Some days.

Some days are just shit. There's no other word for it. From the little things not going right to the big things going very wrong. And there's nothing you can do. You're just left floating there hoping that soon you'll find something, or someone to clutch on to. Someone to cry with, someone who will pry a smile out of you even if it's forced and through sobs and gasps for breath. That's what today feels like. I feel like the walls are closing in on me and there's nothing I or anyone else can do to stop it. It will happen whether I react or notice or not. Helpless, is how I feel. From the aches deep in your bones to the exhaustion under your eyes, some days are just too hard. A strong cuppa, a nice tea, and maybe that doesn't even help. Bed. That's what helps. Resetting. Restarting. The only real cure for a bad day is an end. The only consolation anyone can draw from a bad day is it's definitive ending. Tomorrow may be worse, but the possibility is there: tomorrow just may be better than today, and sometimes that's all you need to know.  

Don't ever say you're lonely.

The taboo you're never supposed to say. Not banned, not illegal and yet, if you start spouting it here, there and everywhere, you'll start to cause offense. Backlash. People around you will begin to feel distant, insulted, put-out. But still, sometimes the feeling prevails, and on rare occasions, you blurt out the thing that any self respecting human being isn't supposed to say.

"I'm lonely." 

Why? What? Has something happened? Who have you fell out with? Questions gushing in. In reality, it's probably nothing. Maybe there's no one you're blaming. No one making you feel alone and isolated. No one that abandons you or makes you feel small. No one, that is, except you. You can have the most amazing support system around you, and still, sometimes, it's possible to feel really quite lonely. Whether there's someone holding your hand, or at the other end of the phone, or if they have their arms wrapped around your waist. I feel guilty, because I feel this way. I have the most amazing boyfriend, wonderful family and brilliant friends, and all I can think of today is loneliness. I should just shrug it off. It's just 'one of those things' that will pass. Exhaustion, routine, boredom, space, whatever it is that makes me feel like this, I haven't a clue. I feel like I try to push people away when really, they're the ones I need the most. If I don't understand my reasoning behind it, how can anyone else? 

All I can ask of you is this; don't give up on me. Bare with me. If I doubt myself, reassure me. If I feel down, try to make me feel more like myself. The smallest of gestures can go a really long way. No one is negative forever. 

Stop crying your heart out.

To say last night was horrific would be an understatement. "Shit" someone muttered. Awful. I'm lost for words. I feel like the biggest mug on the planet. It's so humiliating, being so positive and gushing about someone for them to throw it back in your face, and make you look stupid and naive and totally gullible. Evidently I am all of those things. Just when you think life is going to deal you a good hand at last, a lucky hand, someone comes along and grabs it and snatches it away. Last night was spent in tears, so, yeah, not a great start. I could probably punch a wall I'm so angry today. Seems like my judgement is as bad as people say. Yet I seem to be the only one who can't see it. So even after all of this upset, why am I sitting here trying to smile? Why am I here knowing that I'm not prepared to walk away from something I care about, even though the risk of being hurt is higher than ever. Maybe this is it though. It doesn't get worse. I was brought up to fight for what you wanted, and work at it, and don't give up at the first sign of trouble. Maybe that's overly optimistic in this scenario, I really don't know. I have so much to get through today and you've messed my head up so much I could just scream. I hope you're happy. Better yet, I hope you're fucking miserable. 

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

Breathe.

It never just rains, it pours.
How true that is.
Especially today.

Mood music, please.

Lying in bed, sprawled out on my stomach,- starfished. My iPod's drumming along to Florence and The Machine's Heavy In Your Arms, and I'm all weary and teary eyed. A song that seems to have been haunting me for days. I just can't seem to get the lyrics out of my head, or stop them flowing out of my mouth at any given opportunity. My head is pounding as the beat sounds over and over. Florence Welch has an amazing ability; she manages to capture how I'm feeling right now with such precision and exactness that there are no more words necessary. As I lie here, alone in the darkness, with only the light of my phone's screen (on which I'm drafting this, so beware, this is a "late" post) for company, I feel like I'm about to break in two. Text messages: zero. Tweets: all irrelevant tonight. Phone Calls: of course not.

It's the early hours of Saturday morning, and usually (okay, this time for about two months) I'd be found at the pub, knocking back tequila like there's no tomorrow, with anyone who'd join me. However, tonight is different. Tonight's refuge seems depressing, but it's all for a good cause. I've forced myself to stay in. Partly, to know that I'm not drinking myself into a vodka and lime flavoured oblivion, partly because it's necessary. I've barricaded the doors and bolted the windows and all that jazz. This isn't just some severe form of self-gratifying punishment, it's an attempt to save my pennies before I jet off to Ibiza with my two fave girls. 8th July, I'm counting down the days.

Despite my excitement, I've had a pretty shit day. A rude awakening on my part, I started the day with my dad hollering up the stairs, telling me to "get out of bed." Little did I know, my Friday would only go downhill from there. A little shopping was done, but it was full of effort, my mind being woefully preoccupied with a lack of coffee, sleep and genuine smiles all used up many weeks ago. To say I feel worthless today would be the biggest understatement ever. I'm an emotional wreck and it's sort of unexplainable. I sat watching EastEnders and was in tears. I'm an emotional person anyway, but today's been different. I feel like I've had to bite my lip to stop myself from tearing up at every little thing. The rain. The lack of sleep. The no energy. Trailing my feet around the shops, when shopping may be one of the things I was born to do. A smile nowhere to be seen, especially not donned on my face. I don't even know why. I think it's what they call "one of those days."A day that just seems to be drenched in negativity, even if you maybe secretly know why and try your utmost to hide it from yourself.

Anyway, I'm still lying here. Exhaustion is catching up with me, as the yawns take over and my iPod continues. Coldplay's Warning Sign may be my favourite song at the moment. Chris Martin's voice makes me melt. The strumming of guitars and the beautiful melody behind his rich tones makes me want to sing along and sway in unison. Everyone has favourite lyrics, right? That bit of a song you sing extra loud, has a special meaning, or a catchy beat. The personal few words you always wait and long for, and when they arrive, they're wonderful and brilliant and you sing at the top of your lungs.

And, here's mine;

"Well the truth is, I miss you. And the truth is, that I miss you so."

Sometimes a piece of music can explain exactly how your feel, even if you can't put your own emotions into words. Between Florence and Coldplay, I feel like I understand how my head is working tonight, and how, evidently, the tears are rolling so effortlessly down my cold cheeks. Even if the lyrics don't echo my own words, or my own situation exactly translated, it's everything combined that enables me to really get what I need. The meaning of any words, or lyrics, is entirely up to you. They're what you want them to be. You can ignore the lyrics altogether if you want and listen to the artist's voice, and only then, will you really, truly understand what they're singing about.

Well. In my eyes, anyway. A song isn't about the semantics of the lyrics or the beat or the instruments present or the setting it was written in, it's about every single little one of those things combined, as well as you. The listener. The audience. A song is, after all, only as powerful as the impact it has on it's listeners. So, whether you're feeling down or happy and grinny, reach for the radio dial, the television remote or the nearest music player you can get your hands on. Shuffle through, find your mood music, and let it take over. Sometimes, it's all you'll ever need.

and the truth is, that I miss you so.

x

Nostalgia is a dirty word.

I've done it again. Got all nostalgic. Caught myself looking through old snaps, and that strange mix of happiness and sadness crept up on me. And that stench drifting in, what was it? Regret. Denial. Horror. A mixture of all three. Those days. Years ago. The happier times. Or at least seemingly so. I seemed to worry less back then, I seemed to smile more, I seemed to be happier, more carefree. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm miserable now, or unhappy with where my life is at at the moment. It's just, every so often, that little bittersweet feeling of nostalgia kicks in, and gets me to reminiscing of simpler times. My "younger and more vulnerable years" as described by Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, were, to me, strangely some of my most daring and carefree. I guess it has something to do with age. 

At merely 14, the weight on my shoulders was less, light, easy to carry. I had less baggage, less experience of the world, less responsibility. I was naive, and thankful to be. The pressure was practically nonexistent. School was just somewhere to go to socialise with friends, the real work was yet to come. The real life was just around the corner. Experience of the big, bad world would be sooner than we expected. In the blink of an eye, we grew up. We aged overnight. Everything got serious, straight-laced, important. Those mid-term tests became exams, those spats with friends turned to unsettled feuds, those little jobs turned into big responsibilities. So, why now is everything different? As my teenage years are drawing rapidly to a close, (excuse me while I try not to dwell on this) why is it that I'm edgier than ever? 

The older we get, the more baggage we carry, and ultimately, the less willing we are to take risks. Why? Well I think I've figured it out. The older we are, the more we have to lose. At 19, I'm all too aware of what the big, bad world has in store, and sometimes, I'm not willing to take that risk, because there's just too much to stake. Even though I'm only young, there are certain things I'll hold on to tighter than ever, and not let go. It's also harder to say how you feel. Rejection, judgement and a thousand and one other factors come into play when you're in your latter teenage years. Those soul-destroying, stomach-plummeting moments we've experienced before, well, understandably we're reluctant to put ourselves in similar situations just in case the outcome matches up.

So, nostalgia really is a dirty word. It makes you bitter and confused and yet, at the same time, makes me want to get back to those days, those feelings of freedom. Throwing caution to the wind and risking everything you've got for something you want/need. Maybe it's time I did just that. For once, not concentrate on what's at stake, but what I've got go gain. Maybe if I play my cards right, it'll work out better than ever. 

Pass me the chicken soup.

So, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and on the surface, this can only mean one thing. A recipe for a successful day, in the north east. As anyone will know, it's a very rare occurrence that we get a visit from that big yellow thing in the sky, so when said holy day arrives, everyone is out in full-swing; happy smiling faces, sparsely dressed people, donning sandles and shorts and very occasionally, sunglasses. But, for me, that recipe just isn't hitting the spot. Why? I'm not feeling myself. In more sense than one.

I'll not give you an unnecessarily dull somewhat-psychological analysis of my state of mind, or any sort of morbid list of my medical symptoms of illness, as that's also pretty boring to read (I presume, I don't mean to insult anyone who may actually find my illness interesting, you total sadists.) Kidding, obviously. Cold-like symptoms in June. You're thinking WHAT? So am I. I am never usually unwell, so when I am, it really gets me down. As for the last few days, exhaustion has set in. I've been even more miserable and intolerant than usual, and increasingly anti-social (and I hate myself for that.) I'm bored to tears. I feel like I have had such high hopes for 'Summer 2013' for so long (hence the inverted commas for entitling!) that it was likely it would fall short of my expectations, and it hasn't even started yet. Not, completely, anyway. I know, this sounds dreadfully pessimistic, but as I have said on many occasions, I am a negative person by default, although I kind of hate that. I just don't think I'm making the most of the time I have, and hardly ever see my friends, due to their prior commitments or my refusal to appear second best or even last resort. I've been so moody lately, I'm sick of being in my own company, yet am somewhat comforted by it.

On a more positive note, I invested in my own Kindle the other day and have fell head-over-heels in love with it. I already have a few dozen titles on there, just sat on their literary haunches, waiting to be read. I can now proudly say I've not only just finished reading my first book on my Kindle, but one of the first books I actually couldn't put down, for first time in months. I love that. Discovering a book, or an author who writes such pure genius, with such wit, that you connect in a way that makes you grin. The said book is The Dinner by Herman Koch. I won't give much away, as spoilers are hideous and I'd hate to be reading a blog and the ending to be revealed in three short, quipping lines, like a comedy act gone wrong. Originally written in Dutch and then translated into English, The Dinner follows the story of two couples and their families, revolving around a dinner at a restaurant, one night. It's obviously, so much more than that. An international bestseller. Read it. You must. It's one of the most brilliant, witty, sarcastic pieces of literature I've ever feasted my eyes on, and will undoubtedly spend weeks spouting off about Koch's wonderful writing style.

So, I guess I best actually try and pull myself together. Sick of feeling sickly and blue. I think it's about time I loaded up on chicken soup, miracle cures and whacked on my best smile, even if it is false for a while. Because, eventually, I won't need the chicken soup. In time (hopefully soon) I'll feel better, and I'll be back to my old (well, nineteen year-old) self, happily pessimistic and a lot more sociable than I have been lately. Promise.

Always ours, Molly.

This post is well overdue, but there’s a very good reason. To say I’ve had a bad few days would be a huge understatement. I’ve deliberated writing this since Wednesday, but didn’t have the strength or the mental capacity to deal with what I felt I must say. This post isn’t for anyone else. It’s for me. It’s for my own mind. My own satisfaction. My own way of coping. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. Very recently, we lost our family dog, Molly. I won’t go into the details, but we had to make the decision to end her suffering, the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do. She was more than a dog, by far, she was part of our family. Loved, cherished, and deeply missed.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. For anyone who may come across this and dare to utter/think “she was just a dog” then fuck you, because frankly, your opinion doesn’t matter to me. Whether this is articulate or not, I won’t comment on. If no one else reads this, that’s fine by me, because it’s my own.

Anyway, I got to thinking, amidst the crying and harsh silences, about grief. It’s a funny thing. Everyone reacts differently, but there’s always a similar feeling. The loss is unbearable. You don’t know how to react. Are you supposed to cry, or do you keep yourself busy? Do you talk about it? Do you forget and move on? There’s no right answer when it comes to losing someone you love. The excruciating numbness, as if you want to pinch yourself and wake up from a horrendous nightmare. That empty, painful feeling in the pit of your stomach, that makes you not want to eat or sleep or even think. You’ve got nothing to say but you can’t stop thinking.

Over the last few days, I’ve felt so down, so lost. Hours afterwards, I never spoke to anyone. Never uttered a single word, looked on Facebook or Twitter and turned off my phone. It suddenly didn’t matter what kind of support system I had (an amazing group of friends, all ready to console me) because when something like that happens, there is no consolation. There is absolutely nothing that anyone can say to make you feel better. I got to the point where I didn’t want to feel better, I wanted to cry, and scream and lock myself in my room in the dark and be able to turn off my brain and my emotions and just sit there, staring into nothingness. I wanted to be out of myself, I wanted to be someone else, or anyone other than me, someone who wasn’t feeling these feelings, or going through these things.

In a word, these last three days have been horrific. No matter what people say to you, to try and help, it doesn’t. I’d never wish this on even my worst enemy. Deafening silence seems to haunt every step you take. Your family are all in some sort of bubble, this is the only topic of conversation (not that anyone really speaks.) Everyone feels the same yet so different at the same time. The house feels emptier without you. I catch myself forgetting for a split second, then silently cursing myself for doing so. I walk through the door expecting you to greet me, and when you don’t, my heart plummets. It seemed so sudden, so soon. I’m still getting to grips with it all, even if it is reluctantly. I never want to forget you, and I don’t think there’s any chance you ever will be forgotten.

For anyone suffering right now, loss, grief, loneliness. I know how you feel. The agonising feeling of wanting everything to be how it was before. The sacrifices you’d make for their return. The sheer enormity of the hole left behind, that will never be filled. You wish for one more chance, one more day, one more smile, but not for now at least.