It's Okay Not To Be Happy

On World Mental Health Day I am deciding to write something about my struggle with mental health, something that I write about often because it is this all-consuming fire-ball of terror that takes up like 75% of my brain.  I was diagnosed with anxiety when I was in the middle of my A Levels, and it has been a constant since then. It went from being a manageable evil that somehow allowed me to move out and go to university, into an overwhelming shit storm that keeps me chained to my house at 22 when I should be out in the world thriving. I am not living the life I know I should be living and I am constantly reminded of that.

On the days that I even feel confident enough to leave the house, walking up to the shops feels like trekking through a jungle where everything wants to eat you. I spend hours bingeing on self-pity, thinking only of myself and how things will effect me, feeling sorry for myself. Then follow this up by feeling intense guilt and self-hate- how dare I put myself before others, I'm not worth anything, who do I think I am? Suffering from Anxiety and Depression is an exhausting spiral of self-pity and self-hatred. I know deep down that I love myself and that I am a good person but only getting a couple of glimpses of this every now and then is a tough motivater to heal. I have realised that I need to stop striving towards Happiness. Happiness with a capital H because it has become this Godly enigma that I worship and pray for. Other MH sufferers might sympathise with this need to be happy all the time, poisoning ourselves by scrolling through Instagram and Facebook looking at people who supposedly have it all. I admit I still kneel before Happiness, I wait for it to come for me hoping that I'll wake up one day and thats it - happiness, no longer an enigma but something that I've got in my hands. The truth is, yes some people live happy lives but for the rest of us losers we have to focus on the small shards of happiness that we make ourselves and live in those moments when we are at our lowest.

I have spent 5 years dwelling on the bad in my life and even though my MH is at its worst at the moment, I have finally accepted that it's okay to feel this way. It is okay to struggle and be sad. It's ok to say no to things you don't want to do. It's okay to put yourself first if doing something will make you feel worse. It's okay to give in to the physical ailments that depression brings, the fatigue and nausea. Every symptom you get is real. Wallow away, wallow until you feel comfortable enough to take a step forward and heal a tiny bit more. Wallowing is one of my favourite activities, if it's good enough for hippos am I right!?
In the words of my role model and personal hero RuPaul:

'If you can't love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love somebody else?'

So on this day try and make a list of things that you like about yourself, things that you are good at, things that you love to do, however small and however silly. Here are a few of mine- I have nice hair, I am good at embroidery, writing and making dogs love me. I love reading, I love the smell of the rain after it falls on hot concrete, I love peppermint tea, trainers and making people laugh.  And to those well adjusted people who don't suffer from mental health problems why don't you write a list like that but for someone who does suffer. Tell them what you love about them, what they are good at, tell them about a time when they really made you laugh, remind them that they are human because sometimes it's hard to remember.

I'd also like to make a note and say: Even if I don't know you very well, maybe we used to be friends but we aren't anymore... If you ever need anyone to talk to, I am here and truly happy to talk and spend time with you. I know from experience that sometimes we think we deserve to suffer, but you dont, you deserve wellness, happiness and equality.

My Gateway into Sneaker Addiction

I was not built for fashion. Throughout my childhood my mum would lay my clothing out for the day on the end of my bed. Apart from the weird and wonderful things my dad would bring home from Tokyo, I was generally apathetic when it came to all matters fashion. It wasn’t until I was 12 years old when I picked up one of my mum’s issues of Vogue that I thought that there could possibly be a place for me.  My clammy hands clumsily palmed its cover as I looked around the kitchen for my mum in order for her to tell me who the woman on the front was. At this point in my life I was only familiar with the stars of NOW 63 and the ins and outs of Sugar. This woman was stunning and I was certain she had never graced the pages of Mizz magazine. As I flicked through its pages I wondered why my mum had been keeping this glossier part of her life from me. It seemed cruel that she’d kept me in the dark, but looking back at it now I wonder if she had have pushed it on me, would I have pushed back?

From that moment on I devoured each issue, waiting for the heavy clunk of it hitting the door matt as it was wedged through our letterbox. My collection grew and soon I was confronted with a wobbly tower of shiny pages ready to give my index fingers paper cuts. At first I would cut out the images for my fleeting hobby of collaging, grotesque pages full of disembodied body parts and facial features, mimicking kidnap letters from The Powerpuff Girls. I would later look back on this era of my collection in blasphemous disgust, likening my defacing to that of the elderly Spanish lady who painted over the Jesus fresco.  Looking through the paper chain keyholes left by my younger self I vowed to take better care of my future hoard.

I urged my mum to buy me new shelves to house the growing number of volumes that had now started littering my bedroom floor. My shelves thanked me when I eventually I found a new interest, they had begun groaning under the weight of the thousands of models perched on top of them.  They bore much better under the weight of my new love, trainers. I remember the pair that started off my sneaker love, a pair of black puma high tops that I wore to their eventual death. I admit I have made some mistakes along the way, my white-winged Adidas trainers a la Jeremy Scott were an eventual regret. My excitement for my baby blue Blazers was short lived as they were soon seen on every fuccboy in London, I gave them to my mum. I gained momentum in my first year of university, you'd be surprised at what thousands of pounds into your bank account and lack of parental supervision can do for an anxious shopaholic. 

 I believe that my need to collect is a type of addiction, a way to fill a void that therapy and love could not fill. Vogue was my gateway drug, its beautiful and avant-garde editorials guided me through what my teachers called my ‘colourful’ stage. It allowed me experimentation, which led to happiness and confidence. I can’t explain how looking at pictures of gorgeous 5ft11 supermodels helped me; a 5ft4 chubby frizz ball, find confidence but there I was standing tall in my Vivienne Westwood Mary Jane’s. Time and other circumstances caused me to grow further and I learnt to express myself in a more focused and confined way, instead of the organised chaos of my teenage years. As I hurtled into adulthood, anxieties thwarted my willingness to be daring with sartorial choices. I began to favour all black and muted tones, not hiding but blending. My trainers became my prime channel of expression, becoming an integral part of my identity. Vogue laid the foundations for my personal style and the way I approach silhouettes, textures and colour. Except now Instead of throwing my whole self out into the world, I let my feet do the talking. 

Chunk Monster

Dealing with body image as a young woman in 2016 can be both heart breaking and inspiring. I was a born underweight and scrawny and shortly after birth stopped breathing before being brought back to life. I believe I was brought back to be chubby. From my traumatic birth, I slowly started gaining weight until I was a little chunk monster, I was popular in primary school with a big group of friends and I was none the wiser that my little potato body was an ‘undesirable’ shape. I went through secondary school remarkably unscathed due to the fact my fat deposited itself in what society has deemed the correct places.  It wasn’t until I was fully developed at around 17 that I properly realised that I was not just ‘curvy’ as all my friends would reassure me, seemingly terrified to tell me the truth, that I am chubbster.

I can’t say that the word fat is destigmatised for me even now, I still flinch when it’s used in a derogatory way by the media or by friends because I have only ever known it to be a negative thing when really it's just a physical description.  Just like when people use the word ‘slut’ to describe a sexually liberated woman or when men use the word ‘bitch’ to scorn us.  It is just one of those loaded words that needs to be disassociated with its false meaning, fat ≠ unhealthy. I'm a vegetarian and try my best to eat healthily and make sure that I get at least 30 active minutes daily, and I know plenty of other fat men and women that are avid exercisers, swimmers and dancers. I also know a lot of thin people who eat terribly and would sooner pick up a bottle of coke than some weights, but who do you think the media would choose to shame over their lifestyle. We are all aware of how the media treats people who they deem to be overweight, with ‘circles of shame’ and medical professionals detailing what these women should be doing to ensure that they come down from that frightful size 16 into a neat size 8. It may surprise some to know that not everyone exercises to lose weight, some do it for toning, strength or for the love it. 

A lot of the fatphobic comments I’ve seen being passed around are masked in a false desire to help people. Really it’s no one's business but that person and their doctors so If you are not a medical professional and you do not know someone personally then you cannot advise them how to live their life and how to treat their body. You have no idea what this person could have going on in their lives, they could be suffering from any number of physical or mental illnesses. I for one have found that when suffering a particularly bad spot of anxiety or depression you would have to surgically remove me from a fungi pizza.

Things are getting better for some with the rise of bodyposi twitter and tumbler (the movement that I’ve mentioned previously) which encourages men and women to post pictures of ‘unconventional’ beauty and body sizes in order to flood the internet with the new normal. The love and encouragement on these threads have helped hundreds of young and old people to love and accept their bodies as beautiful, including me. Even some women’s magazines have started publishing think pieces on body image in the fashion industry and the rise of curve models like Diana Veras, Ashley Graham and Barbie Ferreira, who’s recent swimwear shoot with Aries made fat girls everywhere heart eyes and rejoice.  Sadly we cannot ignore the blatant double standard of the magazines who are publishing these articles alongside their own editorials where they continue to use the type A model. How can young men and women believe what these publications are saying if they are contradicting themselves within the space of a few pages? They are treating body positivity and self-love as a passing trend, and it is not.

We need to allow people to live their own lives within their own bodies however they see fit - it is not up to an industry or a group of people to decide what we can or can’t do with our bodies. I have learnt that I don't need to dress for anyone but myself. If I like something in the 'athletic/petite' body shape section of Grazia magazine I'm going to bloody well wear it. If I want to wear a crop top that shows my back fat or a short dress that shows my thighs then honestly, fight me. We need to stop policing other people's bodies. You will find that by stopping criticising other people you will start to accept your own body with all its wonderful quirks. 

Friendly and Farty 21yr Old Seeks Life Partners

At the age of 21 I've realised that I honestly have no idea how to make friends. I finished school at 18 with the majority of my friends being the same ones that I'd made when in reception, the new ones made only from being smushed together with 300 people of the same age for 8 years or so. University was tough as my anxiety made my visits to campus sporadic and sweaty.  I made no real effort to socialise but luckily made a few friends from staring longingly at them until they noticed me, and sealed the deal with my sarcastic comments about 'ode to a grecian urn'.  Now this is my first year out of the education system and after dead heading a few stagnant friendships I'm left with well... not that many pals.

What follows is a mixture of loneliness, self pity and bemusement. Don't get me wrong I have a few friends who are amazing and supportive and fun but I also have some that aren't, and it's the ones that aren't that make you feel more lonely. The ones who are there but entirely unavailable at the same time. I can't put entire blame on everyone else, after all it is me  who is friendless while everyone else is out having healthy nurtured relationships. Perhaps its because I don't drink and although I love nothing more than a dance, I don't really like going out out  because of my mental illness. I often flake out last minute because of my anxiety because really most of the time I see myself as a burden to other peoples enjoyment.  

I love my life but I really want people to share it with. It is incredibly hard to be 21 and constantly be affronted with 'friendship goals' and ideals on social media when you are sat at home with your mum.

I think of myself as relatively easy going and fun to be around, but for the life of me I cannot work out how to make friends as an adult. I work in a pub and at a record label and I love the people who I work with, but I can't expect them to suddenly all be my close confidents. There is such a stigma around being lonely and I feel it deeply. I want to be someones first choice and someones best but more and more I feel myself slipping away from people and I don't know why. 

For those who are interested in being my mate here are some of my likes and dislikes-

Likes: Dogs, food, Marvel, films, walks, dancing, radio, butts, trainers and books.
Dislikes: Cats, tight underwear and hormones.

Don't Be a White Feminist

Last week Germaine Greer proved herself to be problematic, and not for the first time. The second wave feminist largely known for her 1970’s novel ‘The Female Eunuch’ came out in an interview as hugely transphobic.In The Guardian article Greer accused Caitlyn Jenner of stealing the limelight from the more deserving winners of the Glamour’s Woman of The Year Award’. Damien Gayle writes: ‘She also refused to back down from her position that transgender women, who have begun life as men before undergoing surgery and hormone treatment to become women, are “not women”, saying they do not “look like, sound like or behave like women.”’

Greer’s transphobia is so painfully out of date, as an activist for woman’s rights she has shown herself to be blind to the struggles that trans women face. By misgendering trans women she is contributing to the swelling misogyny of the mass media, and as a prominent feminist she is doing the entire feminist cause a disservice as she reaps bad press. The Trans activist and journalist Paris Lees (@ParisLees) tweeted last night ‘Greer could’ve been universally revered without her dull & common bigotry. Must hurt to know many young feminists have lost respect for her.’ Lees speaks for the third wave feminists, in fewer than 140 characters she preaches Greer’s irrelevance. Sadly, Greer is just one person in a sea of White Feminists: Feminists who only align themselves with cis women issues.

I understand the argument that everyone is entitled to free speech and usually with bigots they end up taking themselves down just by opening their mouths. But to all those people saying that by identifying and dissecting Greer’s comment is bigotry in itself: We are not attacking her for her gender, we are not attacking her for the way she looks, we are not attacking her for the way she acts, we are taking fault with the way she speaks and how cruel and misguided her comment was.

When the term White Feminism came to pass, they were not thought of as ‘bad’ people just misinformed, but with Greer’s transphobic comment going public it has shown how damaging White Feminism and lack of knowledge can be. A White Feminist is not a feminist that is white but a feminist that unconsciously and sometimes consciously only cares about white issues, an example of this being the gender wage gap. I can wholly admit that at the ripe age of 16 when I first became a feminist, I was indeed a White Feminist. I was awoken by way of Caitlin Moran’s ‘How To Be a Woman’ and as a young inexperienced teen I chose to take only ‘Woman Power’ from her words and run with it. This is no criticism of Moran but a criticism of me, and my white privilege. Without the further education I would have remained cis female focused, but twitter feminists such as Mina (@baedotdoe) and Dounia (@douniatee) woke me up to the huge injustices and mistreatment that minority groups face within modern society.

The kind of activist we should all aspire to be is an Intersectional Feminist. An Intersectional Feminist is conscious of not excluding minority groups: PoC, LGBTQ community and sex workers to name a few. I previously mentioned the wage gap campaign fronted by Meryl Streep, Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Watson who are just a few examples of the famous feminists who have argued for their right’s to equal pay. From an Intersectional Feminist’s point of view their argument is not wrong-wrong. It is a fact that on average women earn less than men, but racial injustice is not often touched upon. For example, in 2013 it was reported that white women earned on average 22% less than white men, whereas black women and Hispanic women earned 36% and 46% less respectively. Another example of White Feminism can be seen with the ‘Black Lives Matter’ campaign following the shooting of Travyon Martin, Many white people flocked to social media to smugly write ‘All Lives Matter’ completely erasing the original statement and proving how needed it is. An Intersectional Feminist acknowledges that there are bigger problems out there alongside gender equality, and puts equal strength behind each cause.

We have all been problematic – Not as problematic as Miley Cyrus’ constant racial appropriation of black culture (see dreads, objectification of black bodies in her MTV performance alone), or Taylor Swift who only seems to care about feminism if its thin beautiful Eurocentric white women holding the torch. Still, I’m sure you’ve worn a bindi or Native American headdress at a festival, mis-gendered someone or have fat-shamed for a laugh. Nobody is perfect and we all slip up from time to time, the important thing is that in the other 90% of the time when you are not slipping up, you should be avidly supporting a movement. There are so many movements that Intersectional Feminists have helped form and support, #BlackLivesMatter, #TransLivesMatter, #BodiPosi and the discussion of mental health. Maybe you haven’t had your eyes pinned open Clockwork Orange style to the huge injustices that other people face. Maybe you’ve got a case of white privilege like I do. Maybe you’re happy that way, it’s easier for sure.

One thing that is for certain is that second wave feminism is not enough anymore.

Hilarity Ensues

Emotions are something I find difficult. Those close to me know my need for control over both my mind and body.  Emotions do not allow me this control, they upset the balance of my zombie like state causing me to feel anxious as I refuse to let them out. I described it to my therapist like this: If one was to stop themselves from urinating every time they needed to they would eventually get an uncomfortable UTI. When I hold in my tears or my anger or even my happiness I get an infection of the brain, I become anxious because there is nowhere for my feelings to go apart from careering round my body.  I've come to realise that my self medicating is unhealthy, self medicating as in mindlessly watching Netflix. I would sit like stone for days alone in my house not doing anything, as to do anything would mean I would feel something other than nothing.  I refused to go out because I was scared that I might have a good time. I don't drink, I don't smoke and I don't do drugs, I'm even nervous taking painkillers - I once had to "walk off" an accidental dosage of Codeine. Humour was my only solace, to me laughing and feeling happy are very different things. You know what you are going to get with humour - laughs, amusement and a small rush of endorphins- but you also know that there is an end to humour, things stop being funny after a while. I like jokes because I know they will end, and it is the one aspect of my life I left uncontrolled. Happiness on the other hand is a different kettle of fish, I was scared of being happy because I new that eventually it would end and I would be unhappy but I didn't know when. Life is funny, but it isn't always joyous. You can find laughter in the darkest of places where happiness could never be found.

If it wasn't for my love of laughter and making other people laugh I would be an entirely different person, I closed book, a complete hermit instead of a partial one. It has allowed me to reach out and tell my story of "living" (except not really living) with severe anxiety. Humour allows me to explain mental illness to others in a way that doesn't make them want to stuff some valium in my mouth and leave me on a park bench. I find that my friends and family are much more comfortable with my anxiety if they are allowed to laugh at it, with me of course. People find it funny that I take a pair of clean pants with me everywhere, not because I might have a crazy one night stand or stay at a friends house, but because of my huge fear of shitting myself on public transport. My mum laughed in disbelief about the time when I asked a stranger to hold my hand on the tube because I was scared. Or when I took a black cab home from Chelsea because my dad had smoked weed around me and I was worried that the people working at the train station knew.

I have been suspended in ice for a long time. Now the ice is melting and slowly emotions are pouring out of me. I cried at that Natwest advert about the scarf. I'm trying to feel again in order to live a normal life, one that doesn't involve my only outing of the week being going to therapy. But good lord it's hard. I've been trying to list all the emotions I feel in a day, which if it's anything more than 'placid' or 'subdued' then it's been a success. Obviously now I've let the flood gates open my anxiety has got worse as all these emotions I've held back are trying to seep out of my body at once. I feel like I'm on the brink of exploding and creating a black hole that will drag those around me into it. That isn't to say that you should run for the hills, please give me as much attention and support as you can. So far I have not yet exploded but watch out North London.

I'm So Done.

Yesterday I sat on the overground to New Cross Gate station, my head and my stomach beating, my hands sweating, feeling like I was going to throw up. Somehow I made it in to university to hand in my coursework and finish my degree, it's done. I sat on the train on my way home and farted happily to myself. Since then I have been thinking about what I have actually got out of my English degree, what I’ve gained and what I could have done without.

The main thing I’ve enjoyed most are the people, I met some of the best people ever and also encountered some real lunatics. All have been pretentious, which I love, but it’s the extent to which that irritated me. There were people who went so far into my poetry seminars that I feared they would never come out. Then there is the weird wasteland of the English society group on Facebook, where I was regularly ignored by my peers when asking for help. Where the hot shots of the course roared with virtual laughter at in jokes and shunned the outcasts.  I also met some amazing people who I will be friends with foreva!

I also learnt that people will say the most misogynistic, racist and sexually explicit things as long as they are in parenthesis. I’ve had my toothless ageing poetry teacher read Sharon Olds’ ‘You Kindly’ (look it up) out to class of 20 year olds, everyone looking him dead in the eye. I often felt like my classmates were competing to see who was the most right on.  I’m not a prude, not at all, but there have been a few times where I’ve had to stifle a snort.  

 It is entirely possible to get through three years of an English Degree with no knowledge of how to write an essay. This is also true for grammar and spelling.  For my first two years I had constant aggressive feedback from my tutors, I was not disheartened. In fact I was almost proud, I seemed to be passing through each year on sheer personality alone. In the last term of the third year it clicked finally, I got a first in an essay on Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. To future employers, it may seem like it took me a ridiculously long time to master something that seems vital to an English degree, but I think it shows that actually I have a really strong personal writing style that would benefit your company. It also says that you can also eventually teach an old dog, new tricks.  

And lastly you can judge someone entirely on who their favourite authors are.

Love This.