Luke.

I want someone to wrap their arms around me when I say "no honestly, I'm fine" even though I'm not. I want someone to kiss my forehead when they hold me and never ever want to let me go. I want someone who finishes my sentences, giggles with me and makes me a happier version of myself. Who playfully shouts at me and is the only one I'd ever let tickle me and not punch in the face. I want someone who loves and appreciates me and never makes me feel anything less than worthy. 

And I have all that with you. 

We learn to compromise.

Sometimes you have to be the one who apologises first, even if you swore you wouldn't. Sometimes you need to forgive and forget, even the worst things. Sometimes, it's important to compromise. 

We all do it. We all have one time or another compromised. Settled. Made do. When your food comes at a restaurant and it's slightly cold, you haven't complained. When it's raining outside and you were planning on wearing sandals, you change to boots -it's more sensible. When you're arguing with someone you love, sometimes in the midst of your point, you have to give in, submit defeat, back down. Knowing when to speak up and when to stay silent is a good lesson I should attempt to learn. There's nothing wrong with biting your tongue sometimes. 

There's really nothing too bad about lukewarm food at a restaurant when it's busy, or a late bus in the freeezing cold, or the fact someone picked a fight and you held back. If like me, you're happy, surrounded by people you love and who love you in return, then none of it matters. The little things you can sacrifice if the big things are in place. 

Compromise isn't a bad thing, it's an adult thing. Everyone does it. Everyone accepts things. Everyone makes do with the best hand they've been dealt. As long as you're happy doing it, does it really make a difference? 

Kindness goes a long way.

It's 2014. It's the 21st century. The age of iPads and space shuttles and a potential treatment for Ebola. Everything is advancing. It's a good time to be alive. Well, correction, for some people it is. I've been brought up in a safe place, with a home, a strong family and a support system around me. I had a good childhood, a decent education and a healthy upbringing. I was told I could do anything I wanted and be anything I wanted, if I worked hard enough for it. I could achieve anything I put my mind to. I had the opportunity to go to a good school, achieve better than average qualifications and have a wide range of prospects at my disposal. I had a good group of friends. I was never bullied, broken down or left to feel like I had no one to talk to. I never went without. I never had to go through my parents' divorcing. I wasn't a child who had to wonder when the electric meter would cut out, or where my next meal would come from. In summary, I was lucky. 

Most people would read this and think, so what? We weren't a well-off family. We still aren't. My parents work full time at normal jobs to fund their family, and for that I'm eternally grateful. My mam and dad made sure I never went without if possible. I don't live in an area that is considered particularly wealthy, but nor have I ever been on the other spectrum entirely. 

While you're all planning Christmas surrounded by over-indulgent, extravagant presents, copious amounts of food and drink, spare a thought for those who won't wake up on December 25th like that. For those who won't wake up with a roof over their heads on Christmas Day. Those who won't receive a single present, because money isn't there. For those individuals who aren't in safe, cosy homes surrounded by family and friends. The harsh reality is, in an age of development, discovery and a recovery from the recession, there are thousands of people who slip under the radar every day. In 2014, in my opinion, nobody should still be homeless or living in poverty. I guiltily look down at my feet and stare at a pair of well recognised, branded, Australian fur boots that are worth more than some people will have in an entire year to live on. It upsets and angers me no end that this isn't more of a problem to people. I've seen people give someone homeless a wide birth, walk past and not even smile, instead grimace, and this is nothing short of disgusting. I know I'd hate to think if I was in the same position, someone would judge me solely on my appearance, not my character. Nobody is homeless or poor out of choice. This is why I've chosen to donate to charities who support those individuals who may be spending Christmas on the streets, and make sure they get a safe place to stay, and a hot meal surrounded by others during the Christmas period. Charities like Shelter, the Salvation Army and Crisis. Just a small sum of money could make someone's Christmas. A drop in the ocean for some people's finances. I proudly support homeless charities and will be comforted to know that their work over Christmas will help people less fortunate than myself have a chance at a good Christmas. 

If like me, you don't believe homelessness should be a problem in the UK, in 2014, please donate. Whether it's a one-off sum, or a year-round donation, every little bit of money helps. 

Shelter: 

Www.shelter.org.uk

 

Salvation Army: www.salvationarmyappeals.org.uk

Crisis: 

www.crisis.org.uk 

Busy.

I'm content and disorganised and excited and numb and ready to celebrate Christmas surrounded by the best people I know. My blog is being understandably neglected, but hey, life just gets too eventful to sit in front of laptop all day. 💁 

Once again.

This time last year, I was determined that 2014 would be the best year yet. In good old fashioned, clichéd style, my eyes were full of optimism and motivation. The blood pumping through my veins was buzzing with excitement. The new year countdown would be the best yet. Everyone would be smiling, merry and singing to auld lang syne with tequila slammers at hand. 

This was a world away from how I saw in 2014. In fact, I can't even remember half of it. I spent around two hours in the pub, after spending four getting ready, and countless more in prep and organisation. What started out as a casual, sociable night with friends soon turned into me doing a dissapearing act. I then ended up at a then friend's house, totally off my face on 60% proof white rum (wray & nephew shots will make you hate yourself the very second it passes your lips.) 

I had a numb face and barely any control of my legs, but luckily I had someone to make sure I was okay. Giggly, embarrassingly drunk and a total mess, I end up at my *friend's* house and end up meeting his family, in my drunk stupor. Luckily, everyone was numbed by alcohol which made the event a bit less awkward. More drinks, more laughter, and more celebrations. I woke up beside him with a banging headache, a raging hangover and the biggest smile on my face. 

The friend in question has now been my boyfriend for the last 11 months and I couldn't be happier or luckier. A new start doesn't always come hand in hand with a new year, but maybe instead of the completion of an old one. There's nothing to say you can't change something any day. New starts aren't just for January 1st, even if mine was.

Therapeutic ramblings.

Writing is therapeutic. I've just wrote about 300 words in my iPhone's 'Notes' section sounding off about my moany day, when it hits me, maybe I just need to write my thoughts down. Maybe the so-called writer myself needs to just get things out of my head to get a smile settling on my face. I feel a lot happier already. In a matter of minutes. It's relief. It's more than that though. Writing is innate to me. I was dreaming up stories before I was old enough to write them down. I've always wanted to write. Whether it was doodling my name multiple times in my notebook, compulsive list making or even just a document of my feelings, I've always had a notebook with me. Admittedly, I've never wrote a novel or a collection of poetry. At 21, I've not accomplished anything official writing-wise, but I think that's okay. It's the industry. I love picking up a book in Waterstones and smelling the fresh paper and examining the first page of printed ink. I love buying a book on my kindle and watching the money get debited from my account and then waiting while it appears magically on my screen. I love reading book reviews; gushing or scathing, appreciatory or negative. I love the bit where a writer dedicates their work to a specific person, a time or a place, a memory, a quote or something close to their heart. I love the words on a page and how they resonate with something I've felt, or experienced, or even just said aloud. Sometimes there's nothing more therapeutic than writing. 

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.

Forever the party animal.

                

I don't want to miss a single second of it. A breath, a smile, a grin or grimace. A tear resentfully shed. A punch-up, a drunken night, a brawl, a conversation, an inside joke. I have the ultimate bad habit. I have the Fear Of Missing Out. Symptoms of which include; not being able to say the word "no" forcefully or meaningfully, declining any social arrangements that will cost you money you simply don't have, or turning down an invitation just because you can't bare to miss out on the excitement. 

I hate it. I HATE staying in when all my friends are at the pub drinking vodka. I HATE having to decline invitations to things I really want to go to. I HATE the feeling of regret when everyone you know goes out/makes plans/does something without you, and spends a considerable, somewhat obscene, and not to mention, insensitive amounts of time talking and reminiscing about it. 

This is why I have no self control. I would rather I didn't get invited somewhere than knowing I'd have to decline the invite altogether. I need to work on that. I keep choosing tequila over essays and sambuca over studying. Uh-oh. 

Penning down life.

Radio One is playing in my ear, as I sit cross-legged on my bed, and the smell of food drifts into my bedroom from downstairs. I think it's Biffy Clyro and Bastille doing a cover. Playing I mean, not cooking in my kitchen. My dad's making lasagne. I am suppressing my deep stomach rumbles as I continue to type. I'm on a writing mission, as I explained a few posts ago. I need to beat last year's post record. Also, I somehow believe that writing and publishing snippets of my writing, whether it be random head-space typing on the bus home after a long, rubbish day at uni, or drunk 2am notes made on my phone, a creative piece or just a rant, or a list or something, in the long run, maybe it will make me more organised.
I've got to work on my ECP/CWP: it depends which uni you attend, some call it an Extended Creative Project, while others, including my Uni, know it and refer to it as a Creative Writing Project. Either way, it's a project I write myself, creatively. A story. A plot. A narrative piece of my own brainwork. Whatever, its a creative writing dissertation. As far as some are concerned, its slanderous. I should be writing my own, English Literature dissertation. Well, I stick two fingers up to those people, because this thing is bloody hard work, and I'm trying.

So yes. Back to my point. I told you, I tend to wander, both physically and mentally, from time to time. Maybe it makes for good writing, but at the grand old age of 21, I'm yet to know either way.

I should be using my Thursday evening for something constructive or organised. Instead, lucky me!!! I'm off out for food with my lovely boyfriend. I'm very excited about this, because as everyone knows, I LOVE food, and even more so, I LOVE going OUT for food. (hence the really bad caps.)

Maybe no one even reads this. I'm a bit frantic, and sometimes, I write for an imagined audience. Although, I must say, I hope there's someone in that void. Someone reading my mad rants, drunken outbursts and occasional attempts of real writing. Let me know, whoever you may be. I'll be ever so grateful.

Definitely.

"I never could do handstands," I told him, as he was tying my shoe laces. He stopped for a moment, looked up at me and smiled.

"Well you better learn."

I giggle heartily, and feel my cheeks begin to burn. His dark eyes are hidden behind his thick lashes, but I know he sees it too. The heat between us. It's suffocating almost. As I sit a metre away from him, suddenly too aware of my scruffy pair of converse, I can't breathe quietly enough. There's something unsaid between us. My laugh faded and embarrassment sets in. I don't know whether he's being coy, or maybe whether he really does think I'm an idiot.

'Definitely, an idiot.' I think aloud.

He breaks the silence by clearing his throat. I meet his gaze and he grins at me, a soulful, happy grin. And the next thing I know, his hand is in mine. My fingers curled around his, and the edges of my mouth are pointing upwards in amazement and glee.

"Your laugh is wonderful, Em."
"Really? You think so? I always kinda hated it."
"Definitely."

Once.

We go home every day with memories filling up our pockets and photos hidden in our irises and no one ever seems to notice. The days pass and the nostalgia lies behind your eyelids and the important things lurch in the safety of your carefully entwined rib cage. The things we don't say are forcefully choked back; the things that were once on the tip of your tongue become uncomfortably lodged in your throat and the daily conversations become difficult and stifled. The things we never said mount up. Eventually, they become the things we will never say again. At all, or to each other. 

A tear pricks my cheek, and my chest feels hollow. I'd never felt that before and I knew then, I'd never feel it again. And thank god. There was something comforting in that. In knowing that I could only go through this once. 

Behind.

             

Gosh, I'm a rubbish writer when I'm happy. I always say that. I can't write when I'm caught up in my own lovely life with a grin on my face and a spring in my step. But instead, it's when I'm at my lowest that I manage to do some of my most heartfelt writing. Weird, and kind of awkward too. 

Hence my dilemma. I've just noticed my blog count for 2014. At the minute it's 105 posts short of 2013's. Fair enough, last year was my first year of blogging, but still. This year's is a poor effort, and for funny, happy reasons. 

I've found myself too preoccupied with the good things in my life to stop for breath and time to type something up. Okay. It's 23:56 on Wednesday 29th October. As part of my CWP for uni, I intend to smash last year's blog count. 105 to go to level it. Ish. Some more to out-do it. In under two months.

Let's do this. I'll write everything. This is my blog. And it's what I'm supposed to do. Especially if I'm going to be a writer someday.

9.

this time nine months ago, I was very probably drunk, hungover, or planning on being drunk within a few hours. It was January. It was freezing. I drank a lot. A lot changed in about three weeks. There was Christmas celebrations surrounded by family, the New Year blow-out, lots of catch-ups and I finally got together with one of my best friends, after a good seven months of complications, drunken nights and lots of revelations.

Nine months yesterday, we were official. And by that, I mean Facebook Official. I hate that. I hate that its even a thing now, but apparently, that makes it real. Disgustingly public, but its okay. It's daft, but nine whole months for me means something unbelievable. It means a lot. An investment of time, energy and feelings. I'm not ashamed to say that at the age of 21, it is the longest, and only real relationship I've ever had. So yes, it means more than I can say.

You all are probably shrugging your shoulders thinking that nine months does not count as a milestone, ever. I've been reminded of this a few times today. I guess its more of a personal thing anyway. It doesn't matter to me what anyone else may say. I'm happy. I'm in a relationship with my best friend. He makes me laugh like no one else. I trust him with my life, and honestly, I'm not sure what I'd do without him sometimes.

Moody.

A strong cup of coffee and some stodgy comfort food always cheers me up. I like my carbs. When I'm feeling low, put Friends on repeat and hand me some chocolate, preferably Galaxy. I have a sugar dependency. I get grouchy when my sugar is low. Sometimes, I really just do need to be left alone to sleep, read or just blast some music. I'm a girl, I will spend time hating myself. Disliking the way I look and feeling rubbish about the reflection in the mirror. But there's someone who can tolerate my moods, my cynicism, moodiness and defeatist ways. Bare with me, it's only a day. I'll snap out of it soon enough. With enough coffee, chocolate, and the right person's company. 

21.

           

On Wednesday, I turn the big 2-1. I'm kind of excited actually. Even if it means I'll be all grown up, and officially an adult by law.

 

At 21, I can drink alcohol and gamble in the US legally now. I can apply to adopt a child. Train to be an airline pilot. Supervise a learner driver by law. If I commit a crime, I will be tried in a court of law as an adult around the world. If I married in America, it would no longer be law to provide my birth certificate or parental consent. I can now buy knives legally, (oh, and an axe if I like.) 

Exciting ey? Some of the celebrations have already occurred this weekend, and there's more still to come, if my immune system doesn't collapse by then. 

Final year.

It's here. The looming summer is over with. So, with sour, miserable faces and wool-clad limbs, we brace the onset of northern autumn and of our final year as degree students. 

It's supposed to be great? Who said that.  Today is my second *technical* day as a third year. (I'm only actually in three days a week, but shh.) Reading lists have been doled out, schedules explained and deadlines highlighted in luminous colours in our diaries and planners. This year matters. This year determines your future. These are the kind of supposedly motivational statements that will be thrown at us from lecturers for the next 20 weeks or so. So, yes I'm majorly stressing out. 

Also, this week, after a really hasty decision, I'm having an impromptu birthday party on Friday to celebrate my turning 21, albeit five days premature. We have food to make, a room to decorate, hair and make up to be done, outfits to be planned, taxis to book, a cake to collect, balloons to blow up, and the rest of the room to pay for. Oh, and fit uni in, and all the work that comes with it, round the troops up and achieve all of this and be at the venue before 7pm on Friday night for the celebrations to start. Excitement is brewing but stress is too. My skin is breaking out, the slight furrow between my eyebrows is becoming more evident by the hour, and I'm feeling drained. All I want is someone to greet me off the bus I'm currently falling asleep on, carry my heavy bags filled with uni books, fetch me a good cup of coffee and run me a lovely hot bath. 

Tomorrow, I have a day off. Thank god for small mercies. 

Under my skin.

I've never written about this before. For most of my friends and the people closest to me, this is probably the first time you've ever heard me broach the subject. For as long as I can remember, I've suffered from a bad skin condition. Actually, more accurately, two varied skin conditions. Ecezma and psoriasis. While most people nowadays are quite familiar with the former, as it is talked about quite a bit now. 

In my younger years, I suffered with ecezma really badly, on my arms and legs, particularly around my joints; (elbows and knees.) It varied. I had flare ups where it became increasingly worse. It came to a really ugly head when I was about fourteen/fifteen, and after many, MANY angry, frustrated trips to my local GPs and hundreds of prescriptions, I got a hospital referral to dermatology. Eventually. Thank god. 

Finally, once I got my initial appointment, things started to progress quicker. I was always ridiculously self conscious about my skin. I hated wearing things that were sleeveless or anything that would show my legs off in case people commented on my skin. And to make it all worse, I was fifteen. I was growing up and beginning to resent the lot I'd been born with because my condition was visible. Vain as it is, but I hate having a skin condition, as opposed to something people can't spot with their naked eye. It's invasive. It's not private. Not even if you try to hide it. 

Anyway, I was prescribed different treatments and hurrah, they found something that worked. Ish. I went through light therapy sessions (for anyone who doesn't know what this is, it's basically UV lamps adapted to treat dermatology patients, kinda different to the typical sunbeds people are used to hearing about or visiting.) The sessions massively improved my skin and actually for a while, the skin condition I had disappeared. 

Until BAM. It was different. My skin was totally different to what I'd experienced before. Cue another trip back to a specialist or two. It wasn't ecezma,- people tend to grow out of that, this was psoriasis. It's kind of the same but a bit different. And the thing almost no one knows about it is this:

The main cause of psoriasis is stress and anxiety. 

Anyone who knows me realises how stressy I can be, my anxious streak and my obsessive compulsiveness when it comes to certain aspects of my life. I'm a worrier. Not only that, I'm basically a worrier who has inadvertently caused a pre-existing skin consition to develop and worsten overtime. It's kinda rubbish when you look at it like that. But it's not the end of the world.

Next month, I turn 21. I am currently discharged from the dermatology department at my local hospital, although I do still have regular repeat prescriptions.  I start uni again for my third year in two weeks, and my skin has flared up again. Stress. Damn you. It's a vicious cycle. It feels so strange to be writing about this. My skin condition isn't glaringly obvious as it once was, but at times, it can be. Sometimes, my unconscious stress causes my skin to break out, and I haven't even realised I'd been stressing at all. I don't ever draw attention to my skin if I can help it. I don't ever recall mentioning it in front of any of my friends or my boyfriend in a way that would cause them to see me in a different way. My skin has always made me feel self-conscious and wary, and yet, lucky for me, I've never really experienced any negative comments. Or not that many anyway.

I probably won't ever grow out of psoriasis. It will probably always bother me every time I have a deadline looming, or when I'm especially cold, or when I'm ill and rundown, but generally, I can keep it under control now. I've pretty much come to terms with that now. To most people, you probably read this and shrug off my 'minor' skin condition. I can understand that to a point, but for me, I've struggled with this most of my life, and to me, it has been a big deal. I don't let it bother me as much now. Most of the time I have bigger problems. Occasionally, I get a bit weepy about it, maybe I'll cancel a plan if my skin flares up really badly, and I'm feeling like I don't want to see anyone, but that's quite rare. And now, I guess, I can breathe properly about this getting published online. 

This is a bit of a step for me. How minute it may feel in other's perspectives, I don't care. I've felt like hiding myself from this for so long, and now, somehow, I have the confidence and the drive to post this. I empathise deeply with anyone suffering with skin conditions like mine. They're unpredictable, rubbish and garish at times. But they don't make you any less you. I think that's my point. Big smiles everyone, it's not worth being teary over.

x

'And your favourite is...?'

In case you don't know already, I'm a Literature student. About to embark (ha!) on my third and final year of my degree. I may have learnt a lot so far, and have more still to come, but there's always one question that will stump me when it's directed my way. 

"What is your favourite book/novel?" 

I sit, my expression blank, my hands going clammy. My eyes darting around the room, and really, exploring the darkest crevices in my imagination. I've read hundreds of books, that's a given. I don't ever tend to read a novel more than once, unless it's for revision purposes, i.e. By force rather than choice. So when someone asks me which is my preferred book of all time, I don't know what to say. 

It's problematic. I could be literary and cliché and slump for Fitzgerald's Gatsby, or Pride and Prejudice because okay, it's kind of brilliant. I could drift back to Joanna Nadin's brilliant series I've been following for about six years: Rachel Riley, although then I can't pick one. I could voice my appreciation for Bram Stoker's Dracula and watch people's eyes devour my hint: the dark stuff excites me. So, maybe I can't pick one. Or two, or even three. But here are aome books, off the top of my head, that I will continue to recommend to others; 

Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë

the End of Alice- A.M Homes, 

We Need to Talk About Kevin- Lionel Shriver, 

100 Reasons Why- Jay Asher, 

Looking For Alaska- John Green, Revolutionary Road- Richard Yates, Lolita- Vladamir Nabokov, 

JUNK- Melvin Burgess, 

Candy- Kevin Brooks, 

Just Listen- Sarah Dessen,

Jekyll and Hyde- R. L Stephenson,

The Dinner- Herman Koch,

One Day- David Nicholls,

Summer House with Swimming Pool- Herman Koch,

The Fault in Our Stars- John Green, 

The Post-Birthday World- Lionel Shriver,

The Shock of The Fall- Nathan Filer,

Black Rabbit Summer- Kevin Brooks,

Paper Towns- John Green,

Nine Uses For An Ex-Boyfriend- Sarra Manning,

Room- Emma Donoghue,

and one I'm currently reading; 

Follow Me Down by Tanya Byrne.

Any book recommendations I welcome with open arms and wide eyes, the stranger, darker, weirder, the better. Also, total black comedic elements are my favourite. Moody novels, good conversations and tension. 

Collateral.

Gripping with my hands, for something more or less helpful. The pain keeps moving. A dull, achey, intolerable kind of pain. It's friday. It's raining. And at risk of sounding melodramatic, EVERYTHING HURTS. From my tongue, to my toes, my  kneecaps to my eye lashes, I'm an aching, stumbling, wreck of a person. A former shell of myself. Today marks six days since I got back from Menorca to rainy, cold Newcastle. Since then, if I haven't been sleeping or eating, drinking or moaning, I've spent every minute with my boyfriend, Lukas. Who, I may add, I missed unbelievably when I was away. 

However, today is supposed to be good. It's Friday. Excitement fills the air and fuels the parties. And then there's me. I am currently showered and dressed and have crawled back into bed as a way of channeling pain. This is definitely a holiday comedown. No more sun. A severe lack of Vitamin D, or actually light whatsoever. I'm burried under a tartan blanket and hoping, -no, praying, someone brings me coffee and a sausage sandwich to my bed. I don't know what a Friday feeling is meant to feel like, but aching bones and heavy eyelids aren't exactly a great sign. I'm craving autumn. Let me bury under wooly knitted jumpers and wear boots and my parka again. Cosy. 

While it lasted.

Sitting on the balcony, in the darkness, looking up at the lit up main road, and I can't help but smile. My family are all a metre behind me inside the villa drinking various caffeinated beverages, eating sugary food and on a total alcohol-infused comedown. The week is coming to an end. We fly home to less-than-sunny Newcastle tomorrow. I'm kind of excited as well as disappointed. I'm loving the sun. My tan is coming along rather well. Although, I'm homesick. I miss my boyfriend, my puppy and my own comfy bed. I miss waking up without insect bites and sunburn. I miss being able to walk to the shop without having to layer myself in Factor 15 and armed with sunglasses and a huge hat. Apart from that, my first visit to Menorca has been kinda lovely. I'm tipsy on lager and cider, and really hot air. This time tomorrow, I'll be tucked up in my own, cold bed with nice freezing pillows and the ability to sleep soundly. Back to wearing my parka and jeans. I knew there was a reason summer didn't last forever.

Hectic holidays.

So, it's Friday morning. My mind is working in a stressy overdrive mode. And I'm neglecting any form of writing whatsoever lately. Wrapped up in too much sleep, the rubbish british summer, and my lovely boyfriend, writing has just been pushed back underneath everything. Oh, and to tell the truth, I'm a bit uninspired. I'm stuck with regards to writing. And now, holiday planning is running wild. Me and seven others, my family, are jetting off to menorca on Saturday afternoon, (yes, as in tomorrow afternoon.) Note these things:

1. We aren't packed.

2. We have no holiday money

3. The holiday docs for our details are somewhat vague. 

That's a stressy start. I have a lot to do, and no time at all to do it in. My alarm is set for 7.30am, and I've got a list in my 'Notes' of things I must achieve tomorrow. All of which, I intend to have finished by early afternoon, for then, I have something vital to do. Oh yes, SOPPY ALERT...I'm off to see my boyfriend before we part for a week. Oh, and I'm telling myself I won't get all emotional and cry. (WHO AM I KIDDING?) 

Take a breath, Eleanor, god. Holidays aren't supposed to be THIS stressful. Jeeeeeez. 

Nothing like it.

Curled up in bed together, the rain cascading down the window pane fervently. My head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat and strumming along to the familiar, comforting thud with my forefinger. I smile, and you feel my cheek swell, a tell-tale sign. An eyelash strokes your cheek every once in a while and you laugh, or giggle, as it tickles ever so slightly. The way you smell seems to drift onto me for hours after we've left one another, and for that I'm always thankful. A tear to be shed when we part next. Difficulty, if only temporary. I feel like there will be an aching void in my chest for eight days without catching a glimpse of your cheeky grin and deep eyes. I well up just thinking about it. Clutching hands say goodbye, salty tears like the raindrops, cascading, yet, speedier, gloomier, more heartfelt. I hug your pillows, taking in the scent, they smell of you. Familiar, safe, my happy place. The one I'll leave tomorrow night, and return to next Sunday, with brand-spanking new holiday snaps and a topped-up tan! Slap a smile on, Ellie, you're supposed to be excited.

#homesickalready 

Forgotten raindrops.

 

This is the view from my bedroom window at present. It's raining. It has been for about four hours now. I might add, that in the small world that is Chester-Le-Street, it pretty much rains non-stop. The greying clouds have set in, however, spirits aren't dampened. Its Friday after all, and "we won't melt if it rains" is something my mam always says. I'm uninspired, lazy and apathetic today. Worrisome, stress and out of sorts. I don't feel ill, I just feel, well, not quite myself (or on-point, yes... go on, laugh you lot!) With a family holiday around the corner and Final Year on the horizon, I'm supposed to be all chip and cheerful and optimistic. This isn't me. I feel all empty and bored. I need to set my sights high and my act together. I need a reading list sorted, my iPod updated (which may be one of the most gruelling tasks ever pre-holiday) and a desperate plea for inspiration where my ECP is concerned. This is rubbish writing, basically. Side note: A massive, lovely happy birthday greeting to my favourite girl and wonderful writer, Gracie. Enjoy today. You bloody well deserve this.

So, with Little By Little playing on a loop, the rain falling like teardrops staining my double-glazed portal to the outside world, and the irritable feeling of being unsettled, I sign off. Have a lovely weekend, wherever you are. Monday, my strict healthy eating starts, my early morning awakenings and the feeling of constructive tasks commences. Oh well, good intentions are a start, aren't they?

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. 

21.07.2001

Thirteen years ago today, we lost someone really special. It was a Saturday. It was hot and sunny, back when the North East had proper hot summers like everywhere else. I was seven years old. It was a blur, that day. A couple of panicked, short-breaths following a phone call. A trip to a caravan, the sea side, I think I was wearing shorts, and probably advised to wear too much sun cream, although I knew something more important was going on, and I wasn't the least bit worried about ending up with a burnt nose and slightly pink shoulders, in the grand scheme of things. I think I knew what was going on, I wasn't stupid. I could tell from my mam's reaction, the faces of my family around me, they looked sick with worry. I remember the car driving away, and us sitting in deck chairs like prioritising sun was going to hide the elephant in the room. Something was really wrong. I don't think I ever communicated that to anyone else, that I had an inkling of what was happening. It seemed too horrible. Then it was a blank. I remember my dad's car, and the settee in our living room in our old house, and the absence of my mam, and my dad sitting down beside me and my sister, and the blank confusion, and the darkness, emptiness and tears that I saw for a while afterwards. I remember being told I was too young to attend the funeral, and lots of flowers being sent, sympathy cards arriving in dozens, being told afterwards the church was full to capacity.

Every year that passes, it sometimes still doesn't feel real. My grandad was such a big part of my life for those seven years, and I just wish he could see me now. I like to think he'd be proud. Glowing with pride, his first grandchild at university, two-thirds through the degree which will make her dreams possible, and hopefully a reality. I'd have so much to tell him. So much he missed, and yet, I'm sure he hasn't missed a single second of it really. We love you always, grandad. Sleep tight. We'll meet again one day. And by gosh, I'll have some stories to tell. 

Songs for every occasion.

That, is one of my grandmas favourite and frequented sayings. (The Moon to my Duffy, FYI.) 

After what has been a tough few days for some of my closest people, (Grey's reference, IKR) I got to thinking about songs, and how they remind you of a certain person or situation. These are important to me in some ways. 

Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline will always remind me of my grandad. My dad's name is mentioned, and I hear a library of music play, from Bob Marley, to Madness to Kaiser Cheifs (the really, really old stuff.) My best friend, Betty, will always be seen as The Killers' Somebody Told Me, after all, who else can I air-guitar down the front street with on a Saturday night. My sister is seen in various colours; she's Pretender by Foo Fighters, Phil Collins' In The Air Tonight and Gabrielle Aplin's version of The Power of Love. She's also the likes of SHM and Armen Van Buuren, LMFAO and 1D's Little White Lies, Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal, Katy Perry's Dark Horse and more recently, What Do You Want From Me? By Monaco. My mam will always be met with the classic and soundtrack to her favourite film; Goo Goo Dolls' Iris, while the song that always makes me think of my grandma is Don McLean's American Pie (a really rather tipsy karaoke singalong one Christmas.) Robbie Williams' Come Undone is the song that makes me think of my boyfriend, Lukas, as we just so happened to tweet the entire song lyrics to one another pre-us getting together. It's a long story, and I'm keeping it close to my chest. Steph's song is, and always will be David Guetta and Sia's Titanium, or perhaps Spectrum (Say My Name) by the one and only Florence and The Machine. Night's out will always be greeted with Katy Perry's TGIF or something like that. Nights spent in Brit are fuelled by The Beatles, Arctic Monkeys and of course, Club Tropicana. My auntie will always be I Gotta Feelin' courtesy of BEP. Now for the others. Flo Rida's Right around reminds me of an old friend, Sexy Bitch ironically reminds me of a distant friend, and Orson's Bright Idea will be a distant memory of someone I've grown apart from. Gives You Hell by All American Rejects signals heartbreak and tears, along with Taylor Swift's Fifteen. A massive shout out to Abi, someone I was friends with, and grew up with, throughout some pretty tough teenage years; the soundtrack of our youth looked a bit like this; Love Bites- You Broke My Heart, Alice Cooper- Poison (except I'm sure ours was the weird techno remake from Groove Coverage or someone), the total spoof of The Jam's Going Underground- London Underground, Special D- Come With Me, and of course, Scooter's Jumping All Over The World. (WHAT CAN I SAY, we were Chester kids!) While Jenny (Reece, yes that's you) will always make me think of Taylor Swift's old stuff. There are probably many, many more I'll think of by the time I publish this, but a little shout out to you lot in particular. I love you all, oh, and thanks for sticking by me until my music taste developed into something a lot more acceptable!!!!

Channeling avoidance.

July breezes and inane sneezes. The sun is out already. I'm gallantly attempting a tan. Or a top-up, that is. There's nothing I love more than a good ol' vitamin D binge, hence why summer is my favourite time of year. So, the sun worshipper is optimistically donning an outfit not too suitable for northern summertime, but who cares. Im writing because, well, I'm slacking. It's been a fair few days since I've written anything, and that's not just on my blog. I haven't written so much as a list, or a note, or a reminder in recent days. I'm being lazy. Avoiding the inevitable. Savouring my summer holidays before the dreaded, important final year stress sets in. I don't have a clue what to do with my life. I need help. I need opportunities. I'm scared. I'm excited. I'm ready for a challenge! 

Anything but HAPPY.

"You can't go to sleep like that, it's not fair." 

So, you're not supposed to go to bed in the middle of an argument. The age-old cliché, I guess. But, I never thought anyone would say it to me. The voice vibrates around the darkness in my room, reverberating through my ears. The words echo in my mind, over and over and over, until they don't sound like words any more. Despite whatever it is we're arguing over, part of me doesn't hear it. The romantic in me is too swept off it's feet. That's a movie line, or a famous quote, or something. It's not something I expected to hear, ever. Maybe it sounds stupid to make so much of so little, but to me, it's different. All I could want to hear and more. I've got everything I could ask for. My silly, fluffy, soft insides have longed for someone who won't let me go to bed feeling anything but happy. 

July daze.

So, it's here. Today. The seventh month of 2014. That sounds strange. Gosh. (I never, ever say that, but it seems fitting today.) I'm speechless. Sitting on my bed, in sweats, (yeah, I do that now) and no make up and freshly painted nails of which I've been trying to establish the real colour for about a week now (we've settled on 'heather.') I have my iPod attempting to play a soundtrack that seems fitting for July, but I keep my forefinger stubbornly paused on the 'Shuffle' button. I'm restless today.

I feel like I haven't had enough sleep. I feel dissatisfied with July already in one respect, and in another, I'm totally, utterly and completely happy with everything. No sun = poor excuse for summer, well, in my eyes anyway. I have Coldplay strumming right now. Maybe it fits, there are clouds hanging heavily in the sky outside my window, after all. I feel like I should write something profound and substantial. Pinch-Punch and all that jazz. Here goes. Here's to trying.

#1: Today, I read Gracie's latest and probably, the most important blog post. A fabulous girl I write about frequently, and yet, I've never so much as clapped eyes on her in person. (This year, we'll share a coffee, in person. At some point, I've vowed.) I let my coffee go cold as my eyes adjusted to what was appearing rapidly on my iPhone screen. My mouth fell open. My eyelids gathered salty tears. My heart seemed to stop a moment. Not only is this a very beautiful piece of writing from a lovely girl with a huge personality, but I can only even try to comprehend how hard it must have been to write. For reasons, that if you give it a read, you'll know. Hell, of course you'll read it. She's wonderful. Gracie is someone I feel like I've known for years, and in reality, it is merely due to reading her blog intently in a pseudo-stalker-like fashion (oh, and a few avidly typed tweets: Come say hello!@eleanorward_) Anyway, she's been through an awful lot lately, and deserves acknowledgement, and a very strong Jack and Coke. That's my first 'July' thing. I'm sending her lots of love, because I have a lot to thank her for, and she's one of my favourite people.

#2: July sparks something for me I've never been able to say before. Exciting! As of a few days time, me and my boyfriend will have been together for six months. Half a year. To some, that's probably not a big deal. To me, well, it really is. I hope he won't mind me saying all this, well actually, I know he won't. It's pretty surreal to think it's been almost six whole months. It's a blur. A happy blur at that. We've known each other a lot longer than that though. It's a funny story. Well, maybe it is, but that's for my own memory. We were friends for a long time, and have known each other for around 15 months now. I won't throw all the soppy clichés your way, except maybe this one: not only is he my other half, but he's also my best friend. That's all I'm saying. He's incredibly important to me, and how anyone copes with me for a week, let alone six months is beyond my comprehension, but I'll not complain! Stop grinning Lukas, this isn't for your ego.

#3: July is the limbo for me, between holidays (Ibiza and Menorca) and just some of the space that makes up the journey between Year Two and Final Year in degree lingo. This year, my final desperate shot to prove to myself, and everyone around me that my degree has been anything but a waste of time and money. I need to prove myself. I need to "write something substantial." I need to do something that scares me but maybe will open up an array of opportunities for me, and ultimately, I need to decide on what I'd maybe like to do in that scary thing called Future.

July is full of indefinite possibilities, opportunities and events. It's getting warmer. It's getting closer to Decision Time with regards to my degree. It's closer to my 21st Birthday, which I'm really excited about, but also kind of apprehensive. 21 means responsibility; and not just being able to cross the road on your own, or standing on your own two feet. July features my mam's birthday, the anniversary of my Grandad's death, and the cram of planning and organising for a family holiday that has filled all eight of us with a sense of dread and excitement at the same time. Also, here's a random fact: July was named after Julius Caesar, as it was his birth month. I'm positive, I'm excited, and I'm ready to go. Metaphorically speaking, that is. In reality, I'm lazily perched on my bed, still, checking my phone compulsively and eagerly awaiting my latest purchases from my beloved ASOS. Russell is making his way to my house, to deliver what I hope will be the most beautiful handbag I've feasted my eyes on. Only time will tell.

"If anyone's worth letting your coffee go cold for, it's definitely you."

Something more.

The way to my heart is through a really strong brewed coffee. The fresh comfortable silences that two people share. Being able to blurt out anything to someone and knowing they'll react well. Being seen as predictable. Knowing what the other person will say next, the side of the bed they sleep on and where their heart really lies. Their guilty pleasures, deepest secrets, their past regrets and future endeavours. The sacrifices you'll make for them, and they'll make for you. Hands down. Removing inhibitions, banishing worries and knowing there's no one you'd rather walk over broken glass for. I'm ridiculously happy. The kind of happiness that overly consumes you. It makes your chest tight and your face ache and your pulse race. The sleepless nights and the good morning texts. Having someone in your life that makes everything easier, better, more worthwhile. Being shamelessly soppy and hopelessly happy, and constantly having the biggest grin on your face. 

Electric veins and window panes.

You can't see her properly through that frosted prison-glass, but you know she's crying. A tear cascading down her sculpted cheek, gaining speed as it reaches her jaw. It looks bitter. It's cloudy, blurry, not quite in focus. It has mucky fingerprints all over it, and year-old chewing gum stuck to the  corners of the glass. The silence is deafening. The space between the two figures seems miles; totally endless. As one of them presses their palm to the partition dividing them, the other flinches. It's uneasy and clumsy and the encounter just isn't the same. The space between them is too much, in reality a few inches seems infinite. They don't breathe the same air, or drink the same coffee anymore. Their voices are only met by plastic echoes, their touch is never truly felt, through a thick wall of loneliness. 

Book #9: Room by Emma Donoghue.

(Okay, reminder, this is a week ago in writing, sorry guys.)

It's 12:53 Ibiza time, my head is pulsating with the intensity of the heat, and also, at what I've just finished reading. I feel like I've been deprived of words on this holiday so far, so I'm writing this in my notes and will publish it when I get home on Monday/Tuesday. Tuesday probably, considering our flight lands in Newcastle at around 10pm Monday and I'll have other things to do than rewrite my inner thoughts that are three days stale. So with my up and coming tan lines I've worked many a tiring day to afford, here goes. 

This isn't a book recommendation, I really must say this from the off. This book is like nothing I've ever read before or am unlikely to read again. Gritty is one thing, but this is unbelievable. Emma Donoghue's 'room' has won awards, rightfully so. More so, I imagine, recognised for the content of the narrative than the writing itself, which is kinda sad, but it makes sense. A novel in it's own right, Room is more than that, it's a journey. The writing is exquisitely fresh and unbelievably well thought-out. The perspective in which it is told is comforting and yet makes Emma's writing more perverse than you can ever really comprehend. This story is none other than an art-form frankly. It is so well written that it made me cry, made me sick, and made me laugh. Donoghue combines the naivety of the narration with a sudden realness you absolutely must bring to a story about kidnap. Oh, didn't you know that? I didn't either. I had no idea what Room was about until I opened it on my kindle a few days ago, surrounded by an Ibiza coastline and lots of suntan lotion. So now, as I'm basking in the rays, room is on my mind. I honestly had no idea what this book was about, never mind that it was a piece of fiction so harrowingly considered when it comes to abduction.

A subject matter I would shy away from usually, but I can't say this enough, this book is BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN. It's riveting and shocking and at times, surprisingly it's very funny. I want to rave about it and thrust it into the hands of those around me, just so I can have someone to discuss it with. I felt drained as I finished this book, and understandably so. It kind of breaks your heart and then pieces it back together again. It doesn't need recommending, it doesn't need praise or advertisement, because the writing speaks for itself. 

Departure.

In less than 48 hours, I'll be departing Newcastle airport and arriving in Ibiza. The pilot will announce over the receiver the local time and the temperature outside, and be greeted with a few hundred passengers all cheering happily. Excitement brews. Prospects are all over the place. A week, two weeks? Ten days? All of these people have something in common, a holiday destination. And yet, they'll all have very different holidays. 

A girly holiday is our chosen plan. Betty, Steph, Sarah and myself are ready to hit the white isle for a second battering after last year's drunken antics. This time, with a little bit more money, a year's worth of preparing our livers, and an even more desperate need for a tan. 

This time however, things are different. I'm excited to go away, but there are things pulling my back. Ties I've made. Things I don't want to leave, not even for seven days. Excitement in the air, a tear in my eye and euros in my purse, I'm ready. Well, okay, that's a lie. My suitcase isn't even packed. The flight is Monday afternoon. I literally finished shopping for stuff today. I'm very, very disorganised and it's totally not like me, at all. My camera isn't free of photos, my iPod isn't stocked up with new songs, my money isn't properly sorted. I'm out of sorts. It hasn't quite hit me properly that I'm actually going away. Part of me still thinks it should be January or something. Madness. Let it begin.

Guilty.

I can't help but feel a sense of guilt creeping up behind me at times. I shed a tear for someone other than myself, and immediately, I wonder why. I know why my sadness is felt, but there's something alien about it. Something stolen, wrong somehow. It's like, maybe that person wouldn't be grateful for the tears I shed for them. I mean, it's not like it's the best thing you can receive from someone. A bitterly shed tear. It's pathetic, in one sense. It's criminal. Right now, I feel like every time I agonise on someone else's behalf, I'm committing a crime. Those tears aren't mine to shed, and yet I seem to have some sort of entitlement towards my feeling of upset. It's strange. But hey, what can I say, I'm very strange myself. My chest feels like it's caving inwards today. My emotions are poles apart. I want to smile and cry and punch a wall for how goddamn unfair life is, and yet toast it at the same time. Nothing about life is fair. But sometimes, it tests you, because you can handle it. Well, I'm kind of getting that feeling right now. Nothing we come up against in our lives is too much to get over. We are, as a race, resilient by force, rather than choice. We don't give up. We don't have the luxury of a choice like that. If you're kicked forcefully in the stomach, you get the fuck back on your feet, because you're bloody well good at standing on your feet. If you're tested by something, it's only because you're well equipped to deal with the problem in front of you. I can't even breathe. Just this.

'The Abyss.'

So, this is the piece I originally wrote for my blog, and then frantically deleted, revamped totally, and submitted for my Creative Writing Assignment for Uni. This, as I'm posting now, is the end version. (PS. I just got 65% for this assignment, and I'm very chuffed about it.) This is my favourite piece of writing to date, and for some reason, I cannot explain my attachment to it. It was very difficult to write. Harder to watch it get put under scrutiny. But, that's all over. Here it is.

 

                                    The Abyss.                    

 

‘The abyss looks back.’

 

She knew what that was like. Waking up every single day and resenting each breath that is snatched unwillingly from your lips. A crushing feeling that made your lungs tight and your face sour and blank. She coped, nevertheless. In the darkest places of her mind, were hidden the worst things imaginable, her very own Pandora’s box. For Molly knew what it was like, to look the abyss straight in the eye, to scream into an echoing void, to cry for help and her voice to be muffled. She was trapped. More than that, she was her own prisoner. The sharp corners of her mind, her cranium of torment. When she tried to break out of the never ending cycle that was her life, she was always caught with a fist clutching at her wrist, pulling her back, maintaining her consciousness for now. Then of course, there was Nicky. He was her rock, her crutch, her man-made safety-net. It was as if their ribcages were suitably entwined like an intricate, yet robust spider’s web, keeping them both alive. Most days, Nicky was the only reason she got out of bed, the one constant in her chaos. Blood ran through both their veins in rhythmic parallels.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I walked towards her street. Immediately, I spotted her. Molly sat on the window ledge of Victoria’s B&B, a dated old place. It was a hot day, in the height of summer. She was precariously balanced. Half a bottle of cheap vodka in her left hand, the neck of the bottle clutched between her fist clumsily. She kept taking a swig every so often, but never winced once. In her other hand, between her thumb and forefinger, she held a nail varnish brush. She was painting her toe nails, a mucky black colour. She had her right leg bent, touching her chest so she could access her toes more easily when applying the varnish. Her other leg was stretched out as far as she could, her ankle resting on the outer ledge, with her foot just dangling in mid-air, carelessly. She kept tapping her feet, and her anklet rattled every time. The window behind her was jammed open. The radio was playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ and she sang along to it, badly. Her favourite song. The bottle of nail varnish, cheap stuff and almost dried up with frequent usage, was balanced on the ledge alongside her.

 

Molly was heavily made up, with dark black eyes which made her face appear harsh and frustrated. Hers are the kind of eyes that you never forget. Wondrous, haunting almost. Her fingernails wore the same gaudy black nail varnish, bitten back so far that her fingertips shone red raw. There was very little remaining nail varnish on her fingers. She was totally spaced out, drunk, high. Occasionally she scraped her blonde hair back with one swift motion of her hand. Her hair was lank and messy. She sang along to the radio. As the song reached the chorus, she took another huge swig from the bottle of vodka. The second time, she was too busy singing to the music that she missed her mouth and the vodka spilled down her front. She didn't acknowledge it, that is, if she even noticed. Getting carried away with the music, she stretched her once-bent leg out, withdrawing it from its neat nook in her chest, knocking the nail varnish off the ledge and making her catch the brush on her knee. It left a dirty stripe on her bare leg.

 

“Shit!” she swore too loudly, as the bottle hit the concrete below and smashed.

The chorus of the song returned for one final time, as she took an even bigger swig than before, and sang at the same time. At that moment, she noticed me. I’d been standing just metres away, watching her, a witness to her own little nightmare. Her eyes became fixed on my outline.

“NICKYYYYYYYY!” she droaned, raising her arm, and the vodka bottle in tow, as if she was privately toasting me from her ledge. She got excited. The song was just finishing, lowering the volume to the end of the track. Fading, peacefully away.

“Nicky, where’sya been? I’ve been waitin’ fo’ ya f’rever” she slurred.

As I walked closer, I realised how much of a state she was really in. Her big, brown eyes were starting to roll into the back of her head. Her eyelids were swollen and the dark circles under her eyes made you think she hadn’t slept for a fortnight. I gulped hard, raising my arms all the while moving towards her, ready to catch her if I needed to.

“Nickyyyyyy!” she shouted, now seemingly euphoric at my arrival. A haunting grin was artificially plastered across her face. She clumsily got to her feet, and began to sway drunkenly on the ledge, caught up in the music.

“Shit Molly! What you doing?! Sit down, will you! You’ll break your fucking neck!”

I ran up the flight of stairs and burst into her room, all the while, my pulse vibrated through my eardrums. I fell through the door just to see her swaying on the ledge, her arms outstretched, like a strong gust of wind may catch her and sweep her off her feet at any moment. At that point, I didn’t recognise the song in between the stomach-churning fear and the distraction of her drunken slurs. I froze a moment, fascinated, before grabbing her wrist and pulling her back inside to the safety of her room. She didn’t say anything for a minute, just studied me closely. Like a young child would, all wide-eyed and full of intrigue. She looked at me as if I was the most wondrous thing she’d ever seen.

Molly was wearing the tiniest pair of denim shorts. Light blue, frayed around the legs. I couldn't really make them out properly until she stood up, because she was wearing an over-sized t-shirt that was almost down to her bruised knees. Far too big for her. If I didn't know better, I’d say it was a man’s shirt. It made her look drained, too thin, wobbly. As I grabbed hold of her arm, I noticed the syringe marks. They were raw and puckered, like tiny pin tucks. She’d been scratching at her arms and made them sore. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her heroin and vodka cocktail were pickling her liver more every second. I didn't know what to do. I never did. She caught me looking at her scars, and snatched her arm away, bitterly.

‘Get off me!’
“Right, put some shoes on. We’re going for a walk. You need to sober up.”

“I don’t need to, I am sober.”

I ignored her blatant cries of denial. My nerves were dead to it now. More than anyone, I knew never to trust the words of an addict. No matter how much they prevailed. She followed my lead, and we headed off down the road. I had my arm around her waist, a necessity, rather than a public display of affection. We wandered through town, as I tried my best to divert the attention from my junkie girlfriend. She was a total mess. We got a few funny looks, but I wasn't taking an awful lot of notice.

 

Her paces began to slow as we reached a bridge, and then, suddenly, I saw her eyes light up and her legs begin to strengthen. She broke free from my grasp and seemed to sprint towards the bridge. Once her feet were firmly united with its concrete, Molly came alive. She was euphoric. Deep down I knew it was the effect of her drug cocktail, but part of me wanted to see past that, see the Molly I used to know.

She sat down, very matter-of-factly, on the concrete, shuffled over to the edge and hung her feet over the side. I shouted at her, urging her to get up, my stomach lurching, but she ignored my pleas, so admitting defeat, I joined her. I nervously shuffled to her side, so both of our legs were dangling mid-air, with only the water below and each other for company. It was late afternoon, and it was quiet, peaceful.

Suddenly, Molly spoke.

“What if I jumped?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you do if I jumped?”
“Um…” I hesitated.
“See. Nothing,” she snapped.
“Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”
“You tell me.”
“Well I don’t want you to jump.”
“I never said I was going to. I said if I did. I said hypothetically, if, right here, right now, there was just me and you, and I jumped, what would you do?” She might be totally messed up, but Molly’s tact and wit were still in full working order.

“I’d jump too.” I realise now that was a crazy thing to say to a girl who was fragile, mentally unstable and under the influence of both alcohol and drugs, but she caught me off guard.

“What?”

Her face almost crumpled at my response. Tears began to form in the crevices of her bloodshot eyes.

“You asked me what I’d do. I’d jump with you.”
“But… but…why?”
She looked increasingly puzzled and upset.
“Just ‘cause I wouldn't know what else to do.”


“Well, I guess I just expected more from you, that’s all.”
“Expected more from me? Are you fucking kidding Moll? Are we really going to do this now?!”

She just stared past me, blank. I knew then, I’d lost more than her gaze. 
“You know what they say, don’t you? If you stare into the abyss…”
She didn't respond to me.
“Don’t ever say you’d jump after me. Ever. Promise?”
“Er, I thought you said this was all hypothetical.”

You had to be matter-of-fact with Molly. There was no room for any more irrationality, sudden reactions or unexpected outbursts. She had all of those stations covered.

“It is.”
“Well then, why does it matter?”
“Because, Nicky. It matters to me.”
“I’m not gonna let you do this.”
“DO what?” she wears an innocent expression, not quite believable. Knowingly smug.
I shook my head, “Don’t patronise me. You know what I mean.”

She laughed sarcastically.

“I love you Molly.”
“Yeah. I know, more’s the pity.”

“Y’know sometimes, I don’t think that’s a defence mechanism, I just think you’re being a bitch.”
“Whatever, just don’t sign your life away on my account.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because I might be bored with this place, doesn't mean you have to be.”

I refused to dignify that with answer. I saw through her cocky façade, and sometimes, it was just exhausting, being the other player in her constant mind games. I laughed, because, really, what else could I do? She was right, in a way. She was a complete fool, a waster, a junkie. But she was mine. I was blinded by her, and she knew it. I shrugged it off, my shoulders weighted down by such an exhausting responsibility. Just before sundown that day, we headed back. I walked her home to the door of the B&B.

 

“I’m staying the night.”

“No, no, don’t be stupid, you don’t have to do that.”

“”We both know I’m not gonna leave you like this Moll, so don’t patronise me.”

“Fair enough.”

 

I helped her clamber up the stairs, and through her front door, and sat her clumsily on the sofa. She was sobering up and looked totally worn out.

 

“Nicky, will you run me a bath?”

 

I nodded, and did what I was asked. I could hear her shuffling about in the next room, trying to get comfortable. When I came out of the bathroom, she was curled up in a foetal position, with her thumb nail between her teeth, half asleep.

 

“Moll?”

“Hmm,” she groaned.

“I’m just gonna go buy some tabs, I’m dying for a smoke. Sure you’re okay here?”

She looked at me indignantly.

“Yeah, I don’t need babysitting y’know.”

“I’m just checking. I’ll be back in ten.”

I began to walk towards the door when she grabbed my arm. Molly looked at me, her eyes clinging on to the very image of my being almost as tightly as she clutched my wrist with her tiny hands. She pulled me closer in one swift motion and kissed me like she didn't have another second to live. I grinned.

“Wait. I love you, Nicky. ”
“I love you too.”
I laughed, it was just like her. I smiled again, and watched her close the door as she headed into the bathroom.

-------------------------------------

“Molly? Hello? It’s just me, I’m back. Got caught up…I mean, ya wouldn’t believe it, they had no fuckin’ Marlboro lights.”

There was no answer. I could hear her old record player humming, notes drifting under the gap in the bathroom door, along with the very familiar scent of lavender. I smiled to myself, slumped myself in the chair and lit a cigarette while I waited. The sickly-sweet taste of Nicotine seemed to switch a light on in my tired eyes, the taste of relief after a very long day. I must’ve zoned out, because when I looked at my watch again, it was five to nine, and I only had six cigarettes left in the packet. My eyes darted from one side of the apartment to the other. It was dark outside now, and the only light was glaring from the bathroom. I could hear the radio crackling vaguely.

 

“Molly? Moll? You in here? Y’know that bath water will be freezing now…”

 

My voice trailed off as my eyes struggled to become accustomed to the scene in front of me. The radio was still playing. The bath water was discoloured, an almost rainbow effect that would’ve seemed pretty in another light. My throat was tight, I felt like my airways were constricting, and yet, it was undeniable, there was something remarkable about what was in front of me.

Razor blades and exposed veins. The radio skipped and was stuck on a particular line of the song. I was met with a scene of carnage. Blood. And yet, I would come to hate myself for thinking it, but at that moment, she had never looked so beautiful. Her eyes were open. Her pupils blown, dilated. Her wrists slit, her lips a dangerous, lonely shade of blue. They were parted slightly, sleepy and yet happy. Stunning. Peaceful. One of her hands hung loosely over the edge of the bath, the razor blade still in her mucky clutches.

Thoughts twisted in and out of my mind, making my stomach lunge.

It’s funny really. When you lose someone, there’s always an influx of people waiting to lay flowers and say nice things about how loved they were, and all of their positives. But at that moment, it was hatred loitering in my chest. She was a fucking mess, frankly. But she was my mess. The good days, the bad nights, the bitters slurs and the exclamations of adoration at three in the morning when the Methadone was wearing thin and her skin was raw and her nerves were needy and shaky.

She wasn’t fearless, Molly acted out of cowardice. Utterly and completely. It was naïve and selfish and if Molly hadn’t already got there first, I probably would’ve killed her myself for even entertaining such a monstrous thought. At that moment, beneath the anguish, the heartache, the sheer breathlessness, I wanted to cry, but more so, I hated her. From her selfish ways to her absent-minded self-indulgence. Her vanity. Her lust for all the wrong things in life. I hated how I’d sat back and watched such a soulful, passionate girl destroy herself all because I was too proud to admit I couldn’t cope on my own. Who was I kidding? I hated her and I hated myself, because I couldn’t handle her and I should’ve been able to, or at least, I should’ve been brave enough to ask for help when I realised I was in way over my head.

When I saw the razor, and the cuts on Molly’s wrists, I gagged. My stomach flipped, my heart leapt from my chest to my vocal chords and lodged itself there like something unpleasant you just can’t digest. And I knew the real reason for my reaction. Molly wasn’t dead because she’d slit her wrists, or because she drank so much cheap vodka she’d pickled her liver prematurely at 25, or even because she was a junkie who never got the right help. She was dead, truthfully, because she had a failed support system. Her crutch snapped beneath her deadweight, fragile frame. My knees buckled at the thought of losing her, so when she tested the water and saw the fear in my irises, she kind of got off on that. Knowing she was almost gone, as if she was standing on a cliff face readying herself to step over the edge into the abyss. And so she plunged, into the dark, lonely recesses of her mind. But the abyss isn’t as lonely as it seems. The abyss isn’t for the dead, but for the living. And the problem with it is, even when you snatch your gaze away with every ounce of strength you conjure up, the abyss always looks back.