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. 

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. 

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.  

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. 

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.

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 

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. 

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.

Intimidated.

I can't help feeling how I feel. You know how it is. For me, if I'm ever nasty or bitchy about someone, it's usually because they pretty much intimidate the hell out of me. I know that's not a nice trait, I'm well aware it's not big or clever, or mature, but it's a defense mechanism in my eyes. There are certain people lately who intimidate me so much, it upsets me. Someone who seems to always have the upper hand. Always on the side lines, in my ear whispering snide comments and always haunting my peripheral vision. I can't help it. Some people just get my back up, make my skin crawl, and make me feel about six inches tall.

I'm having a bad day. I feel under-appreciated, unwanted, alone. I've felt like that quite a bit lately, and there's kind of a reason, but I don't want to moan all over my blog about my problems. No one really wants to read that. I'm a bit suffocated at the minute, even though I think that's the wrong word to use. I feel like I'm surrounded by people I love until I really need someone, and then it's like a tumbleweed in a deserted street. No one is to be seen, heard of, all are absent. No one breathes a word, rings, texts or anything. I'm alone. But that's the problem, because I shouldn't feel like this. I want my family to see that, and yet they, somewhat rightfully so, seem to notice my mood. I keep getting asked am

I okay, because loneliness apparently crawls through your pores or something. I need to sort my life out. Better yet, I need other people to sort theirs out, because I'm sick to death of feeling like I'm everyone's sideline, everyone's second choice, everyone's last resort. I'm no one's consolation prize, (to quote the brilliant When Harry Met Sally) so, it's about time I sorted this out. Once and for all. Time to grab all my favourite people, and tie them together (not in a weird way) because I want everyone back. As close as you like. 

Let's be dramatic.

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