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.