Me? I've never been one for just "putting on a brave face". I certainly put on a face - make up! The answer to every problem! Darling darling darling, MAC before Prozac - but when bad things happen, or I'm confused and can make no sense of the world and people who inhabit it and there just seems to be no hope, at all...I tend to give into urge to crumble.
This is no hyperbole. When a situation arises that could evoke misery, I generally sieze it. When an opportunity to mime and wail along to "Lovefool" in the mirror pops up, I grab the hair brush. If a sad song comes on when I'm in the back of the car and it is relatable to my predicament in some way, I will look out the window, mournfully, like I am in a music video, and it is what the director wants.
What I'm trying to say is - I'm sort of not in a happy place, at the moment, and I can't seem to break out of this little bubble of discontent and disappointment. Things have happened, words have been said - I needn't disclose any proper details. The new shades of ruby that now weave through my hair have failed to make me more fiery and less of a wuss in life. I am still no more of a "lionheart", bold and gallant in the face of adversity (or a particularly shit boy - oh dear, did I disclose something?) but still a rabbit, still overwhelmed when caught in headlights, still getting upset easily, and far too deeply.
There is a sadness sinking in my stomach, my fighting spirit is going down with it and like an idiot, I've failed to resist that happening.
So what is the point of this blog? Usually I have a clear focus that has been pre-planned and researched with the precision of an invading army, but today I have simply opened up BlogSpot and let my fingertips flutter on the keyboard without thinking through things too thoroughly. Even now, I am looking at the title of this blog - a Smiths lyric - and knowing I will wake up at some point tonight, freeze in horror underneath the quilt and scold myself for at least an hour. "You are a melodramatic cow. Everybody thinks you're a loser. You probably will end up as alone and bitter as bloody Morrissey himself. Get a real diary or something" oh, this will happen. It will.
But in all honesty, the only real point of this post is to "write something and feel better". That is simply it.
Yes, I just needed to write this down. I needed to find what I couldn't find in tears, angry Tweets I typed too quickly to consider and brutally sarcastic texts, and I have found it. I'm feeling better already. I have let those negative feelings consume my good energy and beat me once, today. But I will not let them do it again.
If you are experiencing something similar, I hope you will do the same.
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Tuesday, 22 April 2014
Two Year Birthday Blog
Today marks two years since I thought "nah, revision. Can't be arsed" and tried to navigate BlogSpot instead; two years since I decided to write my thoughts down, and not get out much as a consequence. It is my blog's "birthday".
My on-going fear when it comes to discussing my own blog is sounding totally insufferable. In the wonderful vast virtual galaxy of blogging, I barely register as a "particle", let alone a full on "star" or anything remotely notable. Nonetheless - and yes, I'm wincing this as I type it, just as much as you will when you read on - I'm still kinda...sorta...ugh, okay, proud of it.
Yes. I am proud. My face is all puckered up and I'm aware I may be wondering into "insufferable" territory with that statement, but this is the one creative endeavour I've stuck at without eventually giving up and accepting "these things should be left to Sylvia Plath".
That said, even with a moderately successful blog, I'm definitely still no Plath. I make awful spelling and grammar mistakes regularly. I look back on many posts and cringe, scolding my past self for whatever was going through her addled head at the time. Making sense of my thoughts and articulating them in a way that doesn't bore, irritate or lecture my reader is sometimes difficult, and I don't always get that right.
But sometimes - at least - I hope I do. This is where it becomes very clear that blogging has changed my life. It changed my ambitions, the way I perceive myself and the world around me. I would recommend it for a number of reasons:
In the past two years, I have penned an open letter to everybody's favourite not-really-that-controversial pop star Miley Cyrus, defended a woman's right to dress in as little as she likes, complained about my boobs in a post with what I used to think was the wittiest title ever, , opened up about my disenchantment with university life and the effects this had on my mental health, documented my rather unusual upbringing as a military child and discreetly suggested to you not to bother getting a nose job...to name a few topics.
I don't know what will inspire me in the next two years, but I can't wait to find out.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLOG. You have made your mama feel a little less useless and given her a voice many of her peers thought didn't really exist at the time. And for that, she will love you always.
My on-going fear when it comes to discussing my own blog is sounding totally insufferable. In the wonderful vast virtual galaxy of blogging, I barely register as a "particle", let alone a full on "star" or anything remotely notable. Nonetheless - and yes, I'm wincing this as I type it, just as much as you will when you read on - I'm still kinda...sorta...ugh, okay, proud of it.
Yes. I am proud. My face is all puckered up and I'm aware I may be wondering into "insufferable" territory with that statement, but this is the one creative endeavour I've stuck at without eventually giving up and accepting "these things should be left to Sylvia Plath".
That said, even with a moderately successful blog, I'm definitely still no Plath. I make awful spelling and grammar mistakes regularly. I look back on many posts and cringe, scolding my past self for whatever was going through her addled head at the time. Making sense of my thoughts and articulating them in a way that doesn't bore, irritate or lecture my reader is sometimes difficult, and I don't always get that right.
But sometimes - at least - I hope I do. This is where it becomes very clear that blogging has changed my life. It changed my ambitions, the way I perceive myself and the world around me. I would recommend it for a number of reasons:
- You will become a better writer. You will eventually be picking up on things that couldn't be taught in any classroom. Blogging doesn't "tell" you what will make your writing interesting and exciting on a Powerpoint presentation at two o'clock on a Friday afternoon when you're fed up of this shit and just want to go home; your writing will improve gently at its own accord, with time and with practice. You might not even notice, but it's a happy inevitability.
- You will become a better thinker. Recording your thoughts means that you'll delve more deeply into the matters of your life and the worldview that shapes them.
- Your life becomes more intentional. Once you begin to write thoroughly about your life and the thoughts, feelings and emotions which shape it, it becomes more clear who you are, where you're going and if you like what you see. You essentially begin to watch yourself "grow" and spread your roots; looking from my first ever blog to now, it's pretty obvious I've come on a long old journey. I quite like the direction it went in.
- You will develop better life habits. To write a blog, you need discipline, commitment and devotion; all assets that could be considered pretty useful to embrace.
- The pure joy that comes from a kind comment; no matter how brief. Even better, when a reader mentions that you've wrote something they can relate to - in my opinion, that's the biggest compliment. You feel less isolated, the reader feels less isolated, everybody's winning. How rad is that?
In the past two years, I have penned an open letter to everybody's favourite not-really-that-controversial pop star Miley Cyrus, defended a woman's right to dress in as little as she likes, complained about my boobs in a post with what I used to think was the wittiest title ever, , opened up about my disenchantment with university life and the effects this had on my mental health, documented my rather unusual upbringing as a military child and discreetly suggested to you not to bother getting a nose job...to name a few topics.
I don't know what will inspire me in the next two years, but I can't wait to find out.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLOG. You have made your mama feel a little less useless and given her a voice many of her peers thought didn't really exist at the time. And for that, she will love you always.
Tuesday, 25 March 2014
My Massive Nose and Me
Before I hit my teens, I never really noticed the size of my nose. This is surprising, since those who have personally met me will know that it is somewhat easy to notice.
I have a very big nose.
I'll paint you a picture. If noses had personalities, mine would be brash, probably pretty cruel and determined to steal the spotlight. If people were noses, my nose would be Ann Widdecombe: large, would be very out of place in a televised dancing competition, potentially lovable for all its imperfections but let's face it - nobody would go out of their way to catch a glimpse of it.
Then I hit my teens, and I knew I couldn't ignore this uselessly large vessel plonked rather inconveniently on my face any longer. After careful consideration, I noted two options. The first was to simply cry and wait - wait for a nose job whilst being in a permanent fit of tears between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. The other was to just...ignore it. Focus on other things such as education and growing a nice bum, like Beyoncé. Develop a talent, preferably sporting so boys would think I was fitter. Become funny, so people would too busy laughing at my pithy one liners to notice that my nose was a good 7cm in front of the rest of my body.
As you can see, thirteen year old logic didn't leave me with many choices. It did not take long to suss out that crying makes you look even more of a wretched hag and highly unapproachable, so the first option was ruled out immediately. The second was also somewhat ambitious; nine years have passed and I still have the bum of a pre-pubescent boy, I gave up on sporting because P.E. kits just weren't very "me" and I suppose my sense of humour was never universally appreciated (and shockingly still isn't).
But it didn't matter, in the end, because I found a figure that made me feel very much alright about having a big nose. A figure that made me feel as though it didn't matter that my nose made me look pretty unspectacular. My real breakthrough came in the shape of my crooked nose queen, my big snozzled soul sister: Ashlee Simpson.
For those of you who don't know who that is and had perfectly content teenage years because I suppose you've always looked like a fucking goddess, Ashlee Simpson is Jessica's sister of the Daisy Duke fame. She had a short lived and rather tame musical career in "pop punk" with singles such as "Boyfriend" and erm...not too sure, don't remember, which says it all really. But anyway, Ashlee was on the scene when my pre-teen self was on a total downer over her looks and struggling to find herself - and just like me, Ashlee had a generously sized nose. She was successful and looked so beautiful. I found this to have a profoundly hopeful impact on me.
That did not last. I still remember the day when I discovered that Ashlee - the supposed cure to my insecurity - paid to get her nose broken and reshaped into something a bit daintier. I was a bit older at this point but no less gutted. Like me, she did not have the perfect nose I so desperately desired. She did not look as conventionally beautiful as other pop stars, yet still made her own mark. But she still got rid of the flaw that we shared instead of embracing it and that almost symbolised the end of hope for me.
I got over it, though. The one consolation that brings me joy to this day is how downhill it all went for old Ashlee post-nose job. She hasn't had one hit single since "Boyfriend". She's married then divorced Fall Out Boy bassist and Total Hot Dude Pete Wentz.
And the trend stands for other celebrities who may once have been previously looked up to and admired, just like I did with Ashlee. Even in my wildest dreams, it makes me feel as though #KeepTheBigBeak is a campaign that could actually take off. Take Ashley Tisdale - does anybody actually know what she's done career wise since High School Musical? Not to mention Joan Rivers - maybe at some point in her life she was likeable, but it was never post-rhinoplasty, and now she says terrible things about other celebrities to make a living. Plus, let me tell you one thing about that Rebecca Adlington -
Oh okay, she won an Olympic medal for Great Britain. Whatever.
I have a very big nose.
I'll paint you a picture. If noses had personalities, mine would be brash, probably pretty cruel and determined to steal the spotlight. If people were noses, my nose would be Ann Widdecombe: large, would be very out of place in a televised dancing competition, potentially lovable for all its imperfections but let's face it - nobody would go out of their way to catch a glimpse of it.
Then I hit my teens, and I knew I couldn't ignore this uselessly large vessel plonked rather inconveniently on my face any longer. After careful consideration, I noted two options. The first was to simply cry and wait - wait for a nose job whilst being in a permanent fit of tears between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. The other was to just...ignore it. Focus on other things such as education and growing a nice bum, like Beyoncé. Develop a talent, preferably sporting so boys would think I was fitter. Become funny, so people would too busy laughing at my pithy one liners to notice that my nose was a good 7cm in front of the rest of my body.
As you can see, thirteen year old logic didn't leave me with many choices. It did not take long to suss out that crying makes you look even more of a wretched hag and highly unapproachable, so the first option was ruled out immediately. The second was also somewhat ambitious; nine years have passed and I still have the bum of a pre-pubescent boy, I gave up on sporting because P.E. kits just weren't very "me" and I suppose my sense of humour was never universally appreciated (and shockingly still isn't).
But it didn't matter, in the end, because I found a figure that made me feel very much alright about having a big nose. A figure that made me feel as though it didn't matter that my nose made me look pretty unspectacular. My real breakthrough came in the shape of my crooked nose queen, my big snozzled soul sister: Ashlee Simpson.
For those of you who don't know who that is and had perfectly content teenage years because I suppose you've always looked like a fucking goddess, Ashlee Simpson is Jessica's sister of the Daisy Duke fame. She had a short lived and rather tame musical career in "pop punk" with singles such as "Boyfriend" and erm...not too sure, don't remember, which says it all really. But anyway, Ashlee was on the scene when my pre-teen self was on a total downer over her looks and struggling to find herself - and just like me, Ashlee had a generously sized nose. She was successful and looked so beautiful. I found this to have a profoundly hopeful impact on me.
That did not last. I still remember the day when I discovered that Ashlee - the supposed cure to my insecurity - paid to get her nose broken and reshaped into something a bit daintier. I was a bit older at this point but no less gutted. Like me, she did not have the perfect nose I so desperately desired. She did not look as conventionally beautiful as other pop stars, yet still made her own mark. But she still got rid of the flaw that we shared instead of embracing it and that almost symbolised the end of hope for me.
I got over it, though. The one consolation that brings me joy to this day is how downhill it all went for old Ashlee post-nose job. She hasn't had one hit single since "Boyfriend". She's married then divorced Fall Out Boy bassist and Total Hot Dude Pete Wentz.
 |
| You take away the nose and what's left? WHAT'S LEFT, ASHLEE?! |
And the trend stands for other celebrities who may once have been previously looked up to and admired, just like I did with Ashlee. Even in my wildest dreams, it makes me feel as though #KeepTheBigBeak is a campaign that could actually take off. Take Ashley Tisdale - does anybody actually know what she's done career wise since High School Musical? Not to mention Joan Rivers - maybe at some point in her life she was likeable, but it was never post-rhinoplasty, and now she says terrible things about other celebrities to make a living. Plus, let me tell you one thing about that Rebecca Adlington -
Oh okay, she won an Olympic medal for Great Britain. Whatever.
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
In Defence of Selfies: It's YOUR Face
My friend has a theory. It might not be backed up by scientific evidence, nor has she phrased it very articulately, but judging by the pained expression she's pulling, she's pretty serious about it anyway.
"Selfies.." she begins a tone that warns there is no room for debate. "Selfies are for losers. Like, I don't understand. Why would you want to have a picture of yourself clearly not having a life? It's just so 'Year 9'"
As a self confessed selfie fan, her theory unhinges me somewhat. Sitting meekly with a head full of counter arguments but no guts to voice them aloud, I ponder my own current Facebook profile picture - a selfie. The self conscious pre-teen voice that lay dormant within me suddenly jerks back to life with a fretting monologue; is that...a universal thought? I worry. Or is it just her? Oh god, I don't know. But the thing is, my hair is pink and my lashes look long and my lips are the good shade of red and for a change - for a really pleasant, welcome change - I quite like how I look in that picture.
Looking back now - hundreds upon hundreds of selfies later - I realise that's actually the whole point; you should like how you look in pictures. You should at least try to. Whether that picture was taken with your webcam at home because your hair looked alright or when you were riding that elephant in a bikini with your mate in Thailand, if that's the little snapshot of you that you wish to present to the world then crack on. It's your face.
But you might not have the most straightforward of relationships with that face. It could be a tumultuous one; a love affair one day, then hitting a rocky patch the next and wanting to cover it up with a balaclava, for the rest of your natural life if possible. You might not have the kind of face that cameras love, and your goddamn friends always seems to capture you at your worst angles - double chin and all.
Now here, here is where the true beauty of the selfie lies.
With a selfie, you are in control. You can actually determine if your Facebook friends can see that double chin or not! Your hair can be perfectly coiffed; makeup tastefully applied; skin glowing; your best angle captured and projected for the world to see. Surely, this is empowering. I know when I take a successful selfie where my double chin is artfully concealed and my generously sized nose is less obvious, I get a little self confidence boost. They don't come around very often, so why should I be made to feel bad for them?
Plus, consider your surroundings. In day to day life, images of supposed "perfection" are thrust at you from all angles regardless of if you've got the strength to shrug them off or not. Achingly beautiful women and men with looks that could stop traffic modelling clothes on shop windows; club promoters so effortlessly stunning it feels as though the effort you've made for the night wasn't worth much, after all; actors and actresses on movie posters outside of the cinema - again, with head turning, heart racing looks that are difficult to ignore. Why shouldn't you try and do what you can to fit that bill sometimes if it gives your self esteem the little raise it needs?
Today, Glasgow - my current "home" - was ranked 37th for cities in the whole world with the most selfies taken. After initial concern that I accounted for at least half of them, I realised just how strangely brilliant this news was. Perhaps the beauty of trying to find your own beauty via a selfie is not just passed off as exclusively for "losers" after all. I'm so glad of it. Because in that smile or pout towards your phone camera is an attempt to love yourself, and as somebody who continues to fight in an eternal struggle to do exactly that, I could not encourage selfies any more.
"Selfies.." she begins a tone that warns there is no room for debate. "Selfies are for losers. Like, I don't understand. Why would you want to have a picture of yourself clearly not having a life? It's just so 'Year 9'"
As a self confessed selfie fan, her theory unhinges me somewhat. Sitting meekly with a head full of counter arguments but no guts to voice them aloud, I ponder my own current Facebook profile picture - a selfie. The self conscious pre-teen voice that lay dormant within me suddenly jerks back to life with a fretting monologue; is that...a universal thought? I worry. Or is it just her? Oh god, I don't know. But the thing is, my hair is pink and my lashes look long and my lips are the good shade of red and for a change - for a really pleasant, welcome change - I quite like how I look in that picture.
 |
| This is said selfie. I was a nerdy Nicki Minaj. Now I'm just nerdy again.. |
Looking back now - hundreds upon hundreds of selfies later - I realise that's actually the whole point; you should like how you look in pictures. You should at least try to. Whether that picture was taken with your webcam at home because your hair looked alright or when you were riding that elephant in a bikini with your mate in Thailand, if that's the little snapshot of you that you wish to present to the world then crack on. It's your face.
But you might not have the most straightforward of relationships with that face. It could be a tumultuous one; a love affair one day, then hitting a rocky patch the next and wanting to cover it up with a balaclava, for the rest of your natural life if possible. You might not have the kind of face that cameras love, and your goddamn friends always seems to capture you at your worst angles - double chin and all.
Now here, here is where the true beauty of the selfie lies.
With a selfie, you are in control. You can actually determine if your Facebook friends can see that double chin or not! Your hair can be perfectly coiffed; makeup tastefully applied; skin glowing; your best angle captured and projected for the world to see. Surely, this is empowering. I know when I take a successful selfie where my double chin is artfully concealed and my generously sized nose is less obvious, I get a little self confidence boost. They don't come around very often, so why should I be made to feel bad for them?
Plus, consider your surroundings. In day to day life, images of supposed "perfection" are thrust at you from all angles regardless of if you've got the strength to shrug them off or not. Achingly beautiful women and men with looks that could stop traffic modelling clothes on shop windows; club promoters so effortlessly stunning it feels as though the effort you've made for the night wasn't worth much, after all; actors and actresses on movie posters outside of the cinema - again, with head turning, heart racing looks that are difficult to ignore. Why shouldn't you try and do what you can to fit that bill sometimes if it gives your self esteem the little raise it needs?
Today, Glasgow - my current "home" - was ranked 37th for cities in the whole world with the most selfies taken. After initial concern that I accounted for at least half of them, I realised just how strangely brilliant this news was. Perhaps the beauty of trying to find your own beauty via a selfie is not just passed off as exclusively for "losers" after all. I'm so glad of it. Because in that smile or pout towards your phone camera is an attempt to love yourself, and as somebody who continues to fight in an eternal struggle to do exactly that, I could not encourage selfies any more.
Monday, 3 March 2014
I Am A Chubby, Irritable Seal
Every four weeks or so, I become a bit furious. As my skin gains a few more spots, foundation stops being a "once-in-a-while" thing and becomes an "absolute necessity or you'll frighten the infants of Glasgow". I pack make up wipes in my hand bag, in case I see something vaguely poignant and burst into bitter, inexplicable tears. Showering twice a day is acceptable, to get rid of the floods of grease woven through my hair. I make open, frequent noises of exasperation to the general public - tuts and sighs, mostly. My jeans become a bit tighter. I frown a lot.
Have you figured it out yet?
Yes, these are all signifiers of mother nature's monthly "gift", though answers on a postcard as to who came up with that metaphor - "gift" infers something pleasant and unexpected, but a period is highly unpleasant and anticipated with nothing but contempt. Sure, I'm not pregnant and I'm pretty pleased about it, but I do now deserve these five days of hell?!
Now, I'm not usually one to moan about being a girl. Regrettably, I can only empty my bladder sitting down and do occasionally wonder what the magical peeing mobility men have is like...but aside from that, the "being female" experience gets a big thumbs UP from me. I love to perpetuate what is my own personal definition of femininity and I love to celebrate other women's, too; but dude, I really, really don't love periods.
For a start, I don't love unreasonably intensified emotions; I'm impartial to a good weep every now and then, but crying at the mere sight of baby's smile, a particularly unforgiving hangover or a friend's mildly inspiring story of buying a top she quite liked in Topshop is just a waste of precious mascara. Not to mention the anger; suddenly when your hormones are heightened, so is your ability to rage at absolutely anything. Even the most mild mannered and pleasant of women can experience these tinges of wild, unjustified wrath. I would say I've been properly, fist-shaking angry at least three times today. Why? I don't want to tell you. Because my reasons are absurd.
When asked how a period physically feels, my friend Becca sombrely replied with "death". Since I've never, y'know, died, I can't confirm if that's a fair judgement, but I can admit that the pain is pretty dire. Period pain is not just the occasional twinge in your stomach. It is not something that can be easily cured with your mother's old remedy of "rubbing your tummy and having a poo"; it is a sharp, constant ache in your abdomen that can make any movement painful. That said, some women claim to never experience period pain as they "exercise regularly" - you should wave your fist at those women on their healthy high horse, all the way from your sweaty pit of a bed.
Furthermore, periods do not make your hair shine, nails stronger and skin glow like a lighthouse. They do the complete opposite. Obviously I can't speak on the science behind it all, but around this time of the month is when your skin becomes prone to spots the size of Ben Nevis popping up all over your face. As mentioned before, grease also appears in your hair. For me though, the worst part is becoming bloated around the face and belly due to water retention (or something?? Not sure?), which makes it incredibly hard to have any kind of body confidence - already quite a hard thing to achieve even in the slimmer times of the month. Currently, if you lightly slap my belly, it will jiggle around a bit for around a good second and a half, which does not ordinarily happen. I'm quite pissed off about it.
Fortunately, there's a major catch in what I've just described for the menfolk of the universe: you are gleefully free from it all! As well as being able to pee where ever you like (amazing! AMAZING!!) you are more or less consistently of the same mind frame, which must make it difficult to understand life with oestrogen, extraordinarily priced tampons and walking around with a towel between your legs.
Sere are some wise tips from me - a mere, incredibly hormonal woman; boys, tread carefully, even when she's being irrational. Love patiently, even though she's pretty hard to love when she's throwing the TV remote at you. Compliment generously, though actually, her bum does look a bit big in that. She might not be great right now, but it's a biological thing; and like Marilyn said, if you can't handle her at her worst, then you don't deserve her when she's back at her bloody fabulous best when this month's episode is all over.
Have you figured it out yet?
Yes, these are all signifiers of mother nature's monthly "gift", though answers on a postcard as to who came up with that metaphor - "gift" infers something pleasant and unexpected, but a period is highly unpleasant and anticipated with nothing but contempt. Sure, I'm not pregnant and I'm pretty pleased about it, but I do now deserve these five days of hell?!
 |
| How I currently look and feel. |
Now, I'm not usually one to moan about being a girl. Regrettably, I can only empty my bladder sitting down and do occasionally wonder what the magical peeing mobility men have is like...but aside from that, the "being female" experience gets a big thumbs UP from me. I love to perpetuate what is my own personal definition of femininity and I love to celebrate other women's, too; but dude, I really, really don't love periods.
For a start, I don't love unreasonably intensified emotions; I'm impartial to a good weep every now and then, but crying at the mere sight of baby's smile, a particularly unforgiving hangover or a friend's mildly inspiring story of buying a top she quite liked in Topshop is just a waste of precious mascara. Not to mention the anger; suddenly when your hormones are heightened, so is your ability to rage at absolutely anything. Even the most mild mannered and pleasant of women can experience these tinges of wild, unjustified wrath. I would say I've been properly, fist-shaking angry at least three times today. Why? I don't want to tell you. Because my reasons are absurd.
When asked how a period physically feels, my friend Becca sombrely replied with "death". Since I've never, y'know, died, I can't confirm if that's a fair judgement, but I can admit that the pain is pretty dire. Period pain is not just the occasional twinge in your stomach. It is not something that can be easily cured with your mother's old remedy of "rubbing your tummy and having a poo"; it is a sharp, constant ache in your abdomen that can make any movement painful. That said, some women claim to never experience period pain as they "exercise regularly" - you should wave your fist at those women on their healthy high horse, all the way from your sweaty pit of a bed.
Furthermore, periods do not make your hair shine, nails stronger and skin glow like a lighthouse. They do the complete opposite. Obviously I can't speak on the science behind it all, but around this time of the month is when your skin becomes prone to spots the size of Ben Nevis popping up all over your face. As mentioned before, grease also appears in your hair. For me though, the worst part is becoming bloated around the face and belly due to water retention (or something?? Not sure?), which makes it incredibly hard to have any kind of body confidence - already quite a hard thing to achieve even in the slimmer times of the month. Currently, if you lightly slap my belly, it will jiggle around a bit for around a good second and a half, which does not ordinarily happen. I'm quite pissed off about it.
Fortunately, there's a major catch in what I've just described for the menfolk of the universe: you are gleefully free from it all! As well as being able to pee where ever you like (amazing! AMAZING!!) you are more or less consistently of the same mind frame, which must make it difficult to understand life with oestrogen, extraordinarily priced tampons and walking around with a towel between your legs.
Sere are some wise tips from me - a mere, incredibly hormonal woman; boys, tread carefully, even when she's being irrational. Love patiently, even though she's pretty hard to love when she's throwing the TV remote at you. Compliment generously, though actually, her bum does look a bit big in that. She might not be great right now, but it's a biological thing; and like Marilyn said, if you can't handle her at her worst, then you don't deserve her when she's back at her bloody fabulous best when this month's episode is all over.
Sunday, 26 January 2014
"When You Don't Love University" - Eleven Days Later
By and large, the response to my blog "When You Don't Love University" gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling, like weeing in the bath.
It was the first blog I've ever posted that's got over 1000 views! I could take this as ya'll enjoying my troubles or people genuinely relating to it. Thirty two messages later and I'm glad to be fairly sure it's the latter.
My initial fear to even publish the post was eclipsed by the array of emotions that followed once I plucked up the courage to put it out there - both the good and bad. My little heart was warmed by the amount of people saying they had enjoyed reading it, and even that I was "brave" to post it (I am as meek as a Chihuahua at a Lamb of God gig in most wakes of life so this was a very, very big deal for me). If you were one of those people to reach out and respond to my words: thank you. You played an instrumental role in restoring my faith and hope...and I fear that's more than an attempt at being deep. You night have ruined my mascara that day but for the first time ever, I am so glad that you did. I don't even want to punch you for it.
However, whilst I was partially pleased that it wasn't just me who had been figuratively shat on by their expectations, another part was appalled. It was heart breaking to hear that so many people had felt the same way but hadn't told a soul, letting their problems boil up inside of them like some kettle of doom (?). It's almost unnerving how you can never really assume who suffers in silence. To be honest, I would never have expected some of the people I received emails from to do so. Another reminder that we all have our little struggles despite appearances - the real reason we should endeavour to be pleasant and warm towards everybody, I think.
If you are one of those people - or indeed you felt similarly but didn't email me, in which case, why the hell not? Come on, if you read my blog then we're automatically homies - what I'm about to urge you, I want you to hear me loud and clear. Don't hear it as a cliché that's easy for me to say, hard for you to act on - I probably know that better than you do.
TALK TO SOMEBODY. DO YOURSELF A HUGE FAVOUR AND TALK TO SOMEBODY. Do not sit and wallow behind a computer screen, writing melancholy poetry on Tumblr, listening to Scar Tissue far more than a person should in one day. Your problems won't disappear. I know that, too.
Look - famously, I am a big wimp about roughly 75% of my life and if I can face my problems head on, you probably can too. So talk. Talk to your parents, your friends - the ones who won't start telling you how great their life is after you've spilled your emotional guts, lord I know they have the audacity to do that. If you want a non-judgemental ear who really knows their stuff, seek out your university counselling service. Ignore any stigmas of seeing a professional to help you make sense of things; Lily bloody Allen once admitted she's worked with a therapist. And she's a proper ballsy chick.
You could even write about it. That's when it clicked for me. (although be a pal and don't start a blog, eh? I don't wanna compete for who has the better blog, because in my head, that's what it'll somehow morph into. I really don't wanna do that)
It was the first blog I've ever posted that's got over 1000 views! I could take this as ya'll enjoying my troubles or people genuinely relating to it. Thirty two messages later and I'm glad to be fairly sure it's the latter.
My initial fear to even publish the post was eclipsed by the array of emotions that followed once I plucked up the courage to put it out there - both the good and bad. My little heart was warmed by the amount of people saying they had enjoyed reading it, and even that I was "brave" to post it (I am as meek as a Chihuahua at a Lamb of God gig in most wakes of life so this was a very, very big deal for me). If you were one of those people to reach out and respond to my words: thank you. You played an instrumental role in restoring my faith and hope...and I fear that's more than an attempt at being deep. You night have ruined my mascara that day but for the first time ever, I am so glad that you did. I don't even want to punch you for it.
However, whilst I was partially pleased that it wasn't just me who had been figuratively shat on by their expectations, another part was appalled. It was heart breaking to hear that so many people had felt the same way but hadn't told a soul, letting their problems boil up inside of them like some kettle of doom (?). It's almost unnerving how you can never really assume who suffers in silence. To be honest, I would never have expected some of the people I received emails from to do so. Another reminder that we all have our little struggles despite appearances - the real reason we should endeavour to be pleasant and warm towards everybody, I think.
If you are one of those people - or indeed you felt similarly but didn't email me, in which case, why the hell not? Come on, if you read my blog then we're automatically homies - what I'm about to urge you, I want you to hear me loud and clear. Don't hear it as a cliché that's easy for me to say, hard for you to act on - I probably know that better than you do.
TALK TO SOMEBODY. DO YOURSELF A HUGE FAVOUR AND TALK TO SOMEBODY. Do not sit and wallow behind a computer screen, writing melancholy poetry on Tumblr, listening to Scar Tissue far more than a person should in one day. Your problems won't disappear. I know that, too.
Look - famously, I am a big wimp about roughly 75% of my life and if I can face my problems head on, you probably can too. So talk. Talk to your parents, your friends - the ones who won't start telling you how great their life is after you've spilled your emotional guts, lord I know they have the audacity to do that. If you want a non-judgemental ear who really knows their stuff, seek out your university counselling service. Ignore any stigmas of seeing a professional to help you make sense of things; Lily bloody Allen once admitted she's worked with a therapist. And she's a proper ballsy chick.
You could even write about it. That's when it clicked for me. (although be a pal and don't start a blog, eh? I don't wanna compete for who has the better blog, because in my head, that's what it'll somehow morph into. I really don't wanna do that)
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
When You Don't Love University: A "Big Big Big" Deal
Today, I'm going to write about something that I've been avoiding writing for a long time.
I've known it would be good to write about, because it might help others who are also quietly in this predicament feel less alone. But it has taken a long time for me to accept that this was the predicament I have inadvertently landed in.
Today, I'm going to change that.
The predicament I wish to talk about is something I've been made to feel ashamed is happening, as it goes against the societal grain. This predicament is simple: university has not been the most fantastic, exhilarating, life-changing experience I was promised it would be.
That isn't to say that it hasn't been any of those things at all. I'm fully aware that people will read this and be like "pah, gutted! I'm having the time of my life. University for me has been PERFECT, soz for your woes Flo" and yes - I have had some brilliant times here, my English Lit course caters brilliantly to my needs and as indicated by my blog about the city, I remain to be besotted with Glasgow itself. However, it hasn't been all smooth sailing for me.
To start from the beginning, my flat mates and I are not the best buddies I was guaranteed they would be - our relationship is by and large a 'working' one. You are generally told that your flatmates will be your first guaranteed circle of pals, but this just wasn't the case for us. I was placed in private halls which - truthfully - I haven't found to be particularly friendly, in comparison to the other halls actually owned by the University of Glasgow. But with the building I live in being the first port of call and that letting me down, it's been challenging to throw myself into socializing elsewhere. Usually alone.
A few months on and everybody seems to have found their niche and I am usually found floating in between them, never particularly fixed to one group. I am not exactly companionless and there is always somebody to go out with, but to feel like you don't fully belong anywhere with anybody pushed me to a real low ebb.
By the end of the first semester, my willing myself to believe that everything was fine, great, amazing had disappeared. I couldn't go even for a few hours without crying over the smallest things. Though I'm well aware that it isn't REALLY the biggest issue in the world, I remember when I discovered that a flat mate had eaten an entire packet of my bacon - I cried for around 3 hours and felt awful for having to ring my mum for her to bring me to my senses. Most days, I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed - I couldn't see a reason to. The worst part was that I felt like I did not have somebody at my university close enough for me to really confide in them without them judging me, or even becoming offended. Looking back on it, I probably was a bit depressed.
It is the beginning of semester 2 now and I just can't go back to that. That wasn't very Flo of me, y'know.
There is a lot of stigma attached to those who don't absolutely love university - what with the "best years of your life!" line thrown at you by every elder you come across. This is why it took a lot of soul searching and "come on Flo, don't be a dick" for me to finally write and publish this. I like to think that maybe I'm not the only one with this little speed bump, and hopefully others might read it and feel less alone.
Finally, it can feel like a long, bastard wait for somebody to reach out to me, but the assertive military child in me isn't quite ready to sit back and accept that as my fate. If there isn't anybody to reach out, I have to get there first. Generally in life, I am an optimist and I always, always hope for good things, even when it feels like this hope is slipping away more quickly than I could ever grab it back.
'If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying.'
I've known it would be good to write about, because it might help others who are also quietly in this predicament feel less alone. But it has taken a long time for me to accept that this was the predicament I have inadvertently landed in.
Today, I'm going to change that.
The predicament I wish to talk about is something I've been made to feel ashamed is happening, as it goes against the societal grain. This predicament is simple: university has not been the most fantastic, exhilarating, life-changing experience I was promised it would be.
That isn't to say that it hasn't been any of those things at all. I'm fully aware that people will read this and be like "pah, gutted! I'm having the time of my life. University for me has been PERFECT, soz for your woes Flo" and yes - I have had some brilliant times here, my English Lit course caters brilliantly to my needs and as indicated by my blog about the city, I remain to be besotted with Glasgow itself. However, it hasn't been all smooth sailing for me.
To start from the beginning, my flat mates and I are not the best buddies I was guaranteed they would be - our relationship is by and large a 'working' one. You are generally told that your flatmates will be your first guaranteed circle of pals, but this just wasn't the case for us. I was placed in private halls which - truthfully - I haven't found to be particularly friendly, in comparison to the other halls actually owned by the University of Glasgow. But with the building I live in being the first port of call and that letting me down, it's been challenging to throw myself into socializing elsewhere. Usually alone.
A few months on and everybody seems to have found their niche and I am usually found floating in between them, never particularly fixed to one group. I am not exactly companionless and there is always somebody to go out with, but to feel like you don't fully belong anywhere with anybody pushed me to a real low ebb.
By the end of the first semester, my willing myself to believe that everything was fine, great, amazing had disappeared. I couldn't go even for a few hours without crying over the smallest things. Though I'm well aware that it isn't REALLY the biggest issue in the world, I remember when I discovered that a flat mate had eaten an entire packet of my bacon - I cried for around 3 hours and felt awful for having to ring my mum for her to bring me to my senses. Most days, I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed - I couldn't see a reason to. The worst part was that I felt like I did not have somebody at my university close enough for me to really confide in them without them judging me, or even becoming offended. Looking back on it, I probably was a bit depressed.
It is the beginning of semester 2 now and I just can't go back to that. That wasn't very Flo of me, y'know.
There is a lot of stigma attached to those who don't absolutely love university - what with the "best years of your life!" line thrown at you by every elder you come across. This is why it took a lot of soul searching and "come on Flo, don't be a dick" for me to finally write and publish this. I like to think that maybe I'm not the only one with this little speed bump, and hopefully others might read it and feel less alone.
Finally, it can feel like a long, bastard wait for somebody to reach out to me, but the assertive military child in me isn't quite ready to sit back and accept that as my fate. If there isn't anybody to reach out, I have to get there first. Generally in life, I am an optimist and I always, always hope for good things, even when it feels like this hope is slipping away more quickly than I could ever grab it back.
'If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying.'
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