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

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Escaping the void.

So, real-life has kind of hit me like a train. Almost two weeks into my second semester of uni, and my head feels sufficiently sore, my hand aches and my eyes look drained, bored, exhausted. As part of a new second year module, the fourty-something of us (I'm guessing) that make up Creative Writers, have been assigned to something our university is calling Writing and Enterprise. As part of this, we are required to focus in on applying for a mock-up job ad at a local writing agency. As soon as I realised this, I knew I had hit a brick walk. Hard. 

While the class is clearly divided in one sense, I sat earlier today, very obviously, stuck. Certain individuals have their futures cleverly, clearly, or even obsessively planned out, and a career in "the arts" let's say (because I've heard it enough lately) isn't for them. They have chosen to go down a more traditional route, maybe safe, maybe vocational, maybe just something they know will pay their bills and enable them to live comfortably on. While I want all of the above, kind of awkwardly, I push the idea of a career in teaching or something like that, aside. While I know quite a few people close to me are pursuing various degrees in teaching, I know from the bottom of my heart, the pit of my stomach and the blood that races through my veins, that teaching is not for me. I never, ever, have considered a path like that. It just isn't what I see myself doing in ten years. Instead, I've opted for something I'm really passionate about, writing. For years, I've loved the feeling of picking up a pen, and letting my thoughts escape freely onto a page, or a word document, or even more recently, a note app on my phone. I want to share my words, and in doing so, I want people to react. I want my name on a book spine, in a newspaper or a magazine. I want to publish something, get something out there, become read as a person. Flaunt my opinions and let my personality leak through every word I write. 

So, back to the brick wall. After being addressed with this assignment, I realised something. Or rather, something hit me with such a violent force that I felt it could knock me straight into next week. I have little/no experience in the field I want to work in. I've never had anything published, I've never made connections with important people or acquired tips from an agency that could point me in the right direction, along with a good word and a thumbs up for encouragement. While on the one hand, I have never been more sure of anything in my life, that if I don't try to follow this, I'll spend a hell of a lot of time miserable, sinking further into regret, so I have nothing at all to lose. Well, pride maybe. University fees I may never pay back. Self-confidence, but that dwindles unknowingly anyway. I feel like I could really come across well, given the chance, even if on paper, I don't look so appealing. I'm really not sure what I should do. Grab any opportunity tightly between my fingertips and hold on for dear life? Keep everything crossed. Run in totally blind. Stay hopeful. Stay positive. Become an optimist. Learn to believe in myself, and most of all, in my writing ability. 

I'm taking a deep breath, and just giving myself some time to think. The assignment must be done regardless of what I'm debating. I don't know how to, or even if I'm good enough, to get my foot in the door of such a competitive field, but I'm sure as hell going to give it my best shot.

Allie.

"My name is Allie, and this is my story so far."

Allie is a strong girl with a good heart. She's a natural brunette and has never dyed her hair, but cut it drastically once or twice. She never cries in public but sometimes has to wear a down-turned smile. She's intelligent and hard working and considerate. Reliable, motivated and very, very passionate. But Allie isn't perfect. Far from it. Under that hard, steely exterior, Allie is vulnerable. Insecure. A thousand tears are cried behind the privacy of her bedroom door, and many times has she feigned sleep to dwell on everything she wished she could change in her life. Allie bites her nails, and swears a lot, and has a tendency to be overly materialistic. She probably does drink too much. Her friends try hard with her but eventually, they lose their patience, because she has a tendency to be defiant. She's spontaneous and a little bit crazy, and sometimes out-of-hand, but at least she's never boring. She can be friendly yet out-spoken. Allie is, somewhat secretly, a very fragile little doll, under her disguise. Under the layers of foundation, the dark eye make-up and lipstick, the carefully-perfected hair  the meticulously-selected clothes, the perfume, the nail varnish, the complete façade: she is a different person. 

The shy, quiet girl, who knows what she wants but has no idea how to get it. The girl with the broken smile, the bitten-back tears, the scar not visible to the naked eye; not physical, but mental. The girl with the idea but lacks the confidence to share them. The one who won't raise her hand in class, although she knows she has the right answer stored in her head or perched on her lips. The girl who may just have the ability to change the world, if only she had a spoonful of gumption in her grasp. Allie spends too many hours crying, too much time dwelling on the past, too much time being unhappy, and there are too many people in her life who don't seem to realise how weak this strong girl really is. The girl who has so much she needs to say, but no one to listen. With a smile plastered across her face, and a whiskey chaser in her hand, the world is her oyster, or so you'd think. She sits at her desk, doodling in her latest, overly-priced notebook, watching the world live their lives, while she's too frightened to live her own the way she'd truly like to. Dwelling on the missed opportunities and poor choices, her negativity is there to cloud any potential growth of optimism. Her family are amazing, but sometimes, Allie needs more than that. She needs freedom and excitement and yet, at the same time, she needs to know that the friends she spends weekends partying with, are there to pick up the pieces when her world comes crashing down around her ears. A very-real hand to help her up, a bearer of good news, a light in even the darkest times, someone just to give her a hug or a tissue or a 'congratulations' card when she achieves her goals. 

She needs the people she has in her life. The carefully selected few she'd break an arm for. The support system she has built over the years, in the desperate hope that if/when she needs it, they'll kick in, they'll stand up, they'll be out in full-force, at her beckon-call, to be who she needs them to be. A shoulder to cry on, a drinking buddy, someone to have a late night chat with, and ultimately, someone who not just can, but will, drop everything for her if she needs it. Upset, angry, worried, and Allie's group will be by her side, on the other end of the phone, or the other end of the settee, to make sure that if she needs anything, they'll be right by her side, or just a stone's throw away. Allie's always going to be quiet inside, even if there's a part of her she wants to show off, shout from the rooftops. The reserved, shy side isn't dormant quite just yet. So, the girl with the big smile and the carefully applied mascara, well, she's still sort of hopeful. If they aren't there to pick her up, she picks herself up. If there's no one there to dry her tears, she violently mops up her own. If there's no one there to reassure her when her doubt starts to take over, she tells herself that exact thing. When the insults fly and the tempers rage and everyone seems to be conspiring against her, what does she do? Allie simply shuts the door. She walks away, holding her head as high as she possibly can. She knows the skies will clear in time. Luck changes. And most of all, Allie knows, that with the right help, she will become the person she's always wanted to be, and in her heart, always has been.