Black Friday.

Well here it is. The day everyone goes mad and throws themselves in a tantrum if someone else gets what you're dashing for, supposedly. I dunno, maybe I'm just thinking of Monica's wedding dress fiasco in Friends, who knows. Poised with my debit card, and an attitude of patience (it's hard, believe me.) I love shopping, and with a few bits and pieces still to buy to finish my Christmas shopping, I'm about to hammer the sales. With a positive mental attitude, and a determined mind, I'm ready for all the crowds, impatience and noise, queues and cashiers who I'm very sympathetic towards. Wish me luck. Happy shopping everyone! :)

It's all okay.

I'm finally, it seems, at peace with who I am. Okay, everyone has their off days, their fat days and their bad days, but basically, I'm proud to say I'm happy with myself and my life. That probably makes me appear incredibly lucky, but I am aware of that already. 

I've got a supportive family, a lovely group of friends and a wonderful boyfriend who all accept me for who I am. I'm never going to be the size six I was for prom at 16. I'm never going to have huge boobs or a teeny tiny waist, nor am I going to be tall (I'm built in petite.) I'll probably never attend the gym, or be fully confident wearing a bikini. I'll always be slightly worried about meeting new people or trying new things. My future in career prospects does scare the shit out of me. Biting my nails doesn't make me a bad person. Neither does having a messy room. So what if I have too many clothes to fit in the wardrobe if it's what makes me happy?! Maybe I can't dance but that's not a vital life skill. I'll never be good with geography, but there are always people to ask for directions. I can't make decisions easily, but like I always tell my boyfriend, that's what he's there for. (Well, one of many reasons) ;) 

Maybe.

With a spring in your step and a smile plastered on your face, you brave the winter air. Maybe it's been a hard week, but it's Friday morning now, it's almost over. Maybe you need it to be over. That's fine. It's been difficult. At times, it's been too much to handle. You've wrung your hands and cried so much your muscles are exhausted. Maybe you've left a partner, lost a friend, a job, or a relative. Maybe you've failed your driving test, or an exam, or maybe you didn't get the job. Maybe you crashed your car, or broke a bone, or didn't get the result you were hoping for. Maybe you spent the week in bed with flu. Maybe you got bad news, or know someone who did. Maybe the baliffs are at the door, or the heating's on the blink, or the bills are too much to pay. Maybe someone's stole your credit card, or your house keys, or your dog. Maybe you left your phone on the kitchen table and missed that vital phone call. Maybe your bus broke down and you missed an opportunity. Maybe you laddered your tights and ran into an ex. Maybe you got lost. Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone has bad days, but they always end. Look at it this way, everyone has good days too. 

91.

The number of posts I have to write before the end of the year to match last year's blog post total. So technically, let's make it 92 and exceed last year. 

A lot has happened in a year. Too much to even let float around my brain altogether, because it may just make my head explode. It's been a damn good year really, and I'm praying it gets better. It just needs to. It's really important it does. 

Both feet forward.

At the age of 21, I've come to realise that maybe I'm just one of those people who has to be pushed head-first into something. I hold back. It's my nature. I'm shy and self conscious until I have experience in something, or until I know someone well. My face glows red and my mouth dries up and my tongue ties itself into complicated knots. It's awkward and pathetic and I hope one day I'll grow out of it. 

I'm finally a bit more like the person I've always envisioned. I can buy an outfit and know if I look good in it without someone else's nod of approval. I can read aloud in class without stumbling too much or wanting to curl up into a ball and die. I can actually have a conversation with people I don't know well, and laugh, and joke and feel comfortable. I can make my own choices and look forward into my future and what it may or may not contain, and confidently voice what I hope to achieve without feeling like I need to hold back. 

However, I haven't always been like this. I used to be the shy girl. More than that, I used to be the girl who didn't speak. Until the age of about five or six, I don't recall even answering the register in school. Purely because I just used to hate to draw attention to myself. I hated the idea of thirty pairs of eyes staring at me while I let out a little, muffled "yes miss" to answer. By the time I left primary school, I could hold down basic conversations and friendships, but I didn't really come into myself until much later. 

My first major friend fall-out at 13; I thought my heart was broken. At fifteen when people were really horrible to me about a boy I didn't even know, I folded into myself. Silent. Concealed. Out of the way of conflict. I've always avoided things that scared me. I was nervous completing my GCSE's, but totally terrified when it came to A-levels. So much so, I made myself ill twice. It was then I told myself I had to just let go. I hD to just jump head first into whatever was thrown at me, and hope for the best. (Note: it payed off.) 

I went to uni, I almost have completed my degree, and in some respect I'm glad I pushed myself outside of my comfort zone. I wouldn't be who I am today if I hadn't. I wouldn't have the friends I have today, the experiences, or the relationship. Maybe I needed to be pushed to apply for uni, to pass my driving test, to abseil, to make friends, to gain experiences, to down another tequila, to take risks that would really enrich my life. 

Whether it was a kiss, a payment, an accepted invitation or a confirmed place on UCAS, I wouldn't be who I am without jumping into things, even if I do it with an ounce or two of reluctance. I always get there in the end. 

Stressed: take two.

The first semester of final year is quickly coming to an-all-too-frightening end. I have two more seminars and one more lecture to go, before the Christmas holidays begin. As of December 5th, I'm free for six weeks or so, to panic and ponder next semester's modules and the finality that comes with finishing your degree, a prospect I was never sure I'd ever arrive at. 

I'm proud, worried and anxious. The assignments are mounting up, along with the pressure, and the looming deadlines appear to taunt me. The uncertainty of my life after May 2015 is scaring me stiff. I'm absolutely bricking it. The outside world. I've never been into the proper outside world before. At the age of 21, my feet have been firmly rooted in education since the age of 3. It's all I've ever known, passed from pillar to post, nursery to school to university, from institution to institution, without a care in the world. I've sat countless exams, cried unbelievable amounts of tears, and written a hell of a lot of words in that time, but maybe I'm about to make it. If only I can make it through these next few weeks of deadlines, I'll be able to breathe again properly without a tight chest and a worried, pallid face expression. 

Here's to hoping. Holding on tight, 2014 is coming to an end. Better go out with a bang. 

Mass of negatives.

Lately, I seem to have given up with regards to my degree. I don't know what I'm doing with it, and I'm struggling. The assignments get me stressed and get me down. I cry. I honestly am not ashamed to say it. My writing is dwindling, my skill isn't even really there, and I feel like I'm totally lost. Whatever I started out to do seems to have vanished from my view. My friends are making plans for after this (final) year and I don't know where to start. The passion once in my eyes seems to have fizzled out. I'm passive, apathetic and maybe, just maybe I want to want something simple. 

I sometimes sit and curse the fact I've aimed for something better in life. I look at my family and want to make them proud. But at the same time, I have a lot of respect for them. I see what hard work does, but in turn, what it does to people. I want to make something of myself, for my family, as well as for me. But what? Writing is a stupid aim, I curse myself saying. What can I write? A journalistic article? I don't know enough. I'm too opinionated on things nobody wants to read about. I don't have the concentration or the skill to write a novel, and even then, that's hardly a livelihood to sit on. I need to get my act together and my arse into gear. 

But lately, I have my home ties more than ever. I want to stay close, my family are everything to me, and things at the minute need praying for. My 'career' or whatever that is/may come to be, is on the  back bench. I'm sick of everyone telling me to plunge myself into a career. WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'D WANT TO BE A TEACHER?! 

Stressed, bored, apathetic, lost drive. No enthusiasm. Winter blues, we meet again. 

Hopeful.

Some days make you want to crawl under your duvet and never return again. Others are so bad, you have to get out of bed, regardless. Life isn't fair, as everyone keeps saying. There will be days, weeks, months, or even years, that just weigh your shoulders down. Days you'll cry for no reason, or for a specific reason. Weeks on end you'll be holding your breath tight in fear of what comes next. Knuckles white and hands held tight. The faces all match one another. They echo the same emotion and cry the same tears. They sigh in the same moments, with dry mouths and pent-up anxiety. They all pray, even though they don't know who they're praying to. The ones around you have never been more important. Fluctuation isn't an option. Negativity is banished, but realism is known. Blind positivity is the only possibility sometimes. Fingers, toes and limbs are crossed. Anything for luck or sheer miracles. It's needed now more than ever. Everyone can pull together. Some people are just made to be fighters.

Getting Noticed.

okay, I've fell into the habit of neglecting my blog again. Shit. For a few reasons I won't go into at the moment, but I have, and that's pretty rubbish. So basically, I'm calling out to any bloggers, no matter who you are, what kind of blog (if you even categorise it at all) you write, or whatever your interests are, to help me. I'm totally dense when it comes to technology, and I'm not sure where to start. I've been blogging for a while now, and I still don't understand all these different forums and blogging sites.

Translation: which is/are good blogging sites, or connecting sites, that can get my blog read by a wider audience? If anyone can recommend some, or just one or two, and a bit of a demo as to how to use it, that would be great. I feel like I'm missing out on so much blogging, and on different blogging communities, because of this.

Any help would be widely appreciated.
Either comment, or tweet me; @Eleanorward_ :)
big thanks.
x

Breaking Point.

It's 13:55, and my room is the setting of a hellish, brutal battle. I'm in the midst of the worst case of writer's block, ever. Worst thing is, this is essay writing time, not creative writing time. My essay is due Monday, 4pm. I need 1500 words, a bibliography and painfully accurate citations. My topic: Neo-Victorianism. It hurts, believe me.

So, I'm sitting cross-legged, and have assumed a somewhat no-nonsense attitude to today. No strops, no tears, no Facebook procrastinating for five consecutive hours until stress really kicks in and I sob through the last seven hundred words (don't laugh, this happens to me, A LOT.) Well, this is kinda procrastinating anyway, but at least this is supposed to constructively clear out my head of all that extra rubbish floating around aimlessly.

Two cups of black coffee, three slices of toast and a Drifter (yes, why?) later, and I'm struggling. Seriously struggling, at that. I've made a plan for god sakes, (I NEVER PLAN ANYTHING) and now I've resumed the worst outlook of all: not giving a shit. Resignation is a dangerous prospect at any time, but in final year with assignment deadlines just over the weekend-filled horizon, it is excruciatingly risky. Either I have to somehow conjure up the energy and enthusiasm to believe everything I write to be gold dust, or, more likely, have some sort of lazy courage in my convictions (and my writing) and see what happens.

Word count: 741. Want: more coffee, more chocolate, and probably, a hug. Need: encouragement and/or no distractions. (Well done, successful with that one.)

I'm taking a very deep breath, flicking the kettle back on, and somehow giving this horrendous essay a go. Wish me luck.
I have a feeling, I'm going to need it.

Welcome to Hell.

A man in the corner of the room grins devilishly as I enter. There's something eerie about him. And this place. It's really hot, but the heat is uncomfortable rather than welcoming. It's not cosy, it's excruciating. It's like being locked in a sauna when all you want is cold, fresh air. Impossible. The man studies me hard as I walk towards the bar and order a double whiskey. As the barman produces my change, I steal a glance at the man to my left. He's watching me. Waiting for something, perhaps. I shrug it off, and walk over to an empty table in the opposite direction. I sit down with my drink in front of me and pull a book out of my handbag. Turning the pages, I can feel his eyes studying me hard. I attempt to ignore it. My eyes gloss over the first sentence of my new chapter, when my reading is interrupted noisily. Someone behind the bar rings a bell.

I look up, to hear the confirmation, but instead, there's someone in front of me. The man. His fierce, glinting eyes focused on mine. The devilish grin creeps slowly across his face once more, as he raises his eyebrows, and whispers, 

"Last orders."

My chest tightens, unnerved. He lets out a monstrous sort of laugh. I blink hard. And he's gone. Just like that. But I can still hear it. The perverse cackling drifting into my eardrums. 

Remember.

Remember standing in the rain at five in the morning, under the stars. Remember when we were just friends and you insisted on walking me home, even though it was miles out of your way. Remember me breaking my heels on the hill, and you gave me yours, even though they were too many sizes too big. Remember, after all, we had so many missed chances, but also, remember, it didn't matter. Remember the laughs we had, the hours we spent talking, in secret, when no one knew. And the shared loves, of course. The stolen looks across the pub. The way we fell apart and fell together even better. I remember laughing secretly at your shaved head, and you laughed at my drunken revelations. We're yet to sing on karaoke, or, believe it or not, have a proper coffee date. But, we're together now, and that's brilliant. Even if I'm intolerable when I'm drunk, and you're the best kind of bad influence.

Don't walk away.

There's nothing like it. 

You scream "That's it! You walk away from me and it's over." 

The tears burn and something makes you test the waters and see what happens. It's the stubbornness inside you. The stubbornness you always claim to never own, nor recognise in your own reflection. The pride you so vainly possess. The need for reassurance. Your feet make your legs move, but there's some reluctance in each step. Your wounded face expression fades as I disappear, slamming the door behind me. Tears roll down my cheeks. My stomach plummets and my heart lodges in my windpipe uncomfortably. I can't breathe properly. I choke back the tears and try to prevent my eye make up from cascading down my cheeks. My attempt fails. My head and my heart fight silently with each other. My back to the door, I suddenly move. I peel myself up from my crouched position. Something makes me do it. I walk on autopilot. Out of the door, along the corridor, and pray with every ounce of strength I have that you're where I left you standing. Your head in your hands. You look distraught. You look crumpled. You look gutted. You don't see me coming. Or hear my gentle footsteps. And then the pull kicks in. I run towards you, and wrap my arms around you, and my tears begin once more. 

"I'm sorry. I love you." 

You look up at me, your eyes look sad, but behind that, there's a sort of relief. A thank-god-she-came-back sort of look. I gulp hard. 

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean it, any of it." 

You wrap your arms around me so tight. I finally exhale properly. Relieved. Reassured. You kiss the top of my head, before leaning into my lips. 

"You don't get to walk away like that," you tell me. 

Beneath the tears and the smudged make up, I grin. Massively. My tears subside, as you take my hand. 

"Let's go. Looks like we both need a drink." 

I nod, and a secure smile settles on my face once more. 

There's something wonderful, beautiful, and utterly terrifying about having someone you can't live without. There's something even more beautiful, wonderful and terrifying in finding out they feel exactly the same way.