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. 

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. 

Bittersweet.

I turn the big, ugly 2-0 on Tuesday and I've never been more unhappy about it. It's not the fact I'm no longer going to be a teenager, (although I'm not thrilled about it) it's what it represents that makes me sad. It's the fact that I'm turning a corner, a new decade is about to start, 

twenty years worth of life, and I don't think I've got much to be happy about. What have I even got to celebrate? I'm an unemployed almost-twenty year old with no real achievements. I've never felt so boring, and I hate that. It just seems to be adding up to multiple bad days, not just one. Not only am I at uni 9-5 on my birthday, so that means I'm up from six and won't get home til at least six at night, tired and ready to scream probably. I feel in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, and I've began to question everything. From my degree choice to my aspiring career path to everyone in my life and their capabilities. I'm twenty and the only constant in my life is my family, and I won't even be able to spend my day with  them. My close group of friends seems to be dispersing gradually and I feel like I'm losing another friend every day. A day to be remembered? Not likely. I don't want to be twenty. I'm not ready. I wanted to achieve a lot more before I got to this milestone, so I'm feeling like a failure slightly. I don't think I have the support system i first thought, which is awful. To say I'm unhappy at the minute would be an understatement. Although I will say this, I'm going to try my hardest to keep hold of the important people in my life right now, and hopefully, when my next decade comes, they'll be the ones holding my hair back when I've drank too much. If not, I'll hold the door open for you myself, because I'd rather watch you walk away than make the effort with someone who doesn't care about me.

the big 100.

"I ACTUALLY DID IT!"

I say to myself with a grin the size of China sprawled so effortlessly across my face. This, believe it or not, is my 100th blog post. A sign of my hard work, a signal of my determination, proof that, in fact, I can do anything I set my mind to. I'm big on achieving. I don't mean in the literal, 'here's-your-certificate' kind of thing, but the feeling of achieving something. There's nothing else like it. A sense of pride. Accomplishment. Knowing that hard work does pay off, and luck hasn't really got much, if anything, to do with it. It took me many attempts before I actually started up a blog successfully, but when I did it, I finally found that it was everything I wanted it to be, as well as so much more. It's a gateway to other writers, a place to share my inner-most thoughts and feelings without being judged, chastised or shot a hasty glance. It's a place to let off steam, or express my creativity, or just have a little bit of a laugh. To write a memoir, a list or a play. Anything I can think of. Well, it took me just shy of six months, but here it is. The big 100. The centenary of my writing, as it were. The milestone worth celebrating, getting out of my seat and shouting about. The number I never thought I'd get to. Countless hours, many, many late nights, various different ways of writing down my initial thoughts, but the ones that made it here, are truly, the ones that count.

I've been through an awful lot over the last six months, while writing this blog. As you read it from 7th March onwards, you can almost sense it. You can tell if I'm feeling high, or feeling low, or just feeling everything under the sun. My good days, my bad days, and the days I just wanted to forget, bury deep into the corners of my mind and wish with all my might that they never happened, are all documented here. Love, loss and laughter. My darkest times are reflected in some of my most bitter creative pieces, and my happiest times required me to write gushingly over and over and over again until the smile on my face cause my jaw to ache. 

Looking through the last six months in text messages, photographs, tweets, posts and Facebook statuses, I realise how much has happened. I started blogging in March, which saw my cousin Sophie celebrate her 16th birthday and me get some of my first uni results. April saw a lot of loss and heartbreak in my life, and a lot of others I know. It was a hard month. May was busy. It saw me prep, cram and stress before completing my first ever (eek!) uni exams, then celebrate like crazy when my little sister turned the big, legal 1-8. We certainly partied hard, and that's when my crazy weekends truly began. Also, late May bank holiday we added a new addition to our family, a shih-tsu/bichon frise puppy cross, Heidi. June saw happy, sunny days arrive out in full force and more alcohol was flowing than ever. Bad decisions were blamed on vodka and upset, and put down to experience. Two of my cousins celebrated their proms and I began to feel old. July was anticipated for a while, as it signalled something me and my two best friends were eagerly awaiting, a week in Ibiza. A wonderful, hilarious, drunk week was had by all. Note: I discovered absinthe and began a tumultuous love affair with sambuca. Returning from Ibiza saw the flow of alcohol return with more vigour and liveliness than ever before. My friendship group widened, my drinking partners doubled and my drinks trebled. My shopping habits got out of hand. My decisions got worse instead of better, but  all with good intentions. My (love) life [I just laughed at this] well, I best not comment. It's definitely an eyebrow-raiser. So, August has been waved goodbye to, sadly, fondly, and rainy, disgusting September is making its way unwelcomingly into my life (and everyone else's.) One hundred posts, six months, 180-ish days, lots of bad singing, too much binge-drinking, like, 12 birthday celebrations, hundreds of nail varnish applications, too many "fuck"s screamed,  hundreds of shots, 500+ photos, 20-something ASOS orders. Lots of smiles, too many tears but all-in-all, a wonderful half a year. 

Of course, there are things I would change, looking back, but mostly, I'm happy with what the last six months has had to offer. Despite the rain pouring down like there's no tomorrow, I'm smiling. Now to make sure the next six months are as good, if not better, than the last. Only time, and blog post #200 will tell. 

Kisses 

X

Nostalgia is a dirty word.

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

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

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

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

I miss you.

I miss you so much that my tears taste even more bitter than usual. I hate that it's turned out like this. I want you back, with us, now. I want to scream and shout and get all hysterical and mad because there's nothing rational about the way I feel. I miss you so much. It's not fair. I want you back, I need you back, and yet I can't have you back. You're irreplaceable. And no one can fill that void. And sometimes, I think of you, and I just want to cry. I don't know if you'd like that or not. It's true though. I'm sad now. The physical signs show. I'm looking exhausted, my skin is bad, and therefore, I'm obviously worried or stressed out. It's not fair that you're not here. I feel so alone today, and it's you I want.

Nostalgia is a dirty word.

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

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

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

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

Better off? What would they know.

People hate to hear it, but sometimes the person you want the most is the person you're better off without.

It's true. It's one of those, well-known, yet scarcely mentioned facts-of-life. It gets the same reaction as telling someone that they've missed the last bus, or when someone spoils the end of a film. You don't want to hear it. You want to defy nature, hum loudly and close your ears to everything that person just breathed. But, unfortunately for us all, that's not possible. I have a tendency to put people on a pedestal. So much so, that they'll never be able to live up to my dreamed-up expectations, or it would be wondrous if they did. Disappointment breads contempt, or so they say. Everyone hates those people. Those happy people you see when you feel horrible, down-in-the-dumps, the one whose life is perfect, when all yours is, is chaos. It makes you want to scream, cry, throw something off the wall. The same said reaction when someone dares to breath a few words you never ever wish to hear.

"(s)he's no good for you." 

I hate that. It doesn't matter who says it, your best friend, a mere acquaintance  or a family member, it still has the same effect. That self same, gut-wrenching, all-encompassing feeling of despair. Just because you're well aware that your love life is going quickly down the pan, (whatever of it there was anyway).

"That is just like you Harry. You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you, and I hate you, Harry. I really hate you."

The last thing anyone wants to hear, is that someone they have feelings for is;

a) no good for them

b) a total douchebag

c) not interested

d) all of the above

It's horrible. While the provider of this brilliant foresight may have your best interests at heart, for a small moment, you want to scream at them. You want to tell them that no matter how true their point is, you're not interested, or you're willing to put all of that to one side, because this person means more to you than something superficial. No one wants to feel insignificant, used, naive.For every piece of filthy rotten yet from-a-good-place insight, there's a little part of you wondering why this person dares to utter such hideous words. Sometimes you don't need an agony aunt, an adviser or a critic. Sometimes all you need is a friend. Someone to share the good times with, the shoulder to cry on and the one to laugh with.

After all, there really is nothing more hopeless, deflating or condescending than knowing that there's someone waiting to say (somewhat gleefully) "I told you so." 

Always ours, Molly.

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

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

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

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

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

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