with only hilarious sober jokes with which to entertain.

I have searched for solo trips to India to spend two weeks doing nothing but meditating.

I have written a list of all the places in the world I suddenly want to go.

I have looked at maternity clothes online even though I’m not even thinking of getting pregnant.

I have planned out my whole life one day and then scrapped it and made an entirely new plan the next.

I’ve looked at masters degrees, new careers, volunteering, borrow my doggy, life drawing classes, tree-houses in the woods, piano lessons and becoming a vegan.

I think the point I am trying to make is that this mid-twenties crisis is actually a real thing and you are not alone. And that instead of putting pressure on yourself and questioning your every motive just go forth and learn. You are suddenly realizing what a big, huge, enormous world this is and how much possibility there lies within it. You are not this ‘thing’ that you labeled years ago with a fashion or a personality. You are you and you are ever changing. Ever evolving and learning and growing. And how exciting is that?!

Turn that frown upside down and jump in. Then tell yourself it’s ok to go home, stick on your PJs and have a nice cup of tea.

Depression: The Silencer

What does it feel like?

It feels like everything slows down, like the world is moving through slow mud or quick sand. My limbs feel heavy and I can't move at my normal pace. Everything is hard work, from lifting my arm to climbing the stairs. The people around me seem fast and wild and happy, expertly navigating their way through crowds and emotions. I sit on the side lines, baffled. I cannot join in. I do not have the skills. I do not have the love. I am a stranger. I do not belong here.

Wanting to hide, wanting to cry. Longing for bed as it seems like under the duvet is the only place for rest but when I get there, there is no peace.

It feels like a mask over my eyes, like a weight pushing down my eyelids. Like something is forcing me to cover up, to bury myself, to push my eyes deeper into myself. I do push my eyes into myself, I make them sore with wiping and pushing and itching, my hands searching for some kind of end, some darkness, trying to block everything out and find clarity inside myself.

I am ugly. I am heavy. I am not worthy. I am not clever enough to understand the point of it all and yet I understand it all so deeply.
I can't eat. I shouldn't eat. I am deeply hungry. I starve. I binge. I cry.
I am horrible to those around me. I blame people for not approaching me. I punish those that do.
The special person that cares for me, I hurt him with words I don't mean. Expecting him to understand something I cannot understand myself. I am destroying myself. I am manic. I am lost.

I am silent. I sit and I breathe and I watch. I go about my business and my job as best I can. I am the miserable girl at work. I am struggling.

I don't know how much you can see or how much you care to see. I am drowning inside myself. I keep myself to myself. It is not your problem. I don't want this to be your problem. It is my problem. The problem is me.

What does it feel like?

Change

Change.

What is it that makes it so scary? Without change we would never grow or learn or have anything new and get it's always so scary to leave the old behind. Nothing needs to be forever, I know that, but sometimes it can feel like a whirlwind has gobbled you up and all you can do is chant 'just keep swimming, just keep swimming' like the hyperactive and disturbed fish from Finding Nemo.

Everything is good in my life. Everything is moving in the direction I want it to but it is terribly hard to say goodbye to bits of yourself that have been your home for however long. Maybe it's because I'm an actor and adapting to new personaities is a skill that we have to have but I am actually nervous that all this change is going to change me. 

We're moving house. I've left cabaret - a huge part of myself - to pursue my dream job. We're going to get a cat and car. I'm going to die my hair brown. Ok, that last one sounds like it doesn't belong in the list but changing the way you identify yourself is quite a massive deal, particularly for women.

I've always been insecure about my weight and body. When I discovered Marilyn Monroe, I clung to her like a lifejacket. She was blonde and curvy and sexy as hell. I held onto my blonde sexiness for a long time. And now.....whether it's from exploring playing the part of Carole King - an apparently very comfortable, boyish woman when it comes to style, someone whose work comes first and appearance after - or whether it's from my wonderful therapy sessions and me exploring actually being happy in my own skin....I feel....well, I feel different.

I feel grown up.

I suppose, maybe, I feel like I am going through some monumental change within myself. That I am finding myself? To be honest, I thought I had myself pinned the moment I discovered Marilyn Monroe and the 50s. I feel like I'm peeling back the layers to find the girl I actually am, the girl who, for so many years, tried to reinvent herself to create happiness.

I'm tired of fighting to be the thinnest. I'm hot. If you don't think so, YOU'RE BLIND. Jokes. If you don't think so, I'm not your type. And it doesn't matter anyway right? Maybe I'll dye my hair and move house and have a breakdown because it's all too much. But then, you know, I figure I'll just buy a kitten and a bottle of champagne and sit down and try to figure it all out again.

It's just surprising how you can really feel you've arrived, and then suddenly feel like the journey's only just beginning. But that's life. One big scary journey. I don't know why I keep expecting it to settle down (and that I'd ever be happy if it did).

Is this a common thing for a woman of my age? Do you suddenly realise that going home to a loved one and not having a hangover is more interesting than whatever is at the bottom of that vodka bottle? Or am I just running away and burying my head in the sand? Ex-party-girl issues right here.

I think I'm on a journey to find true peace within myself, my life and the people that surround me. I think that this is the beggining of something beautiful. A new me. The real me. A me that doesn't punish myself for not being perfect, for not being everybody's cup of tea.

I propose a toast to women everywhere. Let us forever not fit in. Let us forever experiment. Let us create. Let us feast on life.

Here's to us!
International Women's Day 2015.

I choose
Here and now
And onwards
To love myself.
I will no longer punish myself
Or look in the mirror and
Compare my body to
Other perfection.
I am perfect.
I am my only me,
My one.
I will rise like a Pheonix from
The flames of self-hate.
Self-reprimand.
Self-harm.
I shall stand tall and proud and exclaim:
"I am wonderful".
I will understand my past and
Tunnel my future with
Focus.
Poise.
Setting a good example for
Women.
Girls.
The sex of birth, recreation and struggle.
I will fly.
I will fly.
Because I choose
Here and now
And onwards
To love myself. 

Sensitivity and Anxiety

As I trundle along, day by day, in an effort to self-heal, to blossom and to learn, I find myself wondering about the other culprit often found alongside the depths of depression: Anxiety.

I never talk about anxiety in the same context but unfortunately for me they come hand in hand.

Currently, I am rehearsing for a new West End musical. This, in itself, isn't *too* stressful. It is, of course, what I have always wanted to do and what I have trained for my entire life. I have found my levels of depression have depleted. I am medicating myself through joy and love for what I do. The stressful part for me comes because of the fact I am understuding an undeniably MASSIVE leading part. Again, this isn't a problem. It's a dream come true. But there's no denying that my nights are restless and my head is full to burst with lyrics and lines and mock scenarios of terror. And so the anxiety within me has begun to pop up again and say 'hello'.

The truth is, that when we are anxious, our body and soul functions on a much more 'fight or flight' mechanism. Everything is hightened and the smallest of issues can expand in our minds to become impressive problems and upsetting scenarios. I have found myself getting upset and nervous over the tiniest of things. Angry, even. This is no pretty thing when you are flung into a new job and desperately find yourself trying to make new friends. 'Do they like me? I don't think they like me. Oh god, why did I say that? Why is he being mean? Does she think I'm an idiot?'....and so forth.

How do we control ourselves to stop our little problems becoming catastrophic avalanches of stress? I am, of course, following my own advice for happiness (see earlier blog). These include: exercise, meditation and thinking positively. But sometimes you can feel a wee bit like you're forcing yourself to become happy and positive and this all adds to the pressure you are already putting upon yourself to be perfect around the new people you are already trying so hard to impress.

At this point in the blog, you, the reader, are probably thinking 'Woah. Just chill out!'. And you'd be right. But does anyone else feel like this phrase, when presented to you, only makes you do the opposite? Like when you were a kid and a bully tells you 'don't cry' and you immediately feel your cheeks flush red and your eyes begin to leak as you tense your buttocks in a vain attempt to stay strong.

Hormones don't help. Kudos to all the women out there who are trying to balance it all.

I don't really have a conclusion. It's the same old thing of 'let's all care for one another and be sensitive' - there's that word again: sensitive. Sensitivity.

As we become more in tune with our feelings do we become more sensitive? As we peel back the layers to reveal our inner truth and honesty does that make us weak somehow? I suppose, as we peel, we have to toughen up our new layers. Wearing your heart on your sleave is a wonderful motto for life but there will always be someone ready to make you feel low, or weak. And the truth is, that person probably doesn't even know they're doing it. The truth is, that person is on their own journey or self-discovery and it's their own anxiety and sensitivity causing them to muddy your path.

I'm going to lie low for a while. I'm only going to present my heart-displaying-sleave to those whom I feel deserve it. In other words, those I can trust. I'm not sure I like this. But maybe it will help me re-establish my own solid ground amogst the anxiety. And allow me to go forth, stronger and kinder, and ready to face my own challenges one step at a time.

Up and Away! (But for how long?)

This is a piece that I am forcing myself to write.

As you may or may not know, I often write about depression and it's relating issues. And my pieces usually come from a place of real knowing - meaning that I am usually suffering, badly, at the time I publish.

I thought it was about time that I write about it from a relatively happy place. A stable day. A stable couple of months if I'm truly honest.

I don't know how long I will feel this way or how quickly Mr. Black-Dog will be bothering other people before he's back scratching at my newly varnished door. But I'm trying to focus on the fact that I feel good RIGHT NOW. And what have I done to make myself feel good?

Here's a few things that I feel have really helped to make me happier and healthier:

1. Exercise. This can be a tricky one for me. As an ex-crash-dieter and eating-disorder-er, I often worry about introducing exercise into my life too whole-heartedly as old obsessions can begin to take hold. But the difference is that now, I'm not doing it to be skinny (though we all wish we could lose that annoying half a stone), no, this time I am looking at the long haul, the life long health, the strength, the healthy blood and bones, looking after ME.
Once you begin to see your body as important, once you care for yourself enough to stop with any self-destrcutive actions like binging, smoking, drug taking or drinking too much, you can begin to feel physically and mentally stronger, day by day. I'm not saying I think it's easy to suddenly regard oneself as a temple, I'm saying it's a marriage.
Like it or not, find a way to get up and exercise. Even if it's running on the spot in your onesie with one hand still firmly clinging onto your duvet in case you need to jump back into bed. Getting into a sweat is really bloody good for you. And as much as we procrastinate and think of reasons not to do it, no one ever regrets a work out.
When you finish, smile. Pat yourself on the back and say 'well done'. And then eat something yummy.
I bet you will feel better. At least a little. Pinky promise.

2. Meditation. Wait, don't sigh and call me a hippy-wanker. Meditation means different things to different people. It's giving yourself a break, a rest, without napping away the day. You are recharging your body and mind and relaxing your heart rate.
Whether it's looking into Mindfulness (I recommend Jon Kabat-Zinn. Start with his videos on youtube and follow up with his books and CDs if you get into it), or whether it's downloading apps onto your phone with more specific goals (Andrew Johnson apps are brilliant for dealing with different issues from weight loss to positive pregnancy). Sometimes, it's great just to lie on your bed with some relaxing music or your favourite album. Stop and actually listen to the music. This used to be so important to us when we were teenagers but how often do you allow yourself nowadays to lie down and really listen to your favourites?
Breathe calmly but don't enforce a change in your breathing. Meditation can only do good. Don't fester on sad or stressful subjects, breathe it out. Even if you burst into tears for absolutely no reason (I've done it), it's better out than in sometimes. You've given yourself the time to realign.
This is particularly important if you are an ex-smoker or someone trying to give up. The one AND ONLY thing I miss from smoking is giving myself five minutes of still. Now chuck that habit and give yourself twenty minutes.
Do it.

3. Positivity. If I haven't lost the cynics already....then this is for you.
I challange you. I challange you to listen to the things you say and think and try to turn them into a positive. Being grateful is a good way into this. What are you thankful for? Truly? Even if you can't see out of the blackness to be thankful for anything. Are you thankful for your legs or your eyes? Go on, tell me you're not thankful for the basic things that we take for granted. Actively thinking these things and practising gratitude will only bring more happiness into your life.
Try to find the light in everything, the silver lining. (Also, watch that film about silver linings and have a dance, on your own in your house, like you're Britney Spears in the 90s. It works).

In the words of Jon Kabat-Zinn: 'You don't have to like it but you have to do it'.
Cure yourself. I believe in you. And when you find yourself back in the darkness of depression, just remember you're not alone. I will be there too soon I'm sure.
But for now, I'm going to get out and LIVE.

When I go, I'm going like Elsie...

Now, I'm determined not to post one of those dramatic 'I'm leaving cabaret' type statuses. I don't want any drama and I certainly don't want any sympathy. But I'm not going to just fade away either without (at least personally) noting how wonderful and important my cabaret life has been.

Soon I'm about to embark on an exciting new job. In less than two weeks I start rehearsals for 'Beautiful' - The Carole King musical going to the west end. Our hopes are high for this to be a hit. On broadway it's doing exceedingly well. But, let's be honest, the west end doesn't have a great track record for new musicals at the moment. Still, fingers crossed and all being well, I will be in this musical for at least a year.

Due to this (and also some unfortunate behaviour that I have experienced), I am running away from cabaret for a while. And although it feels scary and strange, it also feels exciting and freeing and new.

I fell into cabaret. Almost by mistake. While on my cousin's hen do five years ago, I decided that the singer that I was hearing was not using the space well enough and due to my champagne-induced cockiness I went marching up to the host and told her that they needed me. I came back the following week to 'live audition' and the rest, as they say, is vaguely-well-known cabaret history.

I was a body-insecure girl. I was always veering to the wrong side of chubby for my liking and put myself through treacherous crash diets and the like all the way through my teenage years. But about 4 weeks into my new life as a cabaret singer I found myself wearing stockings and suspenders ACTUALLY IN FRONT OF PEOPLE and not feeling too bad about it. Actually, feeling really fucking excited. I learnt to be a woman in cabaret. (No, I'm not saying that wearing stockings makes you a woman) I'm saying that I slowly stopped being awkward and trying to hide my boobs or slim my hips, I started to embrace my curves. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, vintage clothing, high waisted pencil skirts, beautifully curled hair, high heels, red lips - ALL of which the emo hippy child from Glastonbury had never even thought of before.

I became a compere. And I was terrible. TERRIBLE. Not least of all because I hated it. But when you've left drama school and you're a full time waitress and an email pops up in your in box saying 'do you compere too?' you of course say 'yes indeed I do, when do I start?'.

Over the years my confidence in my compering grew. You write your schtick and you create your character and your branch out from your usual cabaret clubs. I found myself on a UK Tour hosting in theatres and then The Hurly Burly Show on the West End. I couldn't believe it. Little nervous me stood front and centre in a beaming spotlight talking to an audience of 400 - 2000 people all on my own and making them laugh. ENTERTAINING them. Madness. I once even performed my entire routine in italian to 2000 in Milan's massive theatre.

Anyway, this isn't supposed to read like a CV.

The people I have met in cabaret are the most incredible people you could ever wish to meet. I am welling up as I write this. I was thrust into a world of the most hard working people. Night by night a different venue. Creating every act and skill from scratch. Sewing on sequins, glueing on rhinestones, sewing until their fingers bleed. People who go out and create, who throw around electric carving knives and bowling bowls, people who set their tongues on fire, who hang upside down from a pole and plunge themselves to the floor. Beautiful burlesque dancers who taught me what it is to feel sexy, to embrace the tease, to immerse oneself in glamour and sexual resplendency.

I have made real, long life friends. I have talked about periods and anal sex in a corridor with women as they stick a merkin on their vagina. I have seen real heartbreak, I have seen real drunkeness, I have lost myself in the underground world of gin and dancing and nakedness. I have sung songs and looked into the audience begging my poor lonely heart to love. I have looked into the audience and seen my love. I have passionately sung 'Cabaret' a gazillion times and believed every word with every fibre of my being. I have spent too much money on corsets and long dresses. I have hung from the ceiling of a strip club singing Shirley Bassey. I have laughed until I can't breathe and my corset forces out a little wee. I have cried, I have been angry, I have shouted and screamed.

I have loved you cabaret. And my goodness I shall miss you. The people mostly. But also that part of me that I found that I didn't think was there. Coco, the girl who gets up and makes people laugh, the entertainer, the clown, the part of me that says 'yep. I'm going to sing a classical song and strip out of a reindeer onesie' because why the fuck not? Life is too short. Things come to an end. And I feel like this may be our end, Coco.

Sometimes, you have to close a door in order to force yourself to move on. I have given nearly five years to cabaret. Five incredible years. But now I must become the actress I've always wanted to be and become the writer that I know I can be. New adventures, new roads to drive, new places to see.
New people to meet.

But. To the people I have met along the way, the people that have made my life so very full and beautiful, THANK YOU. You mean more to me than any blog can ever explain.
And Holy Crap, we made some memories.

"What good's permitting some prophet of doom to wipe every smile away?
Life is a cabaret, old chum, so come to the cabaret"

Robin Williams

Something happened last night.

As I came back from the bathroom, my boyfriend told me that Robin Williams had died. And then my boyfriend probably felt a bit awkward at how upset I got.

I tried to hold it together. I mean, it’s very sad but come on, I didn’t KNOW the guy. Turns out, none of the people on my facebook and twitter KNEW Robin Williams but the outpour of devastation was everywhere. Some people were upset, some people were simply saluting his genius, some people had moved past the shock of the death and onto the comforting of others spouting out the reasons we should be happy. And I just felt angry. I couldn’t get my head around my feelings. I still can’t. Hence the writing.

This man, this talent, this person with the ability to make you laugh and cry in the space of a second had got himself to a point where the only option of moving forward was to end it all.

Just over a year ago - after a lifetime of crying on my own, of feeling like the whole world was bunched up inside me, of black dog, black cloud, utter helplessness – I finally went to a doctor to talk about the fact that I was depressed. I had of course known I was depressed for many years. I knew that cutting oneself and starving oneself were not normal habits of a fully functional human. I had suffered in silence for a relatively long time. I had, on many occasions planned how I would end it and would any one know and then slapped my own wrists for not having the courage to go through with it. The other thing I didn’t have the courage to do was TELL ANYBODY.  I could lie there next to a boyfriend, sit silently next to my mother, pant and wretch at trying to form the words to tell a friend to no avail. I couldn’t pick up the bloody phone to tell a complete stranger on the other end of the line how I was feeling. The best I could do was email the Samaritans to say something along the lines of “No biggie. Just feel really suicidal. And every time I have to get onstage and make other people laugh I feel like I’m burying more of myself.”  So, to actually get myself to go to the doctor last year was pretty monumental and the sigh of relief that washed over me as I scuttled back to my bed clutching anti-depressants and a therapy referral form was like a waterfall of calm and excited apprehension.

Over the past year or so I took the pills for about 6 months (the recommended time) and came off again. Cognitive behavioral therapy was not the one for me so I jacked that in and stuck to the pills. I also in this time met the love of my life who, without him realizing it, became all the support I’d ever need. I mean, I only had to look at him and this big beaming smile would come over me. I went on to do a west end show and thankfully in the big group scenes I’d stopped bursting into tears silently in the back shadows. Everything felt pretty good. I was nervous that I would feel ‘numb’ on the pills. After all, I am an actress, I don’t want to lose any of the spectrum of my talent DAHling! But all seemed well and good and eventually I decided I was ready to come off the pills but was not adverse to the thought that I would probably have to go back on at some point. And I did. With some health scares and such, I very quickly rushed back onto the pills but only for a short amount of time. I discovered a thing called mindfulness and I helped myself for a while with no need for chemical enhancements.

Now, over the past few months I have felt the return of an unfriendly but oh so familiar cloud. Slowly, I can feel it pulling down on my eyelids and weighing down on my body causing me to stay in bed for hours and then return to bed many times throughout the day. My eyes want to close and I forever want to fall asleep, at least until something better or more interesting distracts me, as it’s safer to be asleep than to be left with my own thoughts. Despite all of these feelings, I have once again not been honest with myself. I’ve been brushing it off. Excusing it. Convincing others and my loved ones that I’m just being melodramatic, that I’m ‘really tired from the gym’, that I’m fine it’s just this, that and the other. The truth is, it is none of those things. And the death of Robin Williams last night brought me right back to myself and the realization that I’m not OK. 

I took myself into another room. My boyfriend went to sleep with work in the morning. And the tears flooded over me. Big, fat, galumphing tears took over my face. I felt SO ANGRY that this man had taken his life. That no one had helped or stopped him. But what can people do? What can anyone do for us? All I could see was endless unhappiness and torment and a big sign in front of me that says “You will always feel this shit”. I sat alone on the floor and those familiar old sentences crept back into my brain. Those scary thoughts that asphyxiated me before.  The idea that nobody really knew and nobody could help and that it would be far easier to just not ‘be’ anymore.

My boyfriend awoke, shocked to find me so upset about the death of an actor I’ve never met and eventually all of my emotions came flooding out to him. “I just don’t want to be the 63 year old comedian who kills himself and everybody says ‘oh that’s sad’, I just don’t want that”. I sobbed into his arms and he held me close. I felt a mixture of pure love for Robin Williams and complete and utter devastation at the world. If someone THAT LOVED can get away with killing himself than everyone can. Everybody who feels this way can just end it. And it will be sad. And that will be that.

Now I’m not claiming that my thoughts made any sense. In fact, I was mostly just shocked to realize that I had once again got to this point and not even noticed. Me, spiritual goddess always trying to help others. Me, always posting facebook statuses about appreciating life and how we should all look out for the signs of depression and help people. Turns out it was all a big fat cry for help.

I was calmed by my boyfriend and eventually my hyperventilating rendered me exhausted and I fell asleep. And now I’m writing to you. I’m not sure what I’ve learnt really, except that I’m not ok. And I’m not sure how to move forward. Do I return to the drugs? Do I seek other help? I’m not really sure and I’m not really asking for advice. I just knew I needed to write. To let my emotions come out somehow. To admit that I’m not OK. And that I need my friends. And that I don’t want you, or me, or anybody else to be the person that was loved by the whole world but couldn’t love himself. 

Out of control.

Anybody who follows me or my writing will have already seen my post back in May about depression.

A lot has happened since then.

I'm writing this because I feel that I am almost back at the start, full circle. I am scared.

As I write to you, it is half past 1 on a monday afternoon and I am in bed. I am in bed because I don't know what else to do. I mean, I have things to do. I continually have a long 'to do list' filled with activities, I can often be found clutching the timetable to pineapple dance studios or gym classes. But I'm not doing anything because I can't seem to find a way to start.

Here I am, back at stage one, all over again. I took my course of anti-depressants. About five months I'd say. And they were great. I felt balanced, energetic (for the most part) and positive about things. It's been a month, maybe two since I stopped and I can feel old habits begin to creep up on me. It doesn't come as a complete surprise to me that I am feeling this way. Over the last few months I have been in and out of doctors surgeries and hospitals for appointments and health scares and I am still in the depths of that, though we're getting somewhere. The stress of it is pulling me down again. Back down to where I feel hopeless and lethargic and pointless and barren. And I know it's not 'me'. I know it's this nasty bug, this virus, we call 'depression', we call 'anxiety'. And I'm scared that it's come along to take hold once more.

I feel like I've let myself down. Like I'm broken. Like I'm selfish and that no one should bother with me. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous.

I've booked an appointment this afternoon to head back to the Doctors and to request to be put back on the pills. I have never felt dependant on them, but now I'm scared that this is becoming my 'way out'. There is NOTHING wrong with taking anti-depressants. Depression is, after all, an illness like any other, a chemical imbalance. So why do I feel like I'm giving up the fight?

You can't always fight. You get tired. I can't fight my own head, my own body. I want to be outside, I want to be dancing, I want to be laughing with my friends, creating, exercising, getting excited with my boyfriend about our new flat, I want to be happy to be alive. I don't want to torture myself anymore. I don't want to be sat here, writing this, feeling like there is nothing to get out of bed for.

So what can I do?

I have wonderful friends, family, loved ones. But if even they can't pull you out of your ever increasing black hole then you have to trust that a doctor and her medicine can. For a few months I felt alive, I felt normal, I felt that I could get out of bed in the morning without fighting off six demons between the duvet and work. So is it a permanent thing? Am I permanently going to require a little help? Many of us do.

I just want to feel stable. I don't want to tip-toe around myself and feel scared that the moment something goes wrong I'm going to catapult full-speed into a crazed pit of despair. I want to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I've achieved in life. Because deep down I'm ecstatic. Behind this curtain of self-doubt and insecurities I am over-the-moon with my life. It's the best life I could wish for and it's everything I want it to be and more than I ever dared imagine. So let me embrace it, let me feel it. Let me live.

And so comes the time....

...to share with you a blog I have been meaning to write for a fair amount of time. I've been meaning to write and yet have not found the bravery of expression, the shame of face, the guts of adversity in which to voice, to exclaim, to cry:

I am depressed.

Yes, I feel the eyes of many turn away, disgusted by the self-indulgence, the audacity of a British woman to admit this point of failure.  'Surely she just wants attention!', 'Surely this blog is nothing more than a scream for help, a self-centred cry for notice, a longing for people to see a self-inflicted tortured soul?!'.

To those people, the people who turn away, the people who are scared, kindly do FUCK OFF.

I write here, not as a plea, not as a call to help, not as anything but an account of life, a sharing of thoughts, an honest account of my day to day internal monologue and a plea to end the stigma.

Less than two months ago, I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety. This came as no great surprise to me. I had known for years that I suffered both these things but was unable, incapable of sharing, even with my nearest and dearest. When you try to voice these things you know to be truth, to the unsuspecting caring friendly circle it can seem dramatic, over-exaggerated, or, as many people like to word it: "just one of those days".

Ten years later I realise that this is not "just one of those days". I look seriously at my life. I see nothing but wondrous things. Remarkably, through my deep dark holes of complete desolate ruin I have managed to create a life that is respectable, a life I can happily look upon and say 'yes, well done. If nothing else, you achieved something'. But it's only when I could see this fact and still feel the way I did I realised that I had a real problem.

About three months ago when I realised that I wasn't hiding my faults as much as I'd hoped; when two wonderfully close friends both seperately expressed to me their slight concerns and in turn, their own run-ins with the nasty haunting monsters that are "depression" and "anxiety" I FINALLY got up the courage to book an appointment with a GP. This was a MASSIVE step. It may seem like nothing at all: lifting a phone and booking an appointment, but only weeks before I had found myself in such a hole, that I couldn't even leave my bed, let alone admit to someone that I maybe wasn't 'of perfect health'.

The GP spoke to me with the perfect mix of concern and cold, hard, matter of fact-ness. I had to fill in a form, multiple choice, upon which I made myself be brutally honest, after all, when in Rome... I told the GP briefly of my 'shortcomings' and found myself swiftly in tears, apologising for the way I was behaving. Initially I was incredibly sceptical about any sort of treatment that involved pills/medication. The doctor asked me why. As an actor, especially, I felt terrified at the 'numbing of feelings'. As a human I felt terrified of the dosed up, unnatural way of life. The beauty of instinct taken from me. The inability to cry at a song or film that moved me.

I have been on the antidepressants 'Citalopram' for about two months. After about a month, I couldn't believe my luck. I felt like a new person. All those times I had spent crying in a corner about something I couldn't control: GONE. I felt miraculous. But not in that scary 'I can't control my emotions I'm so excited' way. Just totally in control, positive and forward thinking.

It's also remarkable how quickly other people come out of their little depression shaped closets. Now I'm not going to name names but I can safely say that a great number of close friends swiftly expressed to me that they had suffered the same fate or trialed the same pills. So much so that I was SHOCKED at how common this all is and how greatly under appreciative we all are of each others' mental health. So quickly we are to judge that someone is a bit 'batty' or 'unstable' or suffers mood swings. So happily we all accept that when we suffer those insecure moments of 'losing it' we are to admit that we were just 'having a bad day' or 'something bad happened' or, heaven forbid ladies, 'it was my time of the month'.

In the last week, unfortunately I have found myself slipping back into less uplifting places but then again I did miss 3 pills within a week and a couple things happened that made me feel insecure in life/work so I am not being quick to judge these feelings, I'm actually taking it as a learning curve and moving on, hoping for improvement once again.

Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, I also greatly expressed to my GP how much I believed that I (and many others) could benefit from 'talking treatment' or therapy and the GP agreed and gave me details of an NHS supported therapy centre for self-referral.

After a few phone calls, emails, a self-referral form, a few more phone calls, a couple missed phone appointments (on their part) and finally an apology, yesterday I received my 'phone assessment' to see if I am eligible for cognitive behavioural therapy. I have to add, I am not suicidal, BUT had I been, this would all be too late for me. The therapist was apologetic about lack of contact but you know, had it been a more extreme case....

The assessment itself was pretty harrowing. Nearly an hour of multiple choice and scale of 1-8 questions about how depressed you are (I mean, come on?!) so that you hopelessly try to remain honest but tortured in the hope that your score will reveal that you need some help (when surely that is already glaringly obvious).

Having grown up a very honest and open person, I gave my all (later to regret it and feel the affects) but for someone else suffering on more of a downward spiral I can only begin to imagine how they may not have passed 'the test'.

Anyway, they think it is right for me to go ahead with CBT. Which is great, if I ever hear from them again....

As previously expressed, this blog is not a cry for help, or any sort of attention seeking scheme. Maybe that's my own paranoia setting in again but I always think we try to make a judgement and assume the worst. If you wish to speak to me about this blog then do so! I have been honest, why shouldn't you?

I am not wishing to gain anything from this post. Only to be safe in the knowledge that I shared, and that maybe someone out there won't be so scared anymore. There are millions of us.

As my dear friend puts it: "We are the broken biscuits".

That doesn't mean we're not just as tasty. ;-p

Saturday 8th December 2012, 1am.

I tried to write, thinking it would flow, like it usually does. A flow of meaningful nothingness, a heap of emotion amounting to nothing but a temporary distraction from this, our crazy world of unexplained eventualities. I tried to write and yet, I stopped. How do you write? How do you accumulate or summarise when you, yourself have no more accepted the truth than the person closest to the cause? 

How can you sum up a life, an ending, a choice, without the knowledge of the when and how? 

I type many sentences and delete again because of their insensitivity, their complete inadequacy at the situation. 

I want to hypothesise, to theorise about the inner workings of the human disposition. About mental disorders, imbalance, hidden emotions of the depressed. I find all the words and yet...nothing. They don't fulfil my feeling if complete warmth and loss at yet another beautiful mind that we let go. 

Behind closed doors lies a world of mystery. I, for one, know that I have a lot of family and friends that care deeply for my well being. But the thought has (more than once) crossed my mind of: no one knows where I am right now. No one in the world. No one knows what I'm doing, who I'm with, whether I'm laughing or crying. 

It suddenly becomes easy to imagine how someone who is sad can get lost in feelings of loneliness. And before we've woken for a sip of our morning coffee they have gone. Never to be heard again. 

Why can't we remember the stakes? Why can't we all just pick up that phone? In today's technology it seems mad to me that we don't use it for the greater good. Of course, everyone has their own 'shit' going on and no one can ever really know how anyone else is feeling; but I think we do know, really. I think we are blessed with a sensor for others' well being and strength. Maybe not. 

All I'm saying is, next time you think about picking up that phone, sending that text; or next time the mere thought of an old friend grazes your mind. Do it. Just do it. Because tomorrow is a day with no itinerary. 

Hi. How are you? X 

Saturday 24th November 2012, 1.21am

They say you should write what you know, but so often I don't know what to write. I know that I need to write. That somehow as I exhale my words onto an empty page things start to make sense, life becomes less confusing. Clarity.
Right now, inside me I have this bubbling energy, this nervous pot bubbling below the surface of my chest, I want to cry. It's not sadness, it's not anything, it's this overwhelming feeling I get sometimes when I feel like there is so much to contain and not enough to do.
I'm tired. I'm over thinking.
I just wrote several different lines and deleted them.
Right now I am so happy and yet so incomplete. I know that we should never rely on others to pull us through and ultimately we are alone but I'm beginning to really miss that feeling of connection, of understanding, of unity. I'm struggling with the concept of having everything I want and/or desire and yet no one to share it with. I adore being alone. I adore sitting under my duvet right now and typing away. But a double bed is made for two.
How do you ever know if you are ready again? And if you are ready, whose to say it will ever come?
Writing is not coming easily tonight. I should have trusted my gut and gone to sleep. At least then maybe I would dream. I dream such wonderful things. At the moment my dreams are all focused around touch. Affection. It's divine. But then you wake up.
I've been through so many emotions in the past year. And it has been a year. Since we ended. I'd have to say the main emotion has been unexpected: Anger. I've never felt so angry at the injustice of a situation before. That there was nothing to be done. That we couldn't work it out. That I ran away. That I had to meet someone so important only to have hell thrust in my face after one too many drinks.
I still can't make sense of it. I think it is good for me to be honest for once.
I tried to picture our society without alcohol, without drugs. I used to wish they didn't exist. I still occasionally kick myself for not being strong enough to give up everything for you. You said you would give up everything for me. But there lay the problem. I didn't want you to do it for me. I wanted you to do it for you. And now I sit here a year later and wonder if anything has changed at all. Maybe you've met some incredible new woman who has saved you from yourself. Maybe I was a coward.
You can only make decisions based on your knowledge and feelings at the time. So I can't ever say that I made the wrong decision. But if it was the right decision then why does it still hurt?
Every time I think I'm home free another tear will form.
I keep telling myself that time will heal all. And it will, eventually. It has to. But time is taking it's time...