Stuck in a box

Over the weekend a friend of mine came to visit London for the day. I hadn't seen him in three years.

Us two were the ones standing in the 'yard' at school, ages 14 and 15 looking miserable as sin and wondering why am I not like 'that'. Our friends would walk and run about the grounds with no weight on their shoulders. I'd be constantly questioning whether there was something wrong with me, with the world, with people...

Teenage hormones aside, my history covered episodes of panic attacks, hours of crying and howling until I ran out of breath. Sometimes I'd hear from my friend in his moments of sheer depression, desires for suicide and endless days where there seemed no way out for either of us.

Meeting up last Sunday felt like there had been no time apart. Our sense of humour matched and we caught up on stories on what you could say, felt a bit like self discovery. I am so proud of my friend. He has had outcome. He's taking charge on his life: it's pill free, natural state of mind with the right attitude and knowing how to look after himself.

We both know that to help yourself there only is you. Regardless how down you're feeling, if you want to get better it has to be a choice. You have to choose to be less self destructive and remind yourself what you have to live for. I'm not saying that mental illness is a choice, and we all need momentary escapes, but we have to choose to remain on the right path and to put it bluntly, whether to choose to live or die.

Right now I'm in a mental box. A place where I'm kept safe and free from my mental lows. My friend, at least, has given me huge amounts of hope that what we feel doesn't have to be forever. In the moment it feels like there's no escape and that this is what life is, a trap. I've got more work to do, but I just wanted to write an update as I haven't for a while. It's always on my mind to put something on here. When I don't, sometimes I'm hiding, sometimes I feel so indifferent I can't get the words out of my head. Then there are other times when I'm high on life and get distracted to post.

I just wanted to write a piece where people can see there is hope, because there has to be, otherwise there's no life at all.

Brain food!

11 signs

Perhaps a more relatable description to look at symptoms

Contents: my face

And a pineapple head.

Running in Wales

Running 10k, hitting a new time 55 mins :)

and being licked by Mittens

Breakfast time 27.10.12

I feel happy and it's weird and I don't know what to do with it and now I'm stuck to the sofa.

I don't think it's an indifference. I mean I feel excited, I feel ready, I feel energised. I feel like I can make a choice. My brain feels like a circular train track going round and around and around. Perhaps throwing a dart in the centre will balance it all out. I could sit here all day, in a box, a mental box. I can twiddle with my thumbs and lie still because I feel safe and nice and I'm being held in place. The mania will kick in soon. The manic nice moods where I can jump up and down like a pogo. Last night was wonderful. I ate, I managed to eat! I ate more than I could usually and had no consequence. Mentally it was fine. Mentally I allowed it. I jumped like a pogo and we danced on the fluffy rug, we didn't care about neighbors.

Outside it looks beautiful. Blue skies, orange leaves and fresh air waiting to be exhaled. I have to capture the moment. I have to write it down, I'm already scared it's going to go away. Time will disappear. I might not feel this good anymore. I might not have this time to myself. I feel quite lucky.

I woke up feeling like it was Christmas. Tucked up in bed, radiator ticking, expanding with the heat. With my eyes closed I imagined what I would discover, kitchen sounds rattling, dressing gowns and warm lighting. I wake up looking like Mowgli, birds nest on my head and panda eyes. If I had it my way, I'd walk downstairs to find her in the kitchen. Sky blue dressing gown and a curly mess, hair sticking out on top in snakes and wires, glasses on and BBC radio 2 settling in the corner. She liked putting the cupboard up-lighters on to make an atmosphere, even though it was light outside we wasted the electricity, it reflected nicely on the counter. I hear slippers scuff on tiles and the toaster pops. Smells of white toast crunching under the butter knife, golden blankets spread. My big square lounge and over sized red sofas, I curl up in the corner. I always liked to look out at the trees. I really love trees. Mum would join me, sitting in her usual spot. We drank tea from Denby mugs and ravished in our moment of peace. The morning. Breakfast. Our time together.

It's not a choice

Thank you.

"My psychology teacher showed us this picture in class and spent a good 10 minutes talking about how depression is a disorder, a mental disease, not a choice, etc. I respect him so much for that."

Consequential 26.10.12

We probably see the person who sits next to us on the bus, who's excited and eager for conversation as someone 'crazy'. Sometimes we couldn't be more wrong about who really is mentally ill.

Right now I feel good and I'm trying not to think too much about how long it will last for. I'm focusing on how I feel lucky for feeling good. The guy next to me keeps stroking the seat in front of us, gripping the handle bar. It was too easy to assume he's mad, whilst I can't hear him as I have my headphones on. Who am I to judge?

I forgot the hour

I forgot the resting time. Even the ten minutes to myself.

Today was a good day where I enjoyed myself without fear. I cooked. We talked. We caught up. I even made those silly sounds again.

And the song we sing goes... Bum bum bum...

I will miss my housemate when we leave.

I think the washing machine is eating my socks

Why is there always one left over after I've done a load?!

When there aren't any words

Play music

Admission

It's hard to write. I talk, but I dont find it easy. It's admitting what you feel, it's not always fulfilling. I don't necessarily want to accept this. It's something I'm constantly fighting. Heartache. They have gone.

To feel no self worth. Completely empty, a shell. Complete heartache is the most complete thing about me. The kind where air wont fill you up and food becomes frivalry. Nothing seems worth anything without them. The staples and the crutch. It feels like I've had the air sucked out of me. I feel silly for feeling this. For talking about this. For writing this. For publishing this. Admitting this. You get the point.

Where's the plaster?

Giraffe hoofs

That's lush innit

Fuzzy's feet

It's been a while. Fuzzy has been away.

These are 'happy socks' (must find a link!). I'm kinda chuffed with this combo as I bought the fuzzster the footwarmers. Yellow pow!

Consequential 18-19.10.12

This is the first time I've stopped myself whilst trying to sleep. I have to write it out.

I close my eyes and my brain Is dancing. I open them to check the room; no curtain is swaying to let in street lights, no lamp switches linger on in my room. The only mechanics still whirring are those of my own. I didn't know a disco ball was inside my head.

The mind is a funny thing. I feel like everything around me is silent yet the music is so loud inside my head. I'm reaching the guilt stage even though there is nothing wrong. You could say, and so I should be saying that I have nothing to worry about. Work is going well, I have friends and family around me. What am I beating myself up for?

Eating habits come from feeling precisely like this. A fool. An idiot. Why does my brain work in this way? What is so chemically out of balance that I feel dizzy and sick. What is so wrong with me that I try to treat food with pleasure, to feel happy and take enjoyment from it? A golfball stomach, followed by extreme guilt for even putting the effort in. To purge. To restrict. To just try and enjoy. Why did I even bother. You don't deserve such treats. Your worthless. It's as if you want to turn yourself inside out. To maintain a balance would be nice. It would be a wonderful thing. I'd hope for a sponge which didn't swell.

I hear Dr Nandy say 'just relaxxx', then I'd go home and devour a pizza because I'd allow it. A friend once said to me 'I guess we're all just trying to regain some control in our life'. Spot on.

The irony. Most people would associate me with food. Creation is a passion yet it's sucking the life out of me too. Up down up down up down. Breathe, tiny pipes.

I hear the rain outside spreading like a comfort blanket. My window slightly open, I must try to sleep and get through this downpour.

Consequential 18.10.12...

I'm in two minds whether to post this, I'm afraid I might reveal too much.

Thank fuzzy

For the next read.

6am bus

It smelt like my Grandad's house did. Damp.

Britain is under a soggy spray.

Calm before the storm-ish

Something from this morning.

I've had my breakfast and a great cup of Origin coffee, I've read some of my favourite blogs and have noticed it's stopped raining outside. To most this would feel like an amazing start to the day.

I'd say the morning is my moment of bliss. It's usually my calm before the storm. At times, once my alarm has set off, my stomach drops, not because I'm going to work but because I'm still alive. The morning is the time of the day where I have 'space' to myself, where I am me, on my own. It's where I usually... feel my best. If the shift pattern permits I dance around the flat, prep my lunch, prep myself and put some music on to motivate me. Soon my hands are turning into fists. I keep biting my bottom lip. My legs are shaking, restless. Whilst looking out of the window I imagine walking to the tube, I realise I've been holding my breath the whole time.

It seems madness I know, I mean how can something so simple trigger a mountain of overwhelment. In a situation like this I have to focus on the facts- nothing is wrong. So why all the anxiety?

Truth is, once I'm out and I get to work I suppose I'm a little relieved once I've reached my destination. Anxiety thrives from routine. It thrives from keeping to what you know. There's a place I need to get to, boom and I'll head that way. However this routine for me is more time spent on my own. It's more time alone by myself and my thoughts - yet in public. Things that help are listening to music and a new one I've discovered, reading a book. Practicality. The side effects of anxiety: torn thumbs, headaches, breathlessness, shaky legs, restlessness, sickness, mood swings, hunched shoulders and however many more I could list.

I suppose this is why mental health is so hard to understand. It's like having a constant cold but no-one else can really see it. Sure the side effects are physical, sometimes they can be quite easy to hide.

Cheated by the rugby club

It's rare for me to travel anywhere in London, if on my own, without wearing my headphones. I contribute to ruining my hearing constantly; whether I'm on the bus, tube or walking down the street.

Last evening was a rare time when giving my ears a break provided comfort and in fact a story. I’d been sitting on the top deck of my usual ride home, reading a Rumpus journo article, when I raised an eyebrow over the conversation behind me.

“He would come home without any kit. I thought that's weird, 'you've been playing rugby.?!'..'ah I've left my kit at work'”.

This conversation developed as we halted into Elephant and Castle.

 

“He kept coming home without his kit, I decided to not think anything of it. Soon he'd come home later in the night and when I approached him he said he'd been “drinking with the boys”'.

It kept happening.

“Soon he started coming home and showering straight as he got in. ‘Don't you have showers at work?’ ‘Yeah but’” blah blah blah...

Ok.

“On a few nights he didn't come home til 5am. One day I was walking down the street and bumped into our friend Tim, he asked how Alex was- I was confused. 'He's fine...haven't you been seeing Alex at the Rugby club every Tuesday and Thursday?!' 'No?'"...

 

"So I decided to confront him and he admitted all.”

 

This girl got cheated on 'by the rugby club'. I thought a bold story to tell on the bus. Her last words were “I was absolutely gutted, it has taken some time”.

 

I might start wearing my headphones less often.

Cupcake sandwhich - oh my!

I can understand the logic behind breaking it in two, I think I'm more excited by the idea of a cupcake sandwhich. ICING!

I must bake some proper cakey British classics soon!

Consequential 16.10.12

There's something that needs to be replaced. The irreplaceable.

We cant stay inside for much longer. The barriers won't unfold and I fear, knowing they are struggling to come down again. A sentimental chemical once told me that consistency is far better than a crumble. It's far better than any momentary escapes.

To be the Emin of words, that pathetic ache in writing instead of tapestry and colour. I want to be involved and less brutal to my own piece of mind. I want to turn the switch off. All there is to wonder now is if the switch will lead to light or fast thunder. Quick, the grey emerges through my tangy night cap and these heavy skies. I am sick. These words are surely not passion but thick cobwebs keeping me in a lonely place. I see them dancing through trees at night as I walk home alone and think what it would be like to stay outside. The cold frosted nights could be a vast alternative I need to put me in my place. Right now I feel like a greedy one with so much gumption yet aside a cliff to hang it over. All I think is crackers and who the hell are you. 

I solely feel like an ugly question mark who wants to scribble on her face. 

Round 2 of 'That cake had consequence'

Hi all!

Welcome to ‘That cake had consequence’. I suppose you’re all wondering why I’m introducing myself again? I’ve finally updated the about me section to truly represent my reason for writing. I can’t hide these thoughts and feelings anymore as the desire to talk about mental health is just too prominent to ignore!

I love to write, I love creation, development and sharing ideas. For me though I find that actually getting around to making a post and blogging about something I find interesting (and even adding a few sentences) tends to be a problem. I can’t get my thoughts out. I can’t concentrate! I’m trying to balance a full time job and maintain everything else us humans tend to preoccupy ourselves with! I know full well why I struggle, even right now I’m hesitant to type these words, given the consequences they may bring. Who will be reading this? Who is going to react?

As mentioned in my previous post, I’m the one who’s been in self doubt about what I have wanted to do for ages. I’m the one who has lost out. I’m the one who... wants to talk about depression and I NEVER have the balls to. I’m hiding away behind a screen right now.

‘That cake had consequence’ is a place for me, a place for you and for anyone who wants to come here for solace, or at least to gain an idea of what it’s like to experience lets say, mental trauma... (too harsh a phrase to justify its explanation?!), mental illness? Mental whosawhatty?!... These days if you bring up anything along the lines of stress and mental instability you’re immediately judged as unreliable.

Perhaps I’ve finally found the balls to share (in a few days I can't be thinking 'oh bugger'), given what I’ve achieved myself. I've started a new career, I pay my bills on time and am not the typical twenty something in overdrafts and credit card bills (though this seems to be most 'adults' these days too, damn economy). I've not got myself into any real danger and without trying to sound like a hypocrite, I feel like I’ve proven to those I need to that it is possible to hold things together. It’s possible to gain trust and to work full time. It is possible to carry on and not hide away.

I just don’t want anyone to feel alone anymore. I think working in a corporate environment has taught me a lot about the impressions we make compared to the real impressions we want to give. There’s SUCH a massive difference, I must admit even after a year I’m still holding back slightly.

After reading a piece by Stephen Elliot and seeing that 'you have to go all the way, otherwise there's no point’ it really hit me that I’m going to have to go all the way with my writing and with my mental health. Writing for me is one of the few things which helps me get through ‘things’, it helps me cope with myself! It sounds very extreme but after becoming so aware of mental illness, stress, corporate environments and working with those who often over drink/eat to cope with workload in hope of de-stressing (compare this working environment to shopping on Oxford Circus, scary!) how could anyone argue that publicly writing a mental health blog is going to cause anymore harm? ...I think I’m prepared to challenge the trust and judgements of those who know me, of those who find this and start to question my stability. After all, this is why mental health is such a taboo topic. I can’t hide behind closed doors anymore. I've decided I can't even hide behind a computer screen. We have to come clean, who knows we all might end up better off. I'm proud to put my name to this blog, even if it helped at least one person.

Feedback, letters, comments,-anything is truly welcome. I’m open to the harsh and pleasant reality from my peers. If I'm hiding don't I become a taboo topic as well?!

 

Here goes.

 

"let your skin down around your ankles like a banana's peel"

'Last night I was in the car with Z. following the shoot and we were talking about love. I said, You can't be picky about your definition of love. She said she got bored after three times and I said that wasn't an uncommon malady. I said, Until a person gets over their thing you will not be an exception to that thing. I said, Falling out of love is a defense mechanism. I said, The problem is you're the red flag...
 

...you have to be doing something creative that is not about money at all, even if it happens to make you money later. Otherwise you'll always be angry.

It's just that when you're not doing something for free you're in trouble. Not to be confused with doing everything for free, which is when you're also in trouble. I never did internships but I did bartend for a long time, and wait tables, and answered the phones for Kaplan test prep services when I wasn't teaching their tests. And I've never been paid by the vast majority of publications I've written for. And I was a furniture mover for a year or two. You get what I mean. Though I've also never been a hard worker. My laziness is as wide and deep as the Silver Lake Reservoir. In other words, I don't know anything about my laziness, it's unmapped terrain, for me. I was a poet mostly, and then a short story writer, and eventually a novelist, but it never occurred to me that someone should be paying me to do these things. I thought that everybody should have a job, or a hustle, at least while they were writing their first book.

I basically make a living writing the things I want to write (though, I keep my expenses low, I don't make enough to have a child, unless the child came with a wife and that wife had a good, stable income). I'm running out of time. I'm dying, though not necessarily faster than anyone else. I don't want to tell people to wait, to have patience, their time will come. Though, that is the way I feel about some people.

But how about this? It's true that if you keep writing you'll write something good. If that's not enough for you I'll tell you a secret, it's not enough for me either. I don't know what is enough. Money will absolutely not do it (though my father used to say "money can't buy happiness, but it can sure make misery easier to take," and when I worked in the red light district in Amsterdam the boss, who carried a machine gun in his briefcase, used to say, "Money's headache" and all the salesmen would say, "I like headache").

Sometimes I get jealous, other times jealousy seems like the strangest thing in the world. Someone sent me an email about Lena Dunham getting a big advance on a book of essays. I don't understand why I'm supposed to be upset about that. I like Lena Dunham. I don't know her, but Girls is a good show. I'm not mad at her for being born into what seems like a good situation. She's not like the Romney Rich, the rich people who were born rich telling you if you worked harder you would have what they have. People that went to fancy schools and didn't have to take out loans telling you they worked for everything they have. Not every rich person lacks perspective. I don't hate rich people indiscriminately, though I suppose it is a small mark against them. If I was rich, I think, I would vote for politicians who wanted to raise taxes on me, but I wouldn't pay taxes if I didn't have to…

I do think, if you're getting by now, money will not make you feel better about yourself. It will, however, relieve a lot of stress. There was a study, in the New York Times a few years ago, an essay in the magazine that was then published in Best American Non-Required Reading, quantifying happiness. I'll summarize that the research showed there was a big jump in happiness between poverty and middle class (there is no "upper-middle class", upper middle class is a term used by rich people who are embarrassed by their wealth). There was virtually no relation between money and happiness after that initial jump. Once you weren't worried about food and rent that was about as good as it got, emotionally…

 

One thing that is always true, if you let it be, is that writing a book, or making a movie, or being a writer, is a series of small humiliations. It's basically in how you take things. There will always be a club you can't get into. You never get to stop paying your dues. Even when you get in the club, the door changes, the new person guarding the rope doesn't recognize you. The new person is an editor at a magazine you've written at for years. That's part of why I love actors. It's such a pure art form, to put oneself out there for ridicule, to be made fun of, to be shredded as if mauled by a tiger. The endless auditions where you are asked to cry, or take your shirt off, in front of strangers. And then they don't call you back. Sometimes they say they'll call you back, but they still don't. Emotionally, acting has to be the most difficult thing. To maintain ego in the face of constant rejection. Acting is a metaphor for life multiplied. Acting is filled with rejection, at every level. But you have to always go all the way, otherwise there's no point, and you won't do well if you don't. That's true of all of the arts, depending on your definition of art. And then you have to feel safe, and raw, let your skin down around your ankles like a banana's peel, stand naked and bleeding, and then go again.'

 

Thank you Stephen Elliot.

 

I like the part when he says 'you have to go all the way, otherwise there's no point.' It reminds me of a time when I saw a comedian live and he forced members of the audience to join his act. Their impressions were timid interpretations of his instruction. They looked silly thrusting their stuff against strangers where as the comedian in full pelt did not.

 

I think of times myself when I didn't go all the way. There have been so many times when I've held back and most of them have been to protect my feelings. There's something I want to do and have done for a long time, typically I've held back in fear that revealing too much may lead to a position I had not desired. I'm in constant self negotiation over who will suffer the most. Since this has been going on for some time I am left in self doubt - I've suffered the most over all.

 

I want the tone of 'That cake had consequence' to change for some time. I'm gonna have to be bold.

 

 

This site

Will change soon. Just saying.

Trends

I find the more trends there are the more sarcastic human nature becomes.

You're so cool. You're so cool. You're so cool.

Characters

There’s a character I know who reminds me of Jeremy Clarkson.

Sometimes he’s funny, but most of the time he’s really just trying too hard.

So weak

'a life without sadness and loss is a life without happiness and worth, and we all deserve to feel the full beauty of our lives.'

Write less. Peter Orner.

'I would like to be even more silent. The need to write thankfully only comes once in a while, and when it does I do my best to keep it short. The upshot of many books on writing seems to be: Write, write a lot. When you are done writing a lot, write some more. I wonder if this is always the best route to the creation of something enduring. Am I alone? Or do you find yourself longing to escape from a daily tsunami of words? What if people wrote less and paid attention more?'

I am a British!

I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a BritishI am a British I am a BritishI am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British I am a British

I love autumn

I love autumn. The yellow, red and orange leaves: crunchy floors, scarves, gloves, red noses and cool air.

I also love how American's say 'fall' and we say 'autumn'.

L. Tom Perry

Believe.

THROW YOUR KNOB!

I'm gonna have to check this out next year! :D

Rum & raisin

Ms cupcake

I prefer the story

Ride.

A fuzzy surprise

And he has no idea...

Wings of a dove

Madness. Listen.

Green pants with hoofs

And I love them

You know what you're talking about girl

Buns. Simple. You make them big and doughy, icing with a cherry on top. None of this glazed sweet sugar syrup crap from greggs.

I double dare you to find something this 'home grown' in London. When you find it, please bloody tell me!

Oh man is a giddy thing

Mumford and sons. Heaven!

Pole dancing

For once, just once (!) I would like to get on the bus and walk upstairs without it starting take off as I reach the top deck. I'd like to avoid being thrown side to side as I shuffle to my seat. I'd also like to not hit my head on the pole, knocking my headphones off from my head.

TFL bus drivers take a course in steady breaking please. My back can't take it anymore. Thank you.

I can't sleep without these

Ultimate comfort

Festered senses

"What kind of drinker are you? Light, Moderate, Heavy?"

"oh light drinker'...

This was me answering questions to the health nurse two weeks ago when registering at a new GP closer to home. I've never been a huge 'drinker' but enjoy a glass or two once a week...

In the last 8 days I have drank on 7 of those. I feel like the fermentation process is possibly occuring in my brain. Sometimes it's been just a glass of wine, sometimes it's been 2 or three drinks. Either way I know it's something that my body in particular isn't prepared to handle and I can't imagine (and don't really want to) what it's like for those who do drink every day, at leisure or out of stress and boredom?!

Sitting on the bus traveling to work today, I try not to snooze off given that it's 6.30am and I've been up since 20 past 5, (bed at 11pm). Specifics aside (!) , after ten minutes of my journey I realise I forgot to pop one of the few bon bons I have left over in my sweet jar, from a holiday visiting Dorset two weeks ago. As a result my mouth felt like it was festering itself. My voice is husky and brain feels like a dried out sponge.

Hand me the vitamin C!

Whether you build a tolerance to habits like this, of course some do say a glass of red a day should be no problem to our health, for those who involve drinking as part of their social life, as part of their daily routine - how the hell can you keep doing this!?

Cribbage

Yesterday two guys were playing cribbage in the staff room. I thought it was cute.

John and The Great British Bake Off

I've come to realise that any guy who can bake (not 'cook') is hot. There's something undeniably attractive about the science of baking and hearing those facts come from a mans voice.

It's a great coincidence considering I'm a nut job over cake and icing.

I think John from The Great British Bake Off is brilliant. Nerdy of me to say, I know, but just have a watch and you might enjoy it.

A little update (gosh you must think she's so pathetic)

I try and use this blog as a platform to practise creative writing, to force my interests upon the reader and to quite frankly keep a log of moments and stories I find quite nice.

Lately, which really means over the last year, I've got worse at committing to my blog. I work full time and in front of a screen all day. You would think this is a marvellous opportunity to write and make my own pieces of magic- wrong. It's actually the time I dread to write because I find it SO hard to concentrate and I'm pretty paranoid about doing 'personal' things here (though allowed), whilst really I feel I should be developing new ideas for work. I HAVE to get the balance, straight...!

Whether it's because I read all day and think all day that by the time I come home I'm so tired, the last thing I want to do is write about anything (and in turn I run), I know deep down I'm really not helping myself or anyone who chooses to read this blog by producing nothing.

I suppose this piece is a honest confession. I suppose I don't really want to admit why I don't write. I suppose I'm just going to give it a try, regardless of the topic and fear of judgement and wondering whether I'm revealing too much on the page. I have to write and at least make that promise to myself.

If anything you could find my mad rambles entertaining.

Please wish me luck, I need it.

Rock your spurtle for World porridge day

It's breakfast time, whilst sticking to my passion I thought I'd give you a little heads up, on the 10th of October it's World Porridge Day!

Enjoy your porridge and also help those at Mary's Meals:

'World Porridge Day aims to raise awareness of the role that porridge plays at Mary’s Meals projects in Malawi, where a daily mug of maize-based ‘likuni phala’ is an incentive for children to go to school.'

Sometime I have mine with brown sugar, sometimes I have it with maple. Sometimes I have it with banana and cinnamon and sometimes I have it with a load of berries and nuts like a birdie.

How do you have yours?


Porridge!!!

When she's gone

Housemate was away this weekend.

Here's what I got up to.

'You are the best company, the person who will always be around'

‘We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.’ ~Voltaire

Development costs

This link which I have kept in my list of things to watch back over is one of the reasons why I love the internet and development. All it takes is a few words, a click and your idea becomes real.

The perfect ratio

Perfect icing.

Perfect sponge.

Chocolate vanilla split. Thank you Ms Cupcake. Only in Brixton!!!

Almost Famous

Timeless.

'Who needs a "crowd?"  You're unique.  You're two years ahead of everybody.  Take those extra years and do what you want.  Go to Europe for a year!  Take a look around, see what you like!  Follow your dream! You'll still be the youngest lawyer in the country.  Your own great grandfather practiced law until he was 93. Your dad was so proud of you.  He knew you were a pro nominally accelerated child.'

Friday

Bolognese. Home made garlic butter on French stick. Moz. Olives. Red wine. Film. Blanket.

Hi Friday

F.F.

He got red

I don't owe you anything

'it has been made stunningly clear to me that the things you love don’t owe you anything – not success, not plaudits, not a decent night’s sleep, nothing. You give them your effort and devotion because they deserve it, because their presence turns a light on in your dim little life and there will never be enough ways to say thank you.

You can’t confuse what you do in the service of ambition with what you do for love. I love my kid and she literally vomits all over me constantly and I don’t care. I love writing, too, and I’m sorry to admit that I was using it to selfish ends.'


Here's me. This weekend I will run, I will write, I will cook. I will drink. I will make stupid faces in the mirror. I will put bright lipstick on and fuss about with my hair. I will drink coffee and get lost in your eyes. I will frown and tell myself it's all over. I will listen to that song which makes me dance everytime and then realise I feel so lonely. I will look at myself and laugh. I realise it's all so silly. I'll tell you everything will be ok. It has to. I have to. Otherwise, what?

I will stop hiding. I will reach out to you. I have to be less hard on myself and less hard on you. I have to take advantage of your words. I have to make these words mine. You will think I'm a nutcase 20 something drama whosawhatty... I'm still trying not to say 'yo' and I am gonna fucking miss you.


'I set the book aside. Over the last year, during nap times and on park benches, I started writing something new, a small memoir about learning to live with a baby and the British. Because it was my own story and I did not have to worry if I was being unfair or inaccurate, I wrote without fear. I did not think about how it might sound to an agent or a publisher or anyone else on the business end of books. When I finished it I felt a sense of lightness in my heart. How freeing it is to write in your own voice. To paraphrase Kate Hudson in “Almost Famous,” the truth just sounds different.'


Half the time I don't believe the reality of what I see on the page. Most of the time I don't write because I'm scared of myself. Sometimes I don't write because I'm aware it will cut into my sleep, times when I've already switched the light off and the blanket has crept over my ears, fetal and warm. Seeing the words is facing reality. The hardest part is acceptance.


'And then I sent that to a publisher and it got rejected too! I tapped into the voice of my soul, and that also was rejected. My spirit animal has been kicked in the nuts. My relationship with writing today is neither glamorous nor exciting. We will not get each other into fancy places; we will not make anyone rich. We have fallen instead into a pattern much closer to the comfortable grooves of love: two homebodies shuffling around the same desk, battling frustration and disappointment, witnessing failure and choosing, against all odds, to stay.'


It's articles like this which make me realise I'm being such a prick. I read three of the kind today which kick me in the arse. I think too much about you as well. I know I'M the problem and I'm the ONLY ONE who's going to change things. I'm the one who's pushed those who care about me away. I've not let them help and now I have less.

I'm obsessed with perspective. I'm obsessed with answers. I'm obsessed with mental health. I'm worried about a number of things I am not quite ready to admit yet. I have to run. For fitness and for health. I have to eat & drink for happy. I can't fear the C word anymore. It's not what you run from but what you run for. Here's honesty. Here are the lines I don't write because you may read it and who else may be following, by chance...

Here's the thing, who's going to take notice of a liar? of a front? of the giggler? Who really needs more bullshit in their life? You are just an example of a safety summer liaison and even you bailed.

How can a screen provide more comfort than the comfort from a face? It's just too easy to hide away and I'm sick of it.

Have a good weekend everyone. Because what I want doesn't exist anymore, my weekend begins, by choice, alone.

Make a mess on the page

'I have yet to hear any great writer advise that the best work comes when you ignore your instincts and focus intently on fear and self-doubt.'

I'm telling you to slow down

Like this girl has realised.

"I'm still here, and I'm still whole."

Read it. I love it. She makes sense. Learn.

Morning pages: take 1

Another warm lug and it feels like heaven. I'm thinking of breakfast and the gooey pb spreading on hot toast. I'm thinking of those raspberries I'm having to melt in a pool of pink for their tangy taste. I'm on the first and already want to brew the second. I must get dressed and pick a outfit I feel 'so so' in and walk to the tube in a wet flux. I'm so glad I bought these flowers they remind me of Nana and listening to radio 2 news at 9am. I like your tired face and that you have digestives with coffee. You aren't a morning person. I look forward to quiet Saturday mornings hangover free because I already feel 'too old' for that. We are all never too old. In this drying state I gulp coffee like warm answers and already I look forward to seeing you and hearing the acknowledged cough that you're in and we will get through this together. I'm so ugly at times. I'm about to read these joys and I look at the time seeing it disappear, my moments of grace before time for front and sensibility. My brain feels dry from those two drinks and that is why I didn't order another glass. First cup gone in 15. Delightful.

Stop spooning me

'Dust bust' your brain

with morning pages.

here goes... tomorrow.

She's so cute.

Say hi

To readers from America and Russia.

Hellooooooooooo! and thank you.

Breakfast in pictures

I'm very please to share the BBC's pictures to represent breakfast time.


You know you want to sing the song...

'Paul got through life the way most people get through particularly good sandwiches.'

'He rubbed his eyes again, took a sip of his coffee, and looked back outside. There were three women now. A group of individuals walked by the two women. One of them was wearing a hat. That hat cost $80. That man had $80 to spend on a hat. That man had a job and a lifestyle which afforded him the cost of a week’s worth of Paul’s groceries for something the man could wear on his head. Paul thought to himself: the man is wearing my groceries on his head. In a way, Paul was right. In many others, he was not. Paul chuckled to himself. Silly guy.'

Children squeal

Sometimes the squeals of a child are comforting, they remind me of the innocence in the world.

The Saturdays

I remember your supermarket pace. Both hands on the trolly with a piece of lined journo paper clinched between your knuckles. I hear the jangle of your keys, bag hooked to shoulder and curls blowing as you glide the tiled floor. The ostrich neck strains whilst mouth open slight, concentrating.

The date isn't long enough so you crouch down to reach another. I'm watching you pick out milk and silently talk to yourself, already working out what to search for next. Your chocolate cords drip across the floor and pink toenails breathe for air. You wore flip flops in winter.

You never stuck to that list. We came home with impulse delights. This trip would be our social grace. Teamwork. It's where we came together, Saturday night by the fire after shopping for our evening treat. We came as three. Dinner, dessert, and perhaps that cheap DVD. Usually we would scroll the entertainment section, browse home and spend too much money on sugar and cheese. It was our weekend escape. A rare moment where we would be spoilt for choice.

Two of us would carry the shopping in whilst you text on your phone. By the time the boot was empty you'd still be sat in the front of the car finishing your last words. I would get stressed as it would never fit in the fridge. We managed somehow.

The animal kingdom

This won't make sense to many, but I'm glad I'm not scared anymore. I'm thankful for not running. I'm pleased I was myself. I'm glad not to have held back too much. I'm happy I asked.

It pays to put yourself out on the line.

"It's breakfast time, breakfast time..."

...won't you have some breakfast of mine!"


Origins Coffee holla.

A absolute fantastic birthday present from my family :)

"White people problems"

"I was hanging out last night with a friend who is a psychologist who explained that desire is like a muscle. When people don't masturbate for a while they lose the urge to masturbate, like losing the urge for water as you dehydrate. I didn't know people lost the urge for water when they were dehydrated. We were at a spontaneous dinner party, five of us just dropping by two friend's place. How often does this happen anymore? Never. Even the children, someone said, text, and call, and make Facebook dates, and don't even show up. Just stopping by is a beautiful thing. 

Our friends had made some pasta with pesto and salad and they put on some more pasta. We talked about writing. Five of us were primarily writers, two of us were involved in careers more interesting. Someone talked about getting in the habit of being alone with her thoughts to unpack her experiences. That was how she lived her life. She mentioned a family member who spent all of his time with other people, organizing. It was only from their interaction that she realized how strange her life was. Of course talking about the practice of writing there was an obvious comparison to the practice of masturbation.

 

Then someone said that many problems were born of priveledge. If you're in a war zone, for example, you don't think about how your weird mother fucked you up. You're concerned with the bombs falling. Which made me think of the term, "White people problems." I hate that term. It's a term that was interesting for a moment, a statement on socio-economics. Then it became a term of indifference, a reason not to care about other people. Kurt Cobain, for example, was killed by white people problems. 

Then a writer said she worried she didn't read enough books. What was she really talking about? I think she meant she wasn't living up to her ideal self. She felt guilty. She felt unhealthy. We were talking about the internet. About click click click. The psychologist explained healthy interactions with bad habits. Something about creating parameters for yourself and then forgiving yourself when you didn't follow them. And I wondered where the line was. I thought maybe the internet had nothing to do with it. Let's say, for example, you bite your nails, and you have a routine that it's harder and harder to break out of, and you're worried that you spend too much time online. Well, the problem isn't that you spend too much time online. You might have an unhealthy relationship with the internet, but the internet isn't the problem. You're the problem.

Love,

stephen"

I've been hiding away for too long. I should be making that 'mess on a page'. Stephen Elliot brings me back to life. I read blogs with envy. I skim twitter wearing a frown. This girl makes my breath. The sun is finally shining and drying the pavement like a cracked face.

I should probably go running. I'd rather use the time to write instead of fear the unhealthy. As a consequence, I'm still at work glued to the screen in case any words of glory appear. Just in case one of those smile to yourself moments occur.

Check out Stephen Elliot, he's delightful. His emails make my day.

I wanna always feel like part of this was mine