A Letter to my Labels

Dear Depression and Anxiety,

You'd think I'd be used to you now; to those awful labels which just won't seem to budge. It's taken me a long time to be able to accept the diagnosis, to accept that I wasn't 100% "well," even though I am mostly a very healthy bean (physically anyway). I was so worried you'd come to define me, that if people found out I was struggling they'd call me a fake, or a drama queen (I mean we all know I can be rather melodramatic), so I buried it. But when my friends started having to come and physically drag me out of bed, or got abuse for simply trying to help me or tell me to go to the doctor, I thought maybe it was time to re-evaluate my situation. 

We won't go into the time where I told myself (and anyone who'd listen) it was a phase brought on by the stress of deadlines/pressure to succeed. Turns out long after those deadlines passed, and that degree certificate was handed to me, you guys are still here. You're still bloody here. I like the dormant times, the days when I can simply tell you to "fuck off," because I know most of what you tell me are lies anyway. I like the days when I barely hear you at all. Obviously those days never last. Sometimes the terrible twosome (that's you by the way) ambush me for absolutely no discernible reason. You two make my life really fucking hard. I never know whether I am going to wake up as someone whose smile is her own or someone whose brain is determined to fuck her over. It is not okay. I am not okay. But you know what? Contrary to what you seem so determined to make me believe, that IS fine. Admitting pain, numbness, fear, anger... All of this is fine, I am human and even though most of the time I feel crazy because I know none of this is happening in the "real world," it doesn't make it any less valid.

Some days, you make me feel like I will never win. Some days you make me feel absolutely nothing at all, and others I just hurt so much I want to die (I'd love to say that was a straight up exaggeration but alas no). Some days, I am scared that you two are all I am, and all I'll ever be. Tonight? It's definitely one of those ones. So I am sat here, furiously typing away to remind myself, and you two idiots, that you're a part of me, but you don't and shall never, define me.

Who am I? I am a worrier (thanks anxiety you bastard), but I am also a warrior. I have fought hard to exist. I will always fight for what I believe in and I will always fight to be more than what you two try to reduce me to. I am soft hearted and feel deeply, which used to feel like a curse, but these things give way to compassion and empathy. I am curious, I love to learn and since learning to live with you morons, I have learned so much about myself and what I am capable of. I refuse to reduce my achievements because depression and anxiety make me feel unworthy of them. I refuse to shrink away from the things that I love doing (and now scare me) because I am more than a couple of labels. I am so much more than the wreck who cannot get out of bed, or who can't keep a steady hand to do a statement lip or winged eyeliner (at work this is kind of a problem). I am so much more than my bad days and I think now more than ever I need to hold onto that.

You can try to make me feel ashamed of you, you can try to steal my personality, but honestly? As long as there's hope there is strength. And where there is strength, I can survive. And if I go down? I'll die fighting.

Helen xx

24 on the 24th: An Unexpected Victory

This time tomorrow I will be 24. I love my birthday: aside from Christmas and Shrove Tuesday, it is my favourite day of the year. Plus some small part of me is pleased by the fact I turn 24 on the 24th of the month. So far so good right?

Everything was fine until I realised that I will be well into my twenties, 2 years out of uni and my life doesn't look anything like I thought it would. This filled me with an overwhelming sense of anxiety and disappointment which, honestly, I have really struggled to shift. The funny thing is if you were to ask me exactly what I was expecting life to look like for me, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I could maybe list some rudimentary materialistic things I expected to have/be closer to, but I couldn't paint a detailed picture of an alternative me if I tried.

I expected:
- to be living away from home, saving for a place of my own.
- to be working full time in a job with prospects for progression/already be progressing.
- to be in a relationship

I am:
- living back at home with the parents, on wages that don't allow for saving
- working part time in a job without much prospect of progression.
- single

As I look at these two lists, I realise that this time a year ago I was, on paper, much closer to my expectations of myself. I had moved out of the parents' house, I was living in a city I called "mine." I was working full time, and though I wasn't managing to save, I was still earning and living off my own money. This time a year ago I was in a relationship that made me the happiest girl alive. I had not long got my new car, and was feeling more like "a real adult." Pondering this makes me sad and acutely aware of the fact that on paper, it looks like I've taken a step backwards (or 3).

But, what I don't tell everyone (well I guess now I am telling cyberspace), and what a lot of people didn't see, were the realities of my "great on paper," life. I was living away from home, but struggling to cook/eat properly and generally look after myself. It was hidden well by my job; because I always had lunch of some kind, people weren't to know I rarely ate dinner, or sometimes even breakfast escaped me. My housemate probably thought I was some sort of weird hermit since I would sometimes go for days without seeing him. Money was always an issue; I was more or less living from pay-day to pay-day and had more or less got to a point where I stopped caring (depression does that to a person). The relationship I was in had cracks, which I failed to see until it was too late; lack of communication being the main factor there. I had become so unhappy in my job that it had turned me into someone I really disliked; think judgemental/stressy/snappy/catty and not to mention a nervous wreck. I was determined to hold on to my independence because in my mind admitting I needed real help meant admitting I was failing. It meant I was unable to be a "real adult," despite what my driving license and passport say.

Fast forward to November/December and I was still refusing to admit that something needed to change. I was not getting any better, in fact, I was miserable. My anxiety had improved and the situation at work had got to a point where I could turn up, but I was still desperate to leave. After spending 2 glorious weeks off at Christmas with my family, I realised I had to do something. I made a game plan to move back home in April the following year: I'd save a few months wages & then take some time out. I don't know what it was but something snapped: I handed in my notice as soon as I got back in the new year and moved home at the beginning of February.

Today, I am sat in my pjs, alternately crying, typing and drinking tea. It turns out some of this is still pretty raw because I haven't revisited it since I've been back in my little home town. But you know what? I am happier. I am living at home with the parents, so the stress of having to plan/shop/buy meals is gone. I have my support network in the next room, and my part time job is great. I love not being behind a desk and just by the nature of what I do I physically can't take work home with me. I have time to see my close friends and finally feel like I am beginning to heal. I am discovering something I am good at and in being single I'm learning the importance of being who I need, instead of trying to be what others want.

So when I turn 24 tomorrow, I will celebrate and dance, and be irritatingly, nauseatingly happy, because for one of the first times in my life, I have become exactly what I needed for myself. In my mind that is far more important than any expectations or check-list of achievements, so I am totally a-okay (or learning to be) with how my life looks because I STILL HAVE ONE.

Is your weakness really a weakness?

I shall begin by stating the obvious: I don’t like a lot about myself. To those who know me this is old news and I can already picture some of you shaking your heads, while the rest of you roll your eyes and tut in disapproval. But that's the truth and growing up, I learned to despise who I am. I thought all of the things that made me me were weaknesses: I thought I was weak. I believed I was ugly, worthless and a little bit stupid. I blame it on a childhood and school life where I was made to feel that I was too sensitive, too vulnerable and God forbid someone should call me soft hearted. I hated it. I grew up learning that I had to suppress that side of me. 

Little was I to know that these things that I suppressed and replaced with biting sarcasm and well-placed bitchy comments, would actually prove to be some of the qualities that people complimented me on most often: soft heartedness, openness and vulnerability. That sensitivity has brought me strength, the softness I choose to keep as an act of rebellion and the vulnerability? Well that still hurts sometimes, but honestly? I'd rather have that than be hardened into the shape of bullies who taught me they were "tough."

I know the beginning may have read like a sob story (sorry about that one), but what I am trying to say is that our biggest weaknesses can actually become our greatest strengths: that stubbornness? It could give you drive to stick at something until you succeed. The bluntness? Combined with a bit of tact it can earn you respect. Perfectionist? Well at work things need to be ordered and organised; you could succeed at management. 

So where have my "weaknesses" taken me? They contribute a great deal to my writing; it is honest (sometimes possibly too honest), raw and open. I write to feel less alone, so others feel less alone and without its rawness or its vulnerability, there would be no truth in it. So yes, I may sometimes show too much of myself in what I put on paper, but why should I keep quiet when I have a voice and a platform that others may not?   

Seeing Stars

I think sometimes we don't get what we deserve; some of us get more, others of us get woefully less, and a few unlucky sods get screwed over by circumstance & timing. Unfortunately, a lot of my friends and loved ones have recently fallen into the latter category. This is especially true when it comes to relationships/romance. When these don't work out the way we'd hoped or imagined it's too easy to feel worthless. Rejection is never easy to deal with and I've found it has a nasty habit of making me feel cheap, or, well really rejected!

This time? I got so close... I almost fell. At least that's what I kept telling myself. "It's ok, you didn't quite make it, you didn't go over the edge." An almost was fine; it meant nothing would break. Nothing needed to. It turns out I was wrong. Yes; my heart finds itself more or less intact, but I still find my sense of worth, and my ego in pieces by my side. I'd be nursing that injury for a while.

But my God, I wanted it to be the dreaded four letter word. I wanted it to be mutual. I had accepted quite a long time ago that the love I want wouldn't look like it does in romance novels: volatile, wild and crazy. I want the kind of love that knows peace. I want the safety of the person whose solidity reassures me, the easy conversation that feels like it never began but simply continued, the electricity which means that clothes will never be on for long in their company, and to get to know and love all the little things that make that person so uniquely themselves. I want someone who will fight for me, who will be able to reciprocate the same ferocity with which I'll battle to keep what we have. I want someone who will think of me not just in their drunken stupor but the morning after when they're nursing a hangover.

I want to be the woman they choose. Knowing that at this point I wasn't "the choice," cast a blinding light on my flaws. It didn't matter that it may not have been "my fault,"or that it was just bad timing, all I could see were the ways I was both too much and not enough. I'd curse myself for being too fast to fall, too soft on occasion, and sometimes too forgiving. I set my standards high and my walls higher. But the thing is, it's either all or nothing with me. I can't just dip a toe in and test the temperature. I have to just leap. That often happens while I am stood there denying it and desperately telling myself "almost" is where I am at. This is because almost-love is safer than saying it aloud. It allows time to get to know the person, and lets you still keep some of your walls. Almost-love means though your sense of worth or ego maybe bruised when it ends, at least your heart remains intact.

The unexpected problem with this almost-love though, is that when/if it ends before you fall off the precipice, you discover the grief of lost possibilities. A myriad of futures, some of which you hadn't even considered before, are now painfully out of reach. You know there's every likelihood of an exciting future with the "right person," but it will never be the same, because you aren't the same. People alter us; and we alter them... and together? No two daydreams will be identical. You'll tailor them to fit you, to fit the person who's stealing your heart... And so when the almost-love ends, you lose a potential version of yourself.

So for now? Aside from eating copious amounts of ice cream and consuming similarly copious amounts of alcohol... I have been burying myself in my new job, causing trouble with my dog, and getting dressed up. Surrounding ourselves with the people who love and support us helps us to heal, and whether it's love or almost-love... Next time it comes around I'll be a much me-er version of myself, and I hope I'll be ready to fall. But will I see stars or will they fall too?

The Return

I had visualised that coming back to my blog, hitting the keyboard would be far easier than it has been. So far there have been 3 drafts of this post; each and every one deleted and completely rewritten. It isn't that I don't know what to say, it's that I don't know how exactly to say it. Its entirely likely I am overthinking the entire process... After all one of the best pieces of advice I've been given is to get it all down on paper because it is easier to work with something than nothing. So here goes.

2016 finished with me defining it as a steaming pile of crap (eloquently put I know). I had been stuck in a situation where I was constantly undermined, and when I tried to speak out was merely told to "toughen up." It made me feel worthless, incompetent and useless. I was beginning most of my days by wondering what they'd find to call me out on this time, which rules they had introduced that I hadn't been adhering to. I was ending my days exhausted, convinced I was useless and incapable of the language I had spent so long learning. I stopped writing. I stopped believing I had anything useful or relevant to contribute. I told people it was the exhaustion, and to a certain degree it was. But truthfully? I felt so miserably inadequate that I felt nobody would want to hear my story anyway.

I stopped horse riding; admittedly that had been a long time before 2016, but in the past that was my refuge. The horse didn't care how good/bad ugly you felt, the instructor didn't give a shit if you'd failed your last essay. It was myself and the animal; learning to read each other and bond by instinct. For those hours I could be sweaty as hell, covered in mud, or drenched through from the rain, but it didn't matter. Because in that moment all that mattered was me and the horse. Last year? I didn't have my refuge. I didn't have the fitness or the financial stability to seek it either. I was stuck stewing in my inadequacies, and drowning in a situation that was slowly but surely turning me into a toxic, bitchy version of myself.

Shortly before Christmas, my relationship ended out of the blue. I don't think I'd been able to pinpoint a single moment so exactly before then, but I remember when I felt my heart break. I felt the truth wind me, and started to drown in the grief of knowing that I'd be the only one mourning. After all, who mourns someone who is still breathing, and loving and functioning? That is when the grief became my private loss; because while I knew she'd still be living, her happiness would no longer involve me. That is a bitter pill to swallow as anyone knows. But I still felt ridiculous mourning the loss of a person who was lost only to me.

Slowly everything has started to look up; 2017 has been an opportunity for a fresh start. I am leaving Norfolk behind and coming home to the hills of Sussex where I grew up. I am apprehensive because I don't have a "plan," and I don't know what this year will be for me. But I began by proving to myself that I am a survivor and I plan to carry on not just by showing I can survive, but flourish.

Swimming the Channel

It's almost half way through my 8 week internship. I began the job knowing frankly, very little about European programmes and the workings of the EU in general. It was a little overwhelming because it's been a month of firsts... First 9-5 job, first multilingual job (which feels amazing) and first time applying what was mostly self-taught to a professional environment. Admittedly I was overwhelmed, but I managed to get through my first day without too many hiccups (or a hospitalisation! YAY) and almost a month in I am getting used to life in the office.

Most days I feel like I am simply playing dress-up, swiping in and playing the role of responsible adult. It all feels pretty surreal. The first week I was definitely lost, and I have never spent so much time swatting up (both in and out of the office) on EU regulations (Who knew there were so many?!) and what "our" programme does (oh and not to mention all the endless acronyms...). The team is fairly small, but its evolution fascinates me. According to the "Big Boss," the France (Channel) England programme is 2 years old, almost to the day. In its infancy he was the only one working on it, until the Programme manager joined almost a year later. Since then, the team has steadily grown, and pretty soon there'll be more than 20 of us. I say us because I feel pretty attached to it all now; after all I share in both its success and its challenges. Conversely, I also feel like I am sort of an "honorary member," because as an intern I am only there for 8 weeks. Still, I have been lucky enough this week to be a part of the office buzz; which is that our programme, operating from a little corner of the UK, with facilitators & partners across the programme area (south coast of England and North Coast of France), has been officially adopted by the European Commission (Check it out: we have our own official press release!). I feel really proud of everyone and to be a part of this. I know I for one will be tracking its progress even after I've finished my internship.

So... Cheers or Santé to the next month of being a France (Channel) England team member!

Leave My Words

I am exhausted all the time. I barely have the capacity to type. That is why this will be short. I'll try to explain: After a long break from writing I've returned to the keyboard desperate to put down something that meets my standards. But the concentration in itself is totally shot. Then you add in the inability to remember words (sometimes little ones, sometimes big ones), the constant mistyping, and the abrupt end to my normal habit of having some soft acoustic music on to inspire me (turns out the music renders concentration impossible & makes my headache go from awful to unbearable). I think where I was going with that jumbled mess, was that all these things have combined to create my inner writer's worst enemy. I read somewhere that if you can't write then read. And I have been reading plenty. When I can't seem to find the words, someone else says it so much better. Fatigue has invaded virtually every aspect of my life. And now my words. Please. It can take everything. But please not my words. They're as much a part of me as my physical body.

Fadulting

The title pains me a little, but only because it is not a "real word" and thus is underlined in angry red squiggles. However, it seems the only perfect title for this post. It was coined by a great friend during a Skype session which was spent:
a) freaking out about adult life
b) trading stories about moments when adult life and/or behaviour seemed to elude us
c) wondering how we were ever allowed to become grown-ups

The word fadulting is perfect. Its roots: a hybrid of the words fake and adulting (also not a "real word") which seemed to perfectly summarise this limbo stage we both felt we were stuck in. It is a point where we have graduated university, so can no longer use the excuse "we're students," nor can we continue to reject the realities of being an adult: paying bills, earning money, holding down a job to earn said money. These horrible truths are both sad and inevitable. We had both spent 4 years (yes choose languages, you get a whole extra year of the student excuse!) being remarkably talented ostriches and somehow emerged the other side with a good degree and a talent employers wanted.

Fast forward 3 months: graduation has been and gone and here I am: about to start my third job (don't even ask) and wondering how I have got to 22 and still feel like a child playing dress up when I wear a suit. I don't feel grown-up. I don't feel ready to call myself a professional. I still feel about as lost and confused as I was at 18, as a baby-faced fresher. Yet I have held a job for a month, am starting a project that may actually have a serious impact and in the workplace people actually value me, and wanted to hire me. I pay rent on a house, (mostly) look after myself and make sure I eat and sleep enough... But I still find myself in a state of disbelief. Is this me? Most often I feel like I am role playing... I simply make myself acceptable to the adult world, when really I would like to be running around playing princesses and dragons with the other 8 year olds.

The amazing thing about this is that I am slowly learning: Isn't this all of us? Most of my friends (even the ones who are now married and doing even more grownup things than I can process) admit to feeling this way. That they simply "fake it" most of the time, but behind closed doors, outside of those Instagram feeds and tweets about promotions... They are just as lost as I am. As it turns out we are all just Ostriches finally being forced to emerge from the sand.

So my advice? Ok, it's actually Dory's advice; "Just keep swimming," and "fake it 'til you make it." We are all lost, but it doesn't mean we need to worry about this. I think we find our paths in our own time and on our own terms. So for now, I am attempting to enjoy the journey, love what I have and chase what I want. Oh and I can't possibly forget that I will continue to "fadult" until eventually I don't need that bloody "F" anymore.

The Love We Deserve

After an incredibly depressing and annoying essay of a post (sorry about that one everyone) I was challenged to write something positive. Where my head is at right now, that is a pretty big ask. I usually like to consider myself less pessimistic but at present, when having various realities and home truths forcefully rammed home to me, I am not a bundle of joy. I didn't know what to write about: my first thought was a list of things/people/places I am grateful for. Well I dismissed that idea immediately upon realising the post would end up sarcastic, bitchy and would probably paint a rather impressive portrait of that little green monster in me. Trust me, that'd be about as much fun to read as sticking needles in your eyes.

So here is the one I settled on: Love. The kind we crave and the kind we deserve, and the kind I hope all those precious to me find. If it gets vom-worthy then feel free to stop reading, but I have attempted to make it as readable as possible. Ok I lie... It may induce vomit. My apologies.

I think we all deserve the kind of love that makes your insides flutter, your smile bigger and your eyes gleam. We deserve the kind of love that makes us see magic in the other person... And maybe even appreciate the magic in ourselves. It's the kind that makes the world better: life can be falling apart and pulling you in opposite directions, but you know in the moment you're with that person that it'll be ok, because when you have them you have all the strength you need. We deserve the kind of love that makes us want to remind the other person of the good that they can't see in themselves. It's the kind of love where that isn't hard, because in our mind all we need to do is remind them of who they are. It'd be the kind of love where they feel it too: when they remind you of who you are, you don't see everything you hate about yourself but you begin to see yourself through their eyes. It's like seeing for the first time. All the things you despise are suddenly pulled into the open, and you hate them being exposed but you realise that you are loved for EVERYTHING you are, "bad things" included. We deserve the kind of love that makes us want to be better, the kind where you want to become everything the other person sees in you. We deserve the kind of love that makes us happy. We deserve the love that is made stronger by friendship: we know the other person is crazy gorgeous, but knowing how to be best friends with them too? That's gold dust.

I like to think I am an optimist. Many friends have already found this strange, alien concept, and have made a lifelong commitment to that person. Most of you are my age, or even younger. This is something I have openly admitted to being slightly terrified of... but if you have found something as precious as the kind of love you deserve, then KEEP IT. And keep in mind how precious it is and how blessed you are. For those still searching, who have been injured in the search; please don't shut yourself off. Don't run away... I really do believe it's out there, and you deserve it. I know you do. And I really sincerely hope you find what you deserve, a love as precious as you are.

Reining in the Crazy (and Failing)

I had a whole host of posts lined up and written (shocking I know) but none that were of a publishable standard (well not in my books). So here I am sat at the screen desperate to get all my thoughts on paper from the last, well honestly? Probably the last month. Life has been mental and every time I feel like I am starting to rein in the crazy and settle something happens. Sometimes it was something small, like a bad day and everything feeling like crap, sometimes it was something a little bigger, like the hunt for a job and a house with a tight deadline so I could fulfil my wish of staying in Norfolk for another year and sometimes, as I am finding, the crazy is kind of a big deal. The latest crazy was: losing a job in the exact span of a day and a half, combined with and linked to, a trip to the doctor that turned into a week's stay in hospital and an operation, as well as a very satisfying amount of morphine and some spectacular bruises to show for it. Oh and did I mention that this has left me unable to eat properly, housebound, completely grumpy and less than grateful for my body, all in the WEEK BEFORE and DAY OF my UNIVERSITY GRADUATION CEREMONY?!

Dramatic. Melodramatic. That's me and how I am often described. However, at present I feel I am not exaggerating. The last few weeks have been filled with so much drama and whether it's the lack of food, exhaustion from the pain and frustration of being mentally ok but physically rather crippled, and weak... I feel completely angry with a lot of things. But right now? I am angry that I was too unwell to appreciate the day that was meant to be exciting, special, and filled with lots of photos of myself and my wonderful course-mates. Instead I decided to honour a motto I tend to live by: Never look as crap as you feel. And good god did I succeed! I put on the beautiful dress I ordered in the sale, did a full face of makeup and looked more well than I had in weeks. I'd even venture to declare that I looked good. But I was in tears before the ceremony even started. I was placed in my row, but it was less than 10 minutes before I made a speedy exit. I saw the concerned looks of my coursemates, how could they know after all? Many assumed it was a panic attack. For once, no, I felt horribly nauseous and instead of remembering the moment on that stage and savouring the fact that this was only going to happen once and I had earned the right to a pretentious gown and stupid cap, I was instead chanting in my head:
"Just breathe, in and out, in and out. Ok now sip some water, but not too much. Being sick is not an option." I blamed the breakfast I needed to give me some energy. I hated everything in those moments and that hour was one of the longest of my life. The same goes for the walk across the stage. That was the longest walk of my life, plus instead of looking at the Chancellor as I shook her hand, I am pretty sure I looked through her just like I did everyone, as I tried to find my feet and keep them planted.

I saw friends, hugged them, congratulated them, all the while still wishing I could be at home in bed, but knowing that I needed to be at my graduation, to be with them because if I wasn't I'd only look back with regret. I am in photos, my family were with me, I have my certificate and after feeling how I felt, it means more now than it ever has.

I am pretty certain that following this post I will get messages asking why I never said anything about my "adventures" in hospital, or why I didn't announce it until now. I didn't because I had no idea how hard it would be to fend off. I thought (as per usual) I'd just, you know, soldier through. That's what strong people do right? But right now I don't feel very strong. I just feel tired. Plus when faced with the pity, those "Are you ok?" questions, the concern, I will pretty much be guaranteed to crumble into a puddle of tears and emotion or turn purple with rage or green with envy. Basically, I am unpredictable and emotional and NOT in a positive way at all. I like to keep my mess to myself usually, but on this occasion I wanted to fill you in and let you know why I have been a little AWOL recently.

Mental Illness and the Church

I have felt compelled to write about this for a while now. After spending almost a year wandering, lost and aimless on a path which let’s face it was pretty lonely at times, I finally came back to a place where I could accept God. Accept? You ask? But you’re a Christian; you have been since you were 16. Yes. That is exactly what you may think. But this past 12 months have been difficult in ways I never expected or imagined. I spent nearly every single day fighting a battle of wills that I always felt (and sometimes still feel) on the brink of losing. In the lowest moments I cried out to Jesus. I wept, shouted, even whispered my desperate prayers for help. What I was met with, by the God, who “hears every single prayer” was Nothing with a capital N. I was met with deafening silence and it angered me. I was surrounded by people telling me that even as a “good Christian” it is always us who turn away first, and it is us, imperfect broken humans, who reject God long before he rejects us. When we hear his voice again, it is because we have been “shutting ourselves off” from it, drowning it out in any and every way possible because “sometimes listening to his truth is harder than rejecting his voice.”  You may have noticed at this point the obscene number of quotation marks and I am sure as you read this, it is in the voice of someone who has been embittered and hurt by the God, or the religion who is supposed to carry us in our darkest hour. I would also now like to highlight 4 words in the previous sentence: “the God or the religion.” It would seem I cannot determine who is at fault here and it is very important that I make the distinction now between the two, for they are almost polar opposites in their description.  God: He is a perfect loving being who, though sometimes inexplicable and incomprehensible, has great plans for every single one of his people. He hears every single prayer and values every member of his precious flock.
Religion: on the outside this defines what Christianity is as a whole, but it is also made up of people. People who are broken, imperfect and often misguided. This is important because it means that even guided by God, and his spirit. People make mistakes. They say things, which aren’t always helpful. And one of the things I think the church doesn’t handle particularly well, are those who are afflicted with mental illnesses: Illnesses which destroy the soul and even in the medical field and wider society are not properly understood. They are often just as devastating as severe physical illness, and wreak havoc on people’s lives. This last year has been an immensely difficult journey of learning how to live with one such illness: depression and anxiety. For so long I was afraid of these words. I was afraid of what they meant, afraid of what they’d do to me should people know I am “ill.” I was afraid of what this meant in the church. Before I used to happily listen to teachings about “prayer being the answer to all things.” While I don’t doubt this is true, I also sat through preachers berating medication and explaining to a large audience of people that Jesus was a far more effective healer than any form of anti depressant ever could be. What I disagreed with, was not this statement in itself, but the implications of it. It stigmatised anti depressants, and physical medication, which I have needed just to survive. It was increasing my dosage, which helped me to go from sleepless nights and crazy mood swings, with the odd anxiety attack in between that helped my head get to a place where I could process life. It was the beginning of a long difficult road to recovery. By no means is it the entire answer, but to imply that they lack power and are simply a “worldly” solution to depression is both naïve and outrageous. Pastors have a huge power and influence over people and to be spreading a message like that shows a lack of experience and a lack of understanding of mental illness. I sincerely hope they never have to go through that agony, but I also want people to be better educated. Christianity is not a backward, bigoted religion with only ignorant members as its body. God is amazing. Jesus IS the saviour. But telling people antidepressants aren’t the best solution simply encourages the world to see religion as backwards and ignorant. Is this what we need? No. There are enough opinions about mental illness floating around, and enough stigma and judgement to those who suffer, and though I hoped never to be writing this article because I had experienced so much love and care from my churches, I find myself needing to speak out because I can’t bear the idea of people being afraid to talk about it for fear of stigma. What we need is love. We should be able to be in church and surrounded by love when we’re at our most broken. It should not be a case of waiting until we feel we are starting to fall back together to return.

Keep calm and... Nope Panic.

How can one person fall to pieces so fast? I had it together, I'd been sleeping properly for the first time in months, I was going to (most) of my lectures, I was more or less up to date on my seminar work, and for the first time all year I began to feel like I was coming out of the other side. I had started going back to church, I was consistently exercising again, and even though I was really anxious about the final assessments I'd have to hand in, things really seemed to be going great. I was even excited to be going out for my friend's birthday: He'd come to Norwich especially and I was looking forward to it being just like 2nd year all over again: no worries, just a night out with good friends and a large quantity of alcohol. I opted for an outfit I'd not felt brave enough or thin enough to wear in a long time... in fact since the end of the summer I think it was. A long sleeved cropped tee with my skater skirt and tights (always the tights). I knew I was pretty much on display, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I should be, that I could be, without feeling like I'd need to find the nearest muddy pen to roll in or ocean to go back to. People told me I looked slimmer, that my make up looked perfect and that I had this "glow," this kind of intangible change.
"What is it? So, Helen, are you going to tell me what is different?" "What's your secret to being slimmer? I need to know because I want to be too..." The questions and compliments kept on coming and I didn't know what to say or how to respond. I think it can be a bit of a mood killer to say openly and plainly "For the first time in a long while I don't want to walk into moving traffic." Plus, truthfully I didn't know what was different. Maybe it was the fact I am less apologetic about myself and who I am. Maybe it was the fact that I was actually beginning to believe in the "me" that I have attempted to create for years. I like her: she is confident in herself, unapologetic for her personality and more than just a little bit flirtatious. That night was fun. I was content and comfortable with the people I love and felt a little more settled in my own skin. You'd think, then, that this would be the perfect set up to a first date scenario I had lined up for the next day... Confident, flirtatious and comfortable. It couldn't be anything but a recipe for success. Right? WRONG.

I woke up in the morning, tired but excited and ready. I couldn't wait to meet this person. We'd got a lot in common, had been texting pretty much all the time... and I was so happy. I had a good feeling about it. I agreed to lunch because I thought I'd be fine. I did a face mask (which did a surprisingly good job of hiding my 4 hours sleep), applied my make up and fixed my hair. I looked in the mirror, and far from what I normally feel (disdain mixed with resignation), I actually felt pretty. I felt ready. I felt really optimistic. I was nervous too, but honestly, mainly I was happy. I  was happy because I thought today would be the time when he liked me too... When I wouldn't disappoint.

After nearly missing the bus, I got into the city early. By this point I felt a little anxious and a little queasy. So I thought diving into a shop for some water would be a sensible plan and then I could use the opportunity to calm myself and be the composed person I was before I left the house. Alas, this was not the way the afternoon would pan out... Fast forward half an hour and I was a shaking, sweating, crying mess on the floor trying not to lose feeling in her arms, and struggling to even eat a single mouthful of bread without wanting to throw it straight back up, being talked down from my panic by a total stranger in a back corridor of Pret, whilst waiting for my housemate to come and rescue me. This was not something I thought I'd want to share with the world (the Twitter-sphere, and Facebook) but it made me realise just how much pressure I was putting on myself to live up to an image I wasn't all together sure I could maintain, or even try to be. And it definitely wasn't a subject I wanted to explain on a first date: Yeah you have never met me, you expect me to be this pretty, witty, confident girl and SURPRISE... I have anxiety and had a panic attack. I mean it's true I couldn't keep this hidden forever, but on the first date. REALLY? It's so annoying, and do you know what scares me most about this? The fact that I am worried he'll judge me in exactly the way I saw myself in that moment: pathetic. A liar. That all the confidence was a lie. It doesn't matter how many people tell you that a panic attack isn't weak, or that it happens to the best of us, I still find myself sat here wishing the afternoon had gone differently, and hating my body for betraying my anxiety in such a public and humiliating way.

One thing I realised though is that FEAR IS NOT THE WINNER. I left the house. I am still standing after one of the most terrifying experiences to date. I also realised that I would never leave the house if I expected people to judge me in the same way I do... I need to learn to be a little kinder to myself and little more gentle with my feelings. But most importantly: One bad day doesn't invalidate your progress. I felt like I had fallen to pieces again. And yes, in that instant, I definitely had, but it doesn't mean I have gone backwards, or that my progress is invalid. It simply means the road is long and there will always be bad days. It is being alive at the end of those days that is actually the most visible display of strength. It is being able to raise a tiny smile, or even being able to breathe when life is at its toughest that means the most, and speaks the highest of our characters. So next time it happens, I don't plan to berate myself for weakness, but to be gentle and kind to myself, and love the strength that's got me this far.

(Not so) New Me

Sometimes we overthink. For some of us that sometimes is always. I am one of those people. And I try to fight it. I try to look at things for what they are, and try to take my friends' advice of "just go with it" but that it is so much easier said than done. I wanted to be one of those crazy, impulsive spontaneous people but it never quite works out that way. I should just accept that I am a total contradiction in terms and probably a psychologist's worst nightmare/dream patient, depending on how you choose to see it. I am trying to make a change, I made a big hoo-hah about the new me at the start of term, but as it would turn out new me is remarkably similar to the old me, except I think it is likely she is a bitch. And quite frankly I want to scratch mark 1, and move on to New Me mark 2: who will be virtually identical to old me. She will be kind, confident and self aware. She won't be bitter or petty, but sweet and forgiving. Basically, new me is an impossible illusion and I shouldn't be trying to attain the impossible. It'll only end in tears. Not like it hasn't already. Stupid stupid things. Stupid life.

(Wannabe) Wild Child

I am crazy and excitable and can be full of energy, but I don't think I can describe myself as being particularly spontaneous or wild. Those just aren't two words I cope well with. For me the fact that I can decide to have a fringe one day is about as crazy as I get (yeah I know living on the edge right?!) and sometimes my sartorial choices are a little out there, but when it comes to crazy trips and last minute get aways I do not excel... I am the kind of person who would say "Yes, I'd love to do something spontaneous... how's next Friday?" In other words, I love the idea, but then when the reality of the unplanned and the unknown begins to dawn on me it doesn't take much for my mind to run a mock with what ifs, and numerous negative scenarios fill my little head. I guess that is what happens if you have anxiety issues.

I think that is why I have a kind of fascination with my friends whose lives are like that, the ones who just pack a bag and say "Right, see you soon!" I would love to be one of those care free, live in the moment people, but I am not. I am learning to be less controlling and more impulsive, but it is one small step at a time. I have just reached a point where I am tired: tired of fear holding me back, tired of feeling like nothing I do is good enough, and most of all I am tired of making excuses. It is never too late to change, or to take charge.

Keep Walking

 I used to be ashamed of the word feminism. I, like many others saw it as a dirty word, reserved for man haters and tough, aggressive women, who believed themselves not just equal, but superior to men. It was a word that I did not what wanted to be associated with. But as I have grown up and have learned (and I am still learning) to live in the big wide world, I have realised the importance of its principals and true values. Not the desire to achieve superiority over men, but the desire for true equality. I am lucky enough to have grown up in a society where the gender gap is significantly smaller than it used to be, and still is in many other places around the world.  However, as always there is progress to be made and what better place to start than in our own back garden? As a man, how would you feel if every time you left your house you found yourself double checking your keys were easily accessible, in case of attack, or wondered if you’d be catcalled and how many times? How many times when you go out do you wonder if the drunken people you walk past are threats to your safety? Or even the sober walks to and from uni or work? I walk almost everywhere, and each and every day I am faced with the same threats, just because I am a woman. Many think that we are catcalled or harassed in the street due to how we dress.  Let me stop you right there: I have been catcalled on numerous walks from uni, wearing jeans and a puffa jacket with a scarf and hat. It is scary and it is NOT a complement. One powerful response I had when talking about this issue with a male friend was him asking, “What do you do?” I looked at him and just said “I keep walking.” He was shocked at this, and then asked why I didn’t say something. It is simple: You never know what their response will be, and if the catcall is anything to go by, aggressive is a good guess. Thus it’s safer to just keep walking. Right now, in the comfort of my own home I can sit at this keyboard and say that this is NOT OKAY, but in reality? Silence is safer. THIS SHOULD NOT BE THE CASE. There are entire sermons/dress codes/blogs and magazines, which preach a message of assault being partially our fault. They constantly say that if we dressed more modestly, and covered up more, or were less promiscuous then we’d attract less attention to ourselves. We are taught that beauty and sexuality are desirable, but only if they appear not to be tipped to any extreme: too modest and we are considered frigid and fat or ugly, but too loose, and we are considered easy, worthless. It’s a game, which is impossible to win. We are taught not to have (or at least not to show) the same desires and sexual appetites as men and that being intelligent and powerful in the workplace means we won’t find lasting love and happiness. It is nearly always a case of one or the other. Have I listed enough reasons why we need feminism yet? Why men don’t get their sexual history questioned in rape cases? Yet, as has been the case for centuries, a simple bad reputation can break a woman’s case. THIS IS NOT RIGHT.  We assume that the woman has a part to play, that it is always her fault. Well let me stop you: IT IS NEVER HER FAULT.  This is me standing up, saying we need feminism, and I am a feminist.

A Christmas Miracle

I have friends who are expecting a christmassy post, filled with festive love, cheer and reflections on 2014. Initially that is what I wanted this post to be, one filled with the excitement and hopes which go so well with the traditional Christmas season. That was how December began, I was so excited about Christmas. My advent calendar arrived on the 1st (as a surprise from the parents) and I had already started my Christmas shopping, I was ahead of the game and finally feeling in control. I would be at home with my family, in front of the tree trading gifts and sharing in the joys of family. I was beyond excited. I didn't want my cynicism to get in the way of such a happy time of year. You could say I had too many expectations, and maybe in some ways I did. What hit me first was the exhaustion. I've been home for a while now, and I knew I'd crash, but I didn't realise it'd be so hard to recover from. On Christmas day, we were going round to family friends for drinks. Knowing that it'd be a fairly large group, some of whom would be total strangers to me just sent me into a silent tail spin. I felt pretty determined to go but in the morning I couldn't face it. The walls felt too close and the house felt too small. I had to get out, escape. Once everyone left, I wrapped up and took the dog for a walk. The weather was perfect: crisp and cool but the sky was virtually cloudless and the seafront looked like something from a postcard. As I walked I had time to think. I saw families, couples and people alone. I wondered what their stories were, what had brought them here on Christmas day. I know for me it was escape. I had no idea what drew me to the sea side when normally I like to run up to be up on the hills, above it all. But there I was, on Christmas morning I found myself staring out to sea and people watching with my dog. To me, it felt perfect. It was what I needed. Then the dog (I should probably name her now) Tilly, started causing chaos; running up to other dogs, people and I was worried I'd be shouted at. Then, she ran over to a man sat on a bench at the edge of the promenade. He had his head between his hands, and looked really sad. I didn't know what do, and to a point couldn't do anything, much less approach him. But over she ran, and he looked up, and started stroking her. We smiled at each other and I continued the walk, we caught up again later and he thanked me (well more my dog) for making his christmas. I smiled and marvelled at how a little affection from a tiny scruffy little terrier could make someone so happy. I thought that'd be the end of it, but it wouldn't be a Rambaut family christmas without Tilly causing some sort of chaos. As she stopped to sniff around an old ice cream kiosk I hovered nearby, knowing she'd just stay put if she thought I'd gone too far. Suddenly, she is charging across a car park, and heading straight for the main road. I am tearing after her, praying she doesn't manage to get hit by a car, and desperately trying to catch her. She reached the other side of the road and headed into the park... As it turns out she was heading straight for the man on the bench from earlier. The second she got to him, she stopped, shortly followed by me, who was flustered, annoyed and scared to death for my dog since she likes to run into roads. We put her on her lead and the man offered to walk with me a while. Since I decided that she wasn't going to move unless this happened, we started talking. As it would turn out the man had a friend who he used to regularly run along the seafront with and they always stopped at that bench for a cigarette. He and his friend were soldiers, and in his words:
"We went to fight, I came back and he didn't. We promised we'd carry on this ritual even without the other." I felt myself welling up slightly, since it turns out that this was the man's first Christmas without his friend there. And all because of my dog being a loon, he had someone to talk to, and I got to experience a Christmas miracle.

I think what I am trying to say (in a very long winded soppy way) is that NO ONE IS INSIGNIFICANT. NO ONE IS ORDINARY. I was anonymous, walking my dog on a sunny morning and my decision changed the course of someone's christmas day (or more accurately my dog's decision). It is so easy to fall into believing that you are insignificant or ordinary, and incapable of big things. Well it isn't true. Humans are amazing. And I think each one of us is an extraordinary creation even if we don't see it. Happy (belated) Christmas.

A Little More Faith, a Little Less Fear

Human beings are beautiful, remarkable creations, with infinite strength and an uncanny ability to adapt to whatever life throws at them. We are incredible, and capable of so much. Yet, every day we see stories of a new war, new atrocities, and new "quests" in the name of advancement or religion. People use labels to give purpose to what they're fighting against, filled with such hatred and anger. One of the reasons I avoid the news (as much as I can) is because it depresses me. I constantly see a world of bad decisions, by one person, by many. I see pain and suffering and it makes me angry. I promise this won't be a rant, and I promise it won't be me woe-betiding the entire world. But I need to say this. Even by ignoring the world news, I still see the damage we are capable of. It is everywhere: in our families and friends. We can do so much good, but are so excellent at bringing about devastation: relationships break down, hearts are shattered by strings of poor decisions. We tear down instead of encourage, we offer judgement instead of support and instead of helping each other or reaching out, we learn to pick up the pieces of our poor bruised hearts and shut them away. We build walls, put up defences which seem almost impossible to breach. Yet, in spite of all of this, still it happens: we yearn endlessly for love in our lives.

But we are terrified. not of the love itself: since we've seen its beauty. We have seen it's power to transform and to overcome, its capacity to bring peace and the virtually palpable magic it awakens in us. No, what we fear, is what happens when that love brings down those walls. When it reveals our flaws, our mistakes, our insecurities, we panic. What if we aren't enough? What if love isn't enough? What if we aren't loveable anymore? Or, worst of all, what if we are loveable? What then?

We are suddenly back in those moments when what felt safe, right and good for so long, started collapsing around our ears. We are back in those times when the person who loved us most damaged us the most. We are back in those moments when those defences came down and though initially, perhaps we were met with love and compassion, it backfired when the relationship fell apart. We find ourselves reliving all those mistakes and all the pain, and there it is: the desire to flee, to run as fast and as far as possible.

When it comes down to it we are all just lost and afraid of what love can do to us when it falls apart. Perhaps if we were a little kinder, a little more gentle with one another, the desire to flee will be replaced by a desire to stay and build something. And the best part? We aren't alone. We can create something amazing. Together. Isn't that the best part of being human? Being able to surround yourself with people you love and value, who love and value you equally?

Clear Vision

Looking at the world map from my bed... I think about my dream to see the world, about all of those rare and beautiful animals I wanted to see in the wild before I died. I think about all the people I want to meet and all the things I want to own. I dream of the day when I can trade my (fairly regular) shopping trips in H&M, Warehouse, Topshop and Newlook for the big brands, first Whistles and Reiss, and then into the big leagues: Armani, Burberry, Prada... I think of all those first class flights and the days when buying a £38 eye shadow set won't count as splashing out. I think of the fleeting dreams of novel writing in my chateau in the south of France, being a best selling author and living with an entire menagerie of animals. I dream about finally being able to get the horse I have wanted since forever. I dream about being able to change lives with my writing, and impacting people in profound ways. I wish for better assuming that having money means all of this will be accomplished, and not until then.

What I forget is, that I will still be, fundamentally me, and thus fundamentally flawed. I forget that you can't outrun your problems, much less out dream them. These days my dreams are smaller, more realistic: I feel relief getting to the end of the day and crawling into bed is my reward. I am proud of writing a few hundred words, let alone thousands. I think of the people I have around me, and the family I treasure, and begin to ask myself why this isn't enough.

The honest answer? I don't know. In some ways, it is more than enough, it is more than I ever would have thought possible to have. At the age of 12/13 I wouldn't have believed anyone if they told me I would go from being almost totally alone and isolated, belittled even by those who should have helped me, to having friends who love and value me. It is still a novelty, even today. As much as the memory of that girl hurts, I am learning to make peace with her. I hope I never forget, because she deserves this. She deserves the love she has now and treasures it. To change one life is enough, but to have a voice that people listen to? That is an incredible gift. 

Breathe

The stress is back with a vengence, the end of term is approaching at lightening speed and yet my work seems to be moving at a snail's pace. Not ideal. The reminders of deadlines are everywhere, and my head is spinning. I take a deep breath and attempt to fill the blank page glaring at me. The words appear and I start to feel calmer. Yes, these words are nonsensical and totally disorganised, but on the page they can't make my head spin anymore. As the room comes back into focus and my pulse stops racing, I return to the present. Now, now I can work.

Who am I?

I am the doubts that overpower you. I am the reason you constantly feel undermined and insecure. I am the reason that sometimes living feels unbearable. I am the times you have missed dates with friends, dinner parties, even deadlines. I am the reason you cried yourself to sleep for 2 months straight. I am the reason you constantly seek to be better, to do better, but know you never will. I am the reason you end up putting that blade to your skin. I am the reason you were sat in the doctors wondering what the point was. I am the one who got so used to your brain that I made myself at home there. I am the one who never sleeps. I am the reason your nerves make you sick. I am the reason you hate what you have to look at in the mirror every day. I am the one who stores and weaponises every single negative experience and can completely annihilate the positive ones. I am capable of flooring you with a single word; and the best part? I don't care. I don't love you. I resent you.

Who am I? I am the bitch inside your head.