Back on the treadmill.

Yesterday, I finally forced myself to go back to the gym, after what must've been a few months off, while I was stressing over the end of uni, deadlines and wandering into the real world. 

Nobody told me thag I would be at a disadvantage if I had a degree. Not one person. Admittedly the job hunt wasn't as pro-active as it should've been to begin with, but now it's in full swing. At the age of almost 22, I am unemployed with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. I want to break into that discipline, but living in the north east of England, it seems relatively impossible. I can see people trying to conceal their eyes rolling into the back of their heads as I announce 'I want to write.' Frankly, if I had a £1 for every time someone had said to me, 'so are you just going to teach?' I wouldn't even need a job. Credit goes out to those who see that as a life they want, but I'm not one of those people. I lack the patience, the desire or the determination to teach. My passion lies with writing. Picking up a pen, or in this case, my iPhone, to blog. It's soothing writing down my thoughts, even if I'm editing them all as I do so. 

I've been pretty down about the job hunt, as well as some other things lately, but yesterday I powered through. I set my alarm, got up, had breakfast, put my gym attire on, grabbed my keys, a water bottle and some headphones, and I was off. Although I struggled through the hour I was there, I felt better for forcing myself to get out of bed and exercise. It was a step forward. It was something pro-active, and until then, I don't think I'd considered it so. Whether I used to like to hear it or not, my P.E. teacher used to tell me that, 'exercise relieves all your stress, Eleanor' and yet, despite her prevailing, I hated it. I walked into my physical education lessons, entering via the changing room back doors, and while all the other girls were chatting away, I didn't say much. 

I passionately hated PE. 'I can't do it,' was my favourite excuse. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a strong, stubborn negativity about me at times. Even at the height, I was a 16 year old who was very self conscious, and didn't believe she was sporty whatsoever. I'm still not. I still have that attitude. I will probably never run a marathon. I will never be on a sports team. But I figured out early on, that was because I didn't want to be, rather than any capabilities I did or didn't lack.

My point being, the exercise that once scared me half to death, actually does make me feel better. It's a stress reliever definitely, for me anyway. When discussing this with my boyfriend via text the other day, I just happened to drop in a relevant Legally Blonde quote, and he had no idea what I was saying, having never seen such a brilliant film. I'll leave you with the quote, that is seriously relevant, very daft and almost always puts a smile on people's faces. Even after what can be described as a really shit few weeks, or even months, I know that getting back on the treadmill makes things fade away for a bit. 

'Exercise gives you endorphins, endorphins make you happy, and happy people just don't shoot their husbands, they just DON'T.'

-Elle Woods, Legally Blonde.

I actually did it!

Well, I've been busy.

As of 15th July 2015, I became a fully fledged graduate. I now have a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. I got the 2:1 I was dying for, and although I was my usual stress self, the day went incredibly well. Putting on my gown, I glowed with pride. I somehow managed to bag EIGHT guest tickets for my ceremony, allowing all of my special people to see me graduate, which meant the world to me. My parents, my grandparents, my sister, my auntie, and not forgetting my wonderful boyfriend Lukas, without whom all of this would be just a pipedream. I don't know if any of them cried that day, looking up at me on stage, as I shook the chancellor's hand, smiled into the camera and walked off stage again, this time, WITH A DEGREE! But I felt myself buzz as I sat back in my seat, alongside my friend Laura. We looked at each other, and laughed: 'WE DIDN'T FALL!'

I probably could've cried, I just felt so overwhelmed. Admittedly, I did have a *few* diva moments throughout the day, when my gown irritated me, when my stomach rumbled and my head cried out for coffee. But luckily, I was met with helping hands, 16 to be precise. I can't even put it into words how much it meant to me that all my family got to see me awarded the degree I've been moaning on about for the past three years.

I won't sit here and lie and say those three years were easy. In fact, at times, I could've thrown down my books and packed it all in. I am sitting cross-legged on my bed, drinking coffee and reminiscing, calmly and happily, but that wasn't always the way. I was never very sure about going to Uni in the first place. I was shy. I didn't jump at the chance of making new friends, and being thrown into new situations. I worked my arse off for my A-levels, because basically, everyone at my school was encouraged to go to Uni, if you could get in. So I did. I sort of came around to the idea by the time I was in Year 13, while crippled under resit forms, I just decided I had to grin and bare it.

I got in. I was accepted into Uni and it all unfolded from there. Second week in, I was terrified. Thrown into my first real seminar, made to voice my opinions on novels I hadn't quite managed to finish, never mind form said opinion, but I bluffed my way through. I made friends, I gained confidence, I wrote an essay, I referenced correctly, I met new tutors, I began to adapt. I chose a Creative Writing course as my double honours alongside Literature, as I really loved writing. Little did I know, that would be my strength. I struggled in my lit essays. I didn't get the marks I was expected. The workload got on top of me. When my CW tutor sat us down and said we had 60 minutes to write a poem, I actually had a meltdown. Sorry, I'm rambling.

Basically, what I'm saying is, I may have a degree. I'm surrounded by those congratulating me and telling me how proud they are of me. I feel the pride too, but I also know, I struggled. I didn't sail through Uni with a book in one hand and a pint of lager in the other. The past three years of my life have been eventful to say the least... I went on three holidays, lost my confidence, began writing a blog, read a hell of a lot, drank so much I was physically sick, cried so much my head hurt, lost friends and gained others, established a love/hate relationship with Sambuca, celebrated, grieved, partied, gained a boyfriend, joined the gym, put on weight, grown my hair and got my confidence back. And now it's done. I can take a breather.

I haven't got a clue what I'm going to do with my life. But I have a degree, so I'm not panicking too much.

Catching my breath

Monday has come round, met with a combination of relief and despair. After the last few days, it feels like it's bound to disappoint. Maybe I'm being cynical, but more so, realistic. 

Thursday was our usual evening, spent at the pub quiz, where we usually avert our gaze from those teams who wrongly assume that because we are the youngest competitors, we must cheat our way into the league. To our shock this week, after going for what must be months, we won. Most of the teams clapped and cheered for us, Agatha Quiztee, the winners at last, if only for one week. Some stared resentfully in our direction as we celebrated with raised glasses and big grins. 

Friday began, and it was hell. Waiting frantically for results of my final degree grade was torture. Results were supposed to be released 12pm, on the dot. Little did we know, that meant everyone. Every single individual graduating from Northumbria university in 2015 got their final degree classification posted online on the same day. Later, obviously, this proved that the planning had failed dramatically, as five and a half hours later, I was one of the first to receive my classification, with others left to wait for an email instead that would arrive by 7pm. However, I couldn't complain. Three years of intensely hard work, tears, anger, stress, headaches and laughter, I got a 2.1 classification for English Literature and Creative Writing. All I could've hoped for. I was ecstatic. 

And what a way to end a weekend, than a Saturday spent in York, shopping, eating and drinking cocktails with my boyfriend. I feel like I'm just taking it all in now. With just over two weeks until I graduate, and no real career path in sight. I'm trying to be optimistic, trying to enjoy the lead up, trying to catch my breath and take it all in. 

Grinning.

As the rain clatters violently at the windows, my smile never falters once. And it's all down to you. My favourite human, my best friend and my boyfriend. We've known each other for just over two years now, been friends on-and-off for about 20 months, and in a relationship for what is almost a year and a half (next week.) Maybe I'm still in shock, in awe of you, and us. You're the first and last person I think of every day, and the reason I get out of bed in the morning. I'm forever thankful you never gave up on me all those months ago, and even more so you've stuck by me now. We've argued and momentarily wanted to kill each other, but on the whole, you make me happier than I ever imagined was possible. You bring out the best in me, and I in you, I hope. There's not a part of you I couldn't trace from memory, as it feels like your outline is imprinted onto my retinas. You're the warm fuzzy feeling when it's cold out and I'm not feeling well, the grin that lights up my face even when I'm low, and the aching muscles in my stomach, and the tears running down my face from fits of laughter. You're honestly the best thing to ever happen to me. 18 months and counting, Lukas. Feels like we've known each other forever, and yet this is only the beginning. 

I'm lost.

All the days seem to have merged into one huge mess and I honestly can't remember the last time I woke up happily, with a smile on my face and a lack of exhaustion sitting on my shoulders. I'm worn down, and to be honest, a little bit lost.

I've finished my degree, celebrated both my sister's and boyfriend's birthdays within a week of each other, ate my own body weight in food and then amidst all that, everything came crashing down. My family received news we were dreading. There were, and have since been, countless tears shed, flowers sent and hugs shared. We all dressed in black and sat in the church and tried to sing hymns without spluttering through them. And then, in expected style, celebrated the life of a man who touched so many lives, and so many people. On almost-empty stomachs, we glugged pints and necked vodkas, bought rounds of gin and then later on, the sambuca started. More tears. Talk of happier times. As is said, United we stand, divided we fall. 

And united we were that day. 

Hand-in-hand, side by side, arm in arm. To hold out a tissue, a drink, or even just a hug. We mourned together, sang together, cried together, smiled, laughed and got drunk together. We reminisced, we held out hope, made promises, made plans, and then, collapsed into a heap of hangovers and reality hit.

This, was now nearly two weeks ago. That in itself seems unbelievable. And since then, I can't even seem to work out anything useful I've achieved. I've broken 3 acrylic nails done, and had one repaired, went to the gym and lost my gym card, collected an assignment from uni and was disappointed with the marks, lazily and half-heartedly browsed the net for jobs, and then, just gave in. 

My head still feels like it could explode any time. I have no grand plan now I'm finished uni, no career in the pipeline, no employers fighting over me. I'm stuck, I'm bored, I'm in denial and mostly, I'm lost. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have no solid friendship group. I haven't got uni, work, school, sixth form or proximity linking up and uniting my friends and I. I'm alone when it comes to being an adult, and honestly, I've never been more terrified.

Distraction tactics.

Today, for the first time in what seems like forever, I picked up my laptop, opened Blogger and found myself needing to write. Inspired may not be the word I would choose. Instead, I had the urge to write through my mixed-up emotions in my head. The reason I actually started blogging in the first place. For ages now, it's felt like I've neglected my writing, and more specifically my love for writing. My relationship with words has been rocky, tumultuous, strained. I've had too much work to do for uni, too much stress and weight on my shoulders, and after days of my head being filled with workloads and textbook theory, I grew resentful of the words I had to write, rather than the ones I enjoyed, and chose to use.

This isn't to say that I haven't written anything in a while. I always write. I write myself notes at 2 in the morning when I wake up with cold feet and a restless feeling in my chest. I type out thoughts and musings on my phone in the 'Notes' bit, just to get my emotions down, rather than being solely in my head. I send my boyfriend, and a few of my friends, huge, convoluted paragraphs of my thought processes, writing ideas, and just general ramblings.

Today, I feel the need to write things down. There's a lot going on that my head can't quite fathom, so writing and mumbling into the vast sphere of the internet appears to be my chosen coping mechanism. Let's just hope this all works. Let's just hope this all works out.

Blind hope.

You're laughing and joking and making plans, for the weekend, and the summer, and the future, and then suddenly life throws another curveball and everyone just stands there, looking at it, like, 'SHIT.' 

I am lying in bed, cocooned in my quilt, and I can't shift the attitude that life just isn't fair. Certain individuals seem to be handed the worst of hands, and it doesn't seem right, or okay, or fair at all. With crossed fingers and toes, tense chests and heavy hearts, we hope things turn out okay. There is no other option, nothing else we can bare to entertain. This is the only outcome we can fathom, so no pressure, SCRATCH THAT, all the pressure in the world is on your shoulders, because after all, even Duffy Moon can do it. 

It's you again.

Maybe she's old-fashioned,  but she'd say she was traditional. 

I never was one of those little girls who dreamt about being rescued and marrying their sweetheart. Never. Not once. I didn't have a string of on-off romances through my teens, a whirlwind love affair at any point, and yet something in me changed. I can't even recall when I first felt like this, but I can just say that now, at the age of 21, I'm very much a romantic. 

There was a time I'd scoff at my friends receiving cheesy, gushing Valentine's Day cards and teddies  holding heart-shaped cushions. When I'd see a couple kissing in the street and avert my eyes, sighing. I'd come to associate romance with a sickly feeling in the back of my throat, a fakeness to it, a childishness. And then, I met someone. 

I've never ever imagined a future with anyone until I met you. I'd never even entertained a marriage, never mind anything more than that. Overtime, I've become someone my old self wouldn't even recognise, and yet I welcome the changes. I'm a happier person because of you. The romantic side of me has flourished, and not before time. You're the person I now cannot picture my life without. You're part of me, and I'll walk over broken glass before I let you go. 

You've changed me, and I welcome those changes. I'm a happier, healthier person. You've made me proud to be who I really am. The romantic side of me is truly alight. Because, why not?! 

There's nothing better than flowers just because they're pretty and he thought she'd like them. A little surprise is cute and thoughtful, and that beats expense hands down. Sometimes, all she want is for him to wake her up and say "I'm taking you out for breakfast" just for the hell of it. She sees a future with him, as he holds the door open for her, grabs the bill, does the chivalrous thing extremely well when he can. She has a lot of admiration for a man who isn't afraid to compliment his girl and show her off. She's always waiting to be whisked off her feet at a moments notice, even if that's for a coffee and some cake. She'll hold your hand like her life depends upon it, smile at you like you're her entire world, and wake up every morning with you dancing in her thoughts. She already knows she will hold on to you before she ever says it aloud. She will make you work for it. She will test you. She will push you to your limits if she thinks you may be the one for her. She'll tell you what she wants, what she loves and what she hates. She'll tell you what she expects from you, even if she never has to say it out loud. She wants to be wooed, she wants to be spoiled, but most of all, she wants to feel loved. 

The Dissertation nightmare

It has just occurred to me that it's been ages since I posted anything here, and not that I am under the impression that my (ha!) readers are eagerly awaiting the next update in my boring life with bated breath, but still, I like the fact that someone may be reading my chaotic ramblings, and getting something out of them. I've been busy to say the least. I should be busy right now, but I'm nursing a massive tequila fuelled hangover, and am lying on my bed, feeling bloated from a massive Nandos feast, so yep, I am not being the constructive person I need to be. My final uni assignments are due in 7th May. After that, it's game over. I will officially be out of the education system after years of school, sixth form and university. As of July, I will be awarded my DEGREE!!! What! I know, I can't believe it either. Still a few hurdles to go, but the one suggested in the title is settled at least. 

My dissertation. The thing I was dreading the most. 8,000 words of prose. I pride myself in being able to write prose at ease, and yet I underestimated the workload. I took on a massive challenge in my piece's structure, and it's taken me months of drafting, reading, redrafting, moaning, swearing and sending passive-aggressive stressy emails to my tutor, but finally, it's done. I need it binding and handing in to the office, and then that's a weight off my shoulders. With a Shakespeare essay, and an Eastenders portfolio still to tackle though, I can't relax just yet. With the aim to finish my work almost a week early, I am stressy! I'm uninspired, bored and just ready for a break. I have absolutely no career path in mind. I have no future prospects that are practical or in any way probable. I want to write. It is my passion. It runs through my veins and it is the only thing that has ever come naturally to me. To pursue a career in it, would be life changing. I'm a bit lost though, as I am a student and I need the money, as I'll soon have over £30,000 of student debt (HAHAHAHA WHAT.) and I have no idea how much money that is, and I'll never know. But still, I hope I get somewhere after three gruelling years of hard work, stress and tears. I've met some lovely people at uni, had some genuinely brilliant laughs, learned things I wouldn't even imagine, and yet, given my time over, I'm not sure I would make the same choices again. For me, uni, even from living at home, has been hard. I am not a naturally gifted person. I work hard for my marks, I've had three 1st marks in as many years, and I honestly felt like framing them, because I was shocked and proud to get those marks. I've never ever not put work in and fluked something. I'm the kind of person who has to read the novels, revise the plays, recite the poems, turn up with annotated copies of things, make notes in lectures and pay attention to what I'm told. Nothing about these last three years has been easy. There were times I've been ready to chuck the towel in, ups and downs like you'd never believe, and not just in my uni life, but it's been an experience all the same. 

there will be a certain amount of nostalgia when we raise a glass to the last three years, say a fond farewell to our fellow students and step out into the cruel wide world as graduates, as adults with degrees who are supposed to have their shit together. I'll miss it, maybe not for the reasons I should, but God, there will be a teary moment somewhere down the line. I'm leaving what I've always known, because it's time, I guess. It's time to be the person I've become. 

Disappearing.

Somewhere amongst the ridiculous levels of procrastinating and the recovery from

Christmas, it turned March today. In the blink of an eye, I feel like everything about the last two months vanished. Today I can't cope. I'm achey and displaying too many boring cold symptoms, so I majorly can't be arsed with the dreaded uni work. 

It's week seven of my 12 week semester (not to mention it's my LAST EVER semester at uni) and I'm lagging. I've turned from mild effort to blind avoidance when it comes to my deadlines, until I'm a puddle of stressy tears the night before with 0 words written and the submission time looming. After just reading an article from my uni's online newspaper, The Tab, I got thinking. Maybe if I gave up social media, for a short space of time, I'd get a hell of a lot more done instead of spending my time complain-tweeting, posting useless sad emojis on Facebook and Instagramming my 'workload' rather than being active in reducing it. So here's the experiment. 

As of 12pm today, Sunday 1st March, I go AWOL. Abstain from social media, even blogging. Maybe if I just turn my notifications off, and pay more attention to my student workload that appears forever mounting atm, I'll feel better about myself and I won't be as stressed. Here goes. 

(I bet I'll manage about four hours, if that) 

When I realised.

My phone buzzes throughout my seminar as I carefully make plans from beneath the safety of my desk, as to not look rude or ignorant. We're having a seminar on Eastenders, and how to write for a brief. It drags knowing I've got somewhere to be.

By the time four o'clock strikes, I've already slipped my arms into my coat, closed my notebook and have my bag over my shoulder. It's time to go. 

As I brace the miserable northern weather, thoughts of you dance around in my head. I'll be seeing you soon. I zip my coat up around my neck, shivering, and occasionally glance down at my phone gripped firmly in my hand. It's too cold to text you back just yet. I'll just see you soon. 

Walking through the door of the pub, I realise a cheeky grin has found it's way to my face, and my eyes feel bright and happy. There's an excited feeling in my chest and a new found positivity in my step. And then, I catch sight of you sat at a table in front of me. Your arms folded, your shirt rolled up around your elbows. Your collar unbuttoned slightly and your hair all fuzzy from the rain. You don't see me at first, and yet I watch you, as your eyes are focused down at your phone in yours hands. For a second or two I just study you. Your muscular arms that make me feel like i'm in the safest place in the world when they're wrapped around me. Those eyes I just get lost in every time they meet mine. And then I do. You look up at me and grin genuinely like I've always dreamed of. I never thought anyone could look at me like that. As I walk towards the table and pull out the chair opposite you, I can't suppress my grin. 

'Hello you.' 

And our Cheshire Cat sized grins match up. I sat across the table from you today, and I've never been more sure in my life; there was nowhere else in the world I'd rather have been. 

Breathe a little.

You miss your bus, spill coffee down your new jumper and you're running late. It's monday, so it's standard. The bus driver has a bitter tongue, and so does the lecturer when you arrive 13 minutes after he starts his usual morning speil. Your headache kicks in and you're already writing off the day before it is really in full swing. And why? 

I know among others I am guilty of making mountains out of molehills. I'm dramatic, and would let the little things overshadow a perfectly reasonable day, just because I can. I've never really thought about it, but I should probably bare in mind, someone else's day will be a lot worse. Today, sadly, someone may be told they have cancer. Someone else will lose a family member or loved one. Someone will crash their car, or injure themselves, or end up in a situation that will change their whole life. Or maybe, someone woke up today for the last time. Maybe out of choice. I can sit and be thankful that not only am I happy, but I'm comfortable. Most of us go through depressive episodes, blue feelings or simply really bad times, but if you can, count yourself lucky that you can see a way out of that. Some aren't so lucky, and that makes my mind spiral into a whole world of thoughts I can't even fathom or put down into words. 

So, bare in mind, some people just don't have that luxury. Maybe that bus driver received some bad news yesterday, maybe the lecturer you resent for embarrassing you for your slack attitude is going through a rough patch, or maybe the girl who serves you your coffee with a bitter expression has the weight of the world crushing her shoulders. Some people just aren't as lucky. 

Shopaholic tendencies

I'm not even ashamed to say it, I'm materialistic. It's not always a negative thing, it's not always shallow and it doesn't always mean someone is a selfish person. I like things. Objects. Something I can run through my fingers or have in my palm, carry on my shoulder or wear on my feet. And what is my downfall? Clothes. 

I spend more than I could ever earn. Usually, it's on ASOS, but that doesn't matter. From brand-spanking new underwear, to this season's new dress, I have to have it. Don't get me wrong, I don't buy to compete, just instead, I like things. This may seem like a really poor defense but I am attempting to justify it. 

There's nothing more satisfying than waiting for a clothes delivery to arrive, with my delivery driver/wannabe friend Russell arrives with my DPD package from ASOS with a big smile on his face and a look in his eyes that is a combination of sheer amusement and intrigue. How can I possibly have this many clothes? He probably thinks to himself. In fact, I think he's said it aloud once or twice, and I've laughed along with him. 

I like dressing up. I'm really boring tbh, evidently I can't even blog properly, and yet I'm now rolling my eyes at myself while I talk about how in love I'll be with my newest order when it arrives at some point tomorrow. The dress that will get vodka spilled down it the first time I wear it when I'm laughing at my friends in Brit on Saturday night. The pair of heels that will burn my feet while I attempt to dance badly in them. The earrings I'll lose in three weeks time because they're too big and heavy to really wear practically. The jeans I buy a size too small as some sort of motivation to exercise and eat healthy, and instead are reserved for thin days, when I somehow can manage to squash into them. The make up I buy and then isn't even preferred to my usual brands. The blouses I really like on arrival and then I end up wearing what I already have, because I don't own anything 'snow-proof' as I keep drowning.

I am better at shopping than I am at anything else, I almost guarantee it. It may not be a talent but it gives me a certain kind of buzz that I'm ashamed to say I love. Similar to writing I guess. Except I get a physical shiny thing out of it. For example, in the past few weeks, I've bought about four new underwear sets, a pair of boots (that I'm actually sending back), a really REALLY tiny pair of skinny jeans I am using as motivation, a sweatshirt that says 'HANGRY' because it is the truest emotion I have ever felt in my life, a Benefit make up set (that is yet to even be dispatched from QVC- oh yes, shopping channels are bad places), a blouse that is so pretty I can't wait to wear, AND THREE MORE ITEMS ARRIVING TOMORROW, that may or may not actually fit/be accepted/take permanent residence in my room. (I'd really like to say wardrobe but it's so full so usually my clothes are wherever they land.) 

If only I could channel my shopping love and my writing love as one. Maybe. Perhaps. I don't even know.

Lashings of happiness.

Eyes that just stop me mid-sentence, and I'm lost in them, a smile creeping over my face until it fills my cheeks. Yes, I grin cheesily, you're mine. You're the one buzzing up my phone at two in the morning and again at two in the afternoon. The one who makes me laugh uncontrollably and irritates me beyond measure. The person who can finish my sentences, wind me up and still make me want to come back for more. The one I see a future with, someday. And that, is something that will always be a reason to smile. 

Why couldn't I be simple?

I'm awkward. Or at least part of me thinks I am. In the career prospect area anyway. I hate the Arts. Theatre, film, paintings, music, literature. They are wonderful, inspiring and absolutely hellish when trying to find employment. Because really, they're the things I love the most. I made a choice at 16 that I wanted to write. Maybe before that, but at sixteen it was more of a decision about University prospects than anything else. I would study a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. It would be widely sought after and when completed, so would I. A brand spanking new graduate of English with my shiny BA honours. WHATEVER. 

I resent the day I made that decision, and yet I also stand by it firmly. Part of me, maybe a small part but still, wishes I was more practical. More realistic. More cynical. Less naive, less of a dreamer. Why couldn't I be one of those people who wanted to be a builder, a hair dresser or a teacher? An electrician, a mechanic or a supermarket worker? Anything normal. Anything concrete. But no. I want to write. I want to sit with a pen and a notebook and write something with killer speech and snappy characters that come to life when you read their dialogue. And it's just not realistic. It's unreliable. It's stupid. It's dreamy. And I want it anyway. But part of me wishes I'd never had the option to go to uni. Maybe I would've been happier. Who's to say I'll ever get the career I want and still be able to live off the money? It's very unlikely no matter what talent I may or may not possess. 

I want a good job, a decent wage and really, just to be comfortable. I have a family, a wonderful boyfriend and a good set of friends behind me, so really I can conquer anything thrown at me. As long as I'm happy, things will fall into place. A job or career will always come second for me. The people in my life and their happiness, as well as my own, are the most important things, and no matter the wage I'm on or the place I'm working, they always will be. 

Hormones, or whatever.

We've all been there. The raging feelings, the hideous pain, the not knowing what bitter comment will come leaping out of your poisonous mouth next, and living in fear that you'll just offend everyone you come into contact with. Today, this is me. All I want is cake. 00:04 and it's cake, the chocolatier the better. Maybe a muffin. Maybe a proper cake. Maybe coffee cake, yum. Maybe just like one of those cakes everyone Instagrams with the malteasers and kitkat combinations that look oh-so-simple and yet really arty and delish? Perhaps. I don't even know. My brain isn't working, my eyes feel sore and strained and I start my FINAL EVER semester of uni on Monday. The end is nigh. Looming scarily. Employment as a graduate is on the horizon. Making me feel like I could vomit at any moment. I don't know what's around the next corner and at this precise moment, curled up in my quilt feeling sorry for my grouchy self, I don't even think I care. 

Mechanisms.

You can always tell when I'm upset, as I write a lot more, whether it be notes, lists or blog posts like this one, my writing definitely increases in volume when I'm sad, down or under the weather. Maybe that's ironic: I love writing, it's my passion, and yet i seem to excel in it's field only when my life is falling apart around my ankles. So why? Why does it take a few tears to get real? Why when I feel absolutely alone or totally worn down does my writing skill flourish? Surely in my dark times, it really doesn't matter if I can write fluently or eloquently, just at all. It's more of a way to get the thoughts out of my head and allow me to relax than it is for public reading or any kind of display. Perhaps there's a certain peace I get from writing when I'm upset. Maybe that's not practical or good for me, but some of the best pieces of writing I've ever conjured up has been due to too many tears or vodkas, or sometimes both. There's part of me wonders whether I can't write happy things. It's a lot harder to write about happy things. The light is flourescent if you mess with it too much, while the dark can get pitch black and nobody questions it's truth. The positives seem overexaggerated sometimes in my eyes, but the negatives, the old cliché, everyone believes. It's true. A news headline about something terrible and it never passes through your mind as to whether it's fact or fiction, yet a positive story about someone changing their life for the better makes people cynically question the realism of it. That's how I see my writing sometimes. The dark, somewhat depressing side of my writing is where my passions are hidden. If you read my sadness, you get to know the real me. The happy posts are half-hearted, quickly written between an outfit change, a touch of make up, or a taxi arriving at 9.30. The happy times don't get documented much, for two reasons. Firstly, because I tend to find myself preoccupied with said happiness, so writing about it takes a back seat, and secondly, I'm not really sure I know how to write about happiness. That is the elephant in the room I've finally admitted. I've written so much about people's downfalls, low times and heartbreaks I really don't know where to start with the love, laughter and happiness. It's difficult. It's simpler and yet, harder to convey in words. It's a smile at a bus stop, a laugh while staring at your iPhone, someone holding your hand, a compliment you know is actually meant from the heart. The mundane, the real, the normality of every day is difficult, and yet it shouldn't be. Not every day is a car crash, a death, an assault, mentally or physically. Not every day is bankruptcy, breakdown or fall out. Every day is going to work whether you like it or not. Paying bills because that's what you have to do to get by. It's reluctance and disdain and yet it's so many other things. It's routine. It's coping mechanisms all united. It's patience and kindness and calm and friendliness. It's tolerance. It's arguing with someone you love. It's smiling at someone you don't like. It's buying an overpriced coffee so you can take a photo of it for Instagram. It's the Monday mornings as well as the Friday evenings. It's the 7am starts, the baby crying in the middle of the night, the snuffly noses and sore throats, the rain, sleet, snow and sun. It's the going for lunch vs skipping lunch. It's having too much time and no time at all and clock watching and seconds flying by all at once. It's every day that matters. Pieced together. Today is only significant because of there being no tomorrow, or no yesterday. Writing about today is the easy bit. Writing the tomorrow is hard. 

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.  

Memories stick.

Sat in my room when a song comes on and a tear pricks my eye. It's amazing what can make you react, and you don't even realise it. I always like to think I am in control of my emotions and actions, but really, that's a really bad attempt at a façade. A line of a song, a look, a smile, a Friends quote, an act of kindness, a bitchy comment, a noise, a face, a single word, a smell, a taste, a laugh, a voice. They can all change you. And they all have at one point in your life, regardless of your self-control. Don't sit and shake your head indignantly at me and tell me you aren't always changing, because you change every single day.

The line of a song would be from Sweet Caroline, because you never knew it was his favourite song until it was too late. You never had chance to sing with him and hold his hand and tell him it was yours too.

A look from someone who just sees things in you that you never thought possible will boost your confidence and make your doubts excel at the same time, because its all so new to you.

A face you haven't seen in a while crops up in a busy crowd, and maybe you don't talk now, maybe it's just been too many years to fix things between the pair of you.

The smile on the face of the person who loves you the most, or the person who has never been more proud of you in their entire life, it's priceless. It makes you get your arse into gear, step up, get a grip of your life and act like someone who deserves the acknowledgement.

A Friends quote you share with a certain person, reminding you of a time when you've really never laughed as hard. You'll cherish it, and do anything to maintain it.

The act of kindness you never saw coming and you chastise yourself for it, like it makes you cynical or something, when in fact it makes you human. You learn to see the best in people, rather than the worst.

The bitchy, nasty comment a friend makes to you crushes your insides and shatters the relationship you once had. It will never be the same after that day, and maybe that's the best. Cutting out damaging people is a step forward, not a step back.

A noise that will always make you smile; an applause, a congratulatory nod in your direction to let you know that the hard work, late nights and sacrifices do pay off.

A word that sends your brain into overdrive for so many different reasons, it makes your stomach churn and your head ache and your chest go tight and yet, it's all okay.

A smell that makes your eyes widen and your mouth water and your whole body ache to be somewhere else, with bright lights and good people and amazing wonderful things.

A taste you never forget, its bitter at first until you get used to it, and then you learn to love it. You drink it black now, and it makes even the worst days better.

A laugh that echoes further than you could even imagine. The most contagious thing you've ever come across and you can't actually remember a time when it wasn't in your life. She makes you laugh more than anyone, and she's basically your best friend, not just your sister. Nothing will ever be funnier than a joke shared with her.

A voice you adore. His voice. The way it dances in octaves when he's talking about something that excites him. The way he whispers something wonderful. The huskiness of breathing 'I love you.'

It's mad how things stick in your mind. For good or bad reason, memories stick. Some are hidden, granted, but most come out to play when that song comes on, or your hear someone's name uttered, and maybe that's just it, - your memories may fade but they don't disappear. And usually, I'm thankful they don't.

Me and You.

I'm 21 years old, 5 foot 2 inches high and weigh around 9 stone. I have never broken a bone, spent a considerable amount of time in hospital or suffered from a debilitating illness. I do no take medication daily, rely on something to get me out of bed or have any sort of symptoms that stunt me in every day life. This isn't a norm, I'm suddenly becoming aware of this. I'm very lucky. I am surrounded by people who do. And credit to them. Waking up every day and swallowing a tablet that will correct their hormones, make them feel 'normal' or less anxious, stabilise their blood pressure, suppress their pain. I couldn't imagine it, and yet I experience it vicariously on a daily basis practically. I thank my lucky stars I have such wonderful people around me. I don't care what it takes for you to get out of bed, I don't care you're miserable if you don't take your medication regularly, all I care is that you're mine. It makes you no less of a person. It doesn't make you any different. Whether it's an insulin injection or some really strong painkillers, or something totally different, so what. Everyone has a crutch. Something they rely on. Something they need. And maybe I don't understand, because I've never had to do it. Maybe that's how it feels to all of you who wake up and reach for the silvery white packet of pills and swallow hard as they coat your throat. But this is why. You're all my crutches. My reasons to wake up. My reasons to live, love and laugh. My people. I love you so desperately, wonderfully, brilliantly, and I'm so happy that you're all mine. Don't think anything like that makes a difference to me.