Afraid / Unafraid

Actively worried

Are we meant to get more or less afraid as we get older? On one hand we’ve got more experience so know that things we might have irrationally feared as children (the dark, those weird Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp) are no longer cause for concern. But on the other hand the more we experience the more we learn what to logically avoid – all the cuts and bruises we lump around with us and label as emotional baggage are reminders that serve to make us afraid. They’re the lessons we’ve chosen to learn from the worst of times – key word here is chosen, sometimes we elect to learn lessons that are easy, rather than the more difficult ones that might prove genuinely helpful. For example, I believed that if I swore off dating science students my relationships might be more successful (lol), when the lesson I really needed to learn was not to choose men who saw me as utterly disposable. I’m still trying to learn this lesson properly, (it’s PhD length) and yet this is my biggest gaping scar – my greatest fear is being deserted for no reason. Because I haven’t learnt how to avoid these kinds of situations the fear isn’t measured and it so doesn’t fulfil its function as self-defence. Instead it crops up at weird times, often when it’s already too late and consumes my thought process. I think being the age that we are is terrifying because we’re full of these half-learned lessons that don’t quite protect us from making the same mistakes, yet don’t quite allow us to enjoy the process of making said mistake as much as we used to. Sigh.

Last week I was in the middle of one of my periodic anxiety meltdowns, these aren’t triggered by anything, just kinda happens but it has honestly been absolute hell. To cheer me up my pal Tim took me to an amateur open mic night – show tunes and a bottle of wine, ideal for curing the blues. Now I’m a great believer in things happening for a reason (see my domino effect post here); being in the right place at the right time, seeing something happen, hearing something – these important moments happen, whether you believe in fate or whatever, there are undeniably times when you know something important has been offered to you. About an hour into the night the most sparkly man I’ve ever seen took to the stage with a rendition of ‘I’m Not Afraid of Anything’ from a musical called Songs for a New World. I’d never heard this song before this night, the video with audio is below but in case you can’t be arsed to listen it’s a song about lack of fear and not understanding why other people are afraid of irrational things – ‘Jenny’s afraid of water, / I mean she swims so well but still, / She’s afraid of water’.

Watching that sparkly man sing his heart out took me right back to a time when I felt absolutely and totally unafraid – May week last year. I was unafraid because I had nothing except whatever I was holding right there in my hands at the time. When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. The reason I’m capable of feeling more fear nowadays is because I have things that I don’t want to lose – I’ve started to build pieces of a life that might be more permanent than a few weeks, and if it’s ripped out from underneath me what will I do? Yep, I’m afraid that it’s all going to crumble and that I’ll be stuck in the rubble when it falls. But you know what I’m not afraid of? Being afraid. I mean, I don’t enjoy it, but when I’m scared I refuse to be ashamed, I refuse to employ shitty diversionary tactics, I proudly claim my right to cry and scream and let my ugly, raw honesty spill all over the floor.

I’m scared I’ll be unemployed, that I’ll have to sack it all in and go home. I’m absolutely terrified that one day someone is going to kick me so hard emotionally that I won’t be able to breathe, and the worst thing about it will be that I’ll get up and ask for more, never learning my lesson. Being scared doesn’t make me special, and knowing this is key – I get on with my everyday life, because I know we’re all secretly shitting our pants. I think if there’s something that you don’t want to do, something you’re pushing away or putting off then we should teach ourselves to look at it in terms of fear. More often than not fear of something is at the root of these problems, and once we bring ourselves look this fear in the eye, it might not get less scary, but it will offer you an opportunity to handle things with honesty and (dare I say it) nobility.

Adulting: What I’ve learnt and what I got spectacularly wrong

Just over three months ago I moved out of my family home where I lived out the fantasy of childhood, the agony of being a teenager and the downright confusion/bewilderment of the last few years (click here to revisit my post on moving to London). Against various bookie predictions, I have made it – I am alive, well and have also managed to learn a few things (hurrah!). So without further ado here is what my time as an undercover child in the adult world has taught me:

#adulting?

1. Want to fit in at The Big Smoke, i.e. the shining metropolis, i.e. London? Literally all you have to do is pretend to be in a rush to do something really important. Look at your watch and sigh in frustration when waiting for the tube/the bus/the loo. Walk with deadly purpose, preferably in shoes that make a satisfying noise and vitally, you must never stop, stopping is for tourists.
2. Adulthood is mostly about touching things that you really don’t want to. Get your mind out the gutter; I’m talking about slugs, spiders, mould, your life savings. Basically all the things you would beg your parents to do instead of risking your precious pale aristocratic hands.
3. It’s a terrible idea to drink two bottles of wine. This doesn’t need explanation, just don’t do it, learn from my implied tale of woe.
4. The government doesn’t want you to have anything nice. With almost £50,000 of student debt I kind of knew this already, but in trying to live a normal life I have once more attracted the wrath of ‘the man’. I earn minimum wage, but this is apparently still enough $ for the government to think I might be able to buy myself something nice, and so to put a stop to such nonsense they demand a nice slice to put towards stuff like Buckingham Palace’s restoration.
5. Lies always get found out. Every friendship group is simultaneously a collection of people who just like to hang out together and master spy ring.
6. Chiswick is not the kind of neighbourhood where it’s the norm to wash the filth from your oven at 10pm, in pyjamas, on the street. People walk small dogs around here, that’s how you know it’s nice, and incidentally not the place to do this kind of thing.
7. Canapes are terrifying. It seems fancy chefs everywhere have entered into a secret agreement that canapes must consist of at least twelve components; none seem to go together and at least one is so fancy it might as well be made up. The most terrifying thing? You eat canapes all in one. That’s right, no sample nibble, it’s all or nothing. Now there are three possible outcomes: the canape’s great so you enjoy it, it’s vile so you go for the gag and spit, or the middle line – it’s nasty but you swallow it down all in one like some kind of canape python.
8. Everyone gets lonely sometimes. It’s just a sad fact of life I think. There’s inevitably times when everyone is busy so you’re physically alone, and even if you’re surrounded by people you can still feel isolated. But the real ironic kicker with loneliness is that you’re not alone – it happens to literally everyone, and thankfully for most of us it’s just a brief stint.
9. Family Whatsapp groups are spaces where the standard rules of grammar, reason and sense do not apply. This is the real twilight zone, leave it for two hours and there’ll be 42 new messages that are absolute nonsense but require you to urgently call home to discuss something you casually mentioned three months ago.
10. Always say yes to everything. Yes, I know I’ve talked about this before but it’s still true and still the most important thing. To my joy it’s still been possible even when adulting 9:30-5:30, hurrah!

Nobody's baby, everybody's girl

I think lately I've been worried about saying important things and making bold statements in case they turn out to be wrong. Perhaps it's a symptom of starting out in a new place with new people, I'm not sure. Regardless, it's cowardly, and there's nothing that I hate more than a coward. Maybe one day I'll look back at this blog and think God how wrong I was about x, but I don't think that's a good enough reason to stop saying honest things, how they appear to me at the specific moment – I ain’t got the answers. So hold on tight kids, it's a big one this time.

So, I have this theory (and ample evidence) that I can be anybody's perfect girl for roughly two weeks. Now this of course has certain restrictions; the men who are attracted to me, as well as 'perfect' not meaning flawless - it means being right in that moment. I should also explain that I'm under no illusion about my faults and merits, I know where I stand. I desperately want to dispel this theory, to find evidence to the contrary or another explanation, so this is my way of working through the options I guess. Welcome to the ride.

Convincing fake relationship (still give it 2 weeks tops)

I wonder sometimes maybe if the men I've been involved with have seen me as an embodiment of the life I lived at Cambridge; perhaps they wanted a piece of the glitter, of the fun, of the (often slightly idiotic) abandon. Every romantic involvement that has been of any kind of gravity has begun with tumbling intensity, snatched moments and urgency, urgency. The reflection of myself I could see in the mirror of them is beautiful, it's me at my best. Suffice to say I'm not perpetually at my best, (especially spending 50% of my time hungover). It’s just not possible to run around all the time, to constantly have arms open to the air - one has to catch ones breath between the laughter. Thought: volatile living attracts changing minds? It was always in the quiet moments when I could feel them slipping away - it's easy to make someone want to keep you when you look like you might bolt any second, harder in the stillness. Waking up in the mild mid-morning to find them already awake and staring at nothing, me waking next to them perhaps more hard work than they'd bargained for. 

One person who I was involved with told his friends that he'd "found the kind of girl he wanted to spend his life with". Now there are two tell-tale red flags that arise from this statement; firstly the wording - "type", what type am I? His type? The type? Can anyone actually accurately be described as a type when we're all such walking balls of contradicting, ever-changing chaos? Nah. Secondly this happened the morning after the night we met. This is where my part of the blame begins to sneak in - I unashamedly love a love story, so when one is offered to me, regardless of how temporary and how ill advised, my god I will take it. Is it my fault for being so naive or their fault for offering me a grand romantic narrative they can't live up to?

To be honest I don’t think that assigning blame is all that useful in solving ye grande riddle. These guys don’t know what they're looking for, and before being sure, they think they've found it in a sweet little package, so throw everything in because that seems like the right thing to do - I don't think I could ever blame anyone for doing this, it's the way I believe life should be lived, and this is why every time I’m so willingly complicit. My flatmate suggested last night that this happens to me so often because I expect it to – I attract these difficult guys because I subconsciously anticipate things being difficult – like I said, I love a love story and aren’t all the best ones difficult? Yessir. But I don’t think I distinguish very well between things that are worth the fight and things that are best left alone, (I’m from the north, everything’s a scrap). In the end I need to accept that for some people I cannot be the answer; as both Bob Dylan and Johnny cash said; it ain't me babe. If people try and make me into their answer, into their perfect girl, of course things will unravel, of course I can't live up to what their questions demand, I cannot be enough for them if I rightly demand to keep some of myself, for myself.

____

For throwback to past blog tirade of relationship-based outrage click here

It's not about you, it's (about) me

Starting at the end of exams and continuing over the summer I went through a phase of reading autobiographies. Prior to this I’d never been keen at all on non-fiction, even less so on autobiographies, so I don’t really know what triggered the sudden switch. From a psychological point of view maybe I was subconsciously desiring to see how other real lives had played out, given that I was on the cusp of beginning my own ‘real life’ (we all know Cambridge doesn’t strictly count as real). During this period I read three notable books; I’m With the Band by Pamela Des Barres, Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher and Wild by Cheryl Strayed – all of these books are incredible and I cannot recommend them enough. I finished all of these a few months ago now, but like a bad breakup, I’m still not over them, I can’t stop turning them over and over in my mind. Perhaps as a result I’m finding it difficult/near impossible to engage properly with fiction at the moment, a little voice in my head won’t stop saying; ‘yes but do you actually care what happens, it’s not real, this didn’t happen’. These autobiographies came along at just the right time; during the last months of Cambridge and for a little while afterwards I felt more awake to reality and more in touch with my place in it than I ever had before (disclaimer: I did not take LSD) – this was not a moment for fiction when the real world was so utterly compelling. 

A common idea about fiction is that it’s our tool to escape, I believe autobiography as a genre is the exact opposite of this. Because the events being recounted actually occurred, we are forced to face them with the author – the most human and genuine problems presented to us by a genuine human voice. The best autobiographies are written with unflinching honesty, at certain points we should know that the writer is uncomfortable with what they are telling us, that they are offering to the world a self-confessed uncomfortable truth about their deepest selves. This is part of the bravery of self-narration and also part of the catharsis. 

I originally started this blog in order to reclaim my own narrative that I felt had been taken from me (see the sass that started it all here), since then I guess it’s become an autobiographical space of sorts. At the beginning I was so so scared of writing about myself - I didn’t want to do something narcissistic. I was also worried that what I had to say wasn’t worth saying, because who am I but another 21 year-old dot on the planet. FOOL. Why would I ask who I was to write about anything when there was only ever one possible answer anyway: myself. I exist within a narration and have a voice to share it and, given these two very fortunate circumstances, it would be almost rude to keep myself to myself. The women whose autobiographies I’ve read have led incredible lives, but that does not make mine any less extraordinary – in any autobiographical narrative the same things crop up, and this is because they are the things which make up the crazy experience of a life being lived.

Still not a narcissist

Even though this is bad marketing, possibly encouraging competition in blogland (got ma eyes on you), I wholeheartedly recommend that everyone do a bit of self-narration, don’t let anyone tell you your life isn’t interesting enough to be recorded – it damn well is. Though this cry is universal it goes out especially to women; men have been navel-gazing for years, writing women for centuries, dominating the autobiography for bloody ages – create your own narrative, come and claim what’s yours.

Adulting (kind of)

So the blog has been v quiet for the past few weeks but I do have a very good excuse, I promise – last Sunday I moved from Sheffield to London, then the day after began my new (and first proper) job as Online Intern for House & Garden magazine. It’s been an absolutely insane whirlwind which has had me jumping for joy one minute and on the edge of a nervous breakdown the next. But not to worry – after the first week I love love love my job and am happily settled in my little flat.

Home sweet home

The most stressful part of the whole business has been finding somewhere to live – I had two weeks to find a place within budget, with a decent commute time, that I could make feel like home. Naïvely I thought this wouldn’t pose much of an issue: London’s a big place, must be full of places looking for tenants right? Wrong. It is a jungle. JUNGLE. So after my shitty experience I thought it might be good if I shared what I’d learnt so that it might help someone else avoid the renting nightmare:

1. If it looks too good to be true it probably is. So obviously try and familiarise yourself with common online scams so not to fall victim. Scams aside, some listings have other less criminal, but just as pressing issues. I got my hopes waaaay up about a beautiful, lower-end-of-budget flat in Camden. It hadn’t actually been built yet.

2. Go and view the places in person. Another obvious one but again v important – one place I went to see wasn’t the room advertised, instead of a spacious double it was a teeny tiny shoebox room.

3. Trust no one. This sounds a little extreme but it’s unfortunately necessary. Confirm and double confirm everything, take phone numbers, call agents, send endless emails. I had some landlords completely neglect to turn up to viewings and others who were uncontactable until I saw them in person. Some people literally do not give a shit about what happens to you so expect to feel a bit bashed about.

4. This being said, it doesn’t mean you should be a shit back to these people. Yes be tough, be sassy but also be polite, be nice – in a land of whiny Frodos be a Sam (sorry not sorry).

***

Most people would call my moving away a ‘fresh start’, an opportunity to remake myself, to start from scratch in a new place. But I don’t see it like that at all. The last time I made a true fresh start was three years ago when I started at Cambridge. I needed this opportunity to start again desperately, I wasn’t the person I knew I could be and needed a chance to reinvent myself urgently. Long story short, I did, and managed to graduate happy with who I was. But this time I have no old self to escape from, I don’t need a fresh start but nevertheless I’ve been given one, and in all honesty I don’t really know what to do with it.

Trying to force who I’ve been as a Cambridge student into the stencil of London working life will be near impossible without making some changes, and I suppose this is what I’m scared of – losing who I am when I’ve been so blissfully happy. I’ve managed to crack the code to looking like a native Londoner – look busy. But I don’t want to become someone who never has time – I think that’s how you really lose sight of yourself. I reckon this semi-identity crisis is coming from a combination of golden-age syndrome and fear of growing up. Stay tuned to find out how long I can resist the demon adulthood.

Optimism and the Domino Effect

Just over a week ago I was in Edinburgh watching a production of Rent. Now, Rent has been my favourite musical for years but I’d never seen it live and indeed, hadn’t listened to the full soundtrack for a good while. Even though the production was really rather average (soz), it did remind me of why I love this particular musical so much. There’s a moment in the second half of the show when one of the characters, Mark, reflects on the series of consequences that initially bring the characters together: ‘why did Mimi knock on Rodger’s door and Collins choose that phone booth back where Angel set up his drums, why did Maureen’s equipment break down, why am I the witness?’. This idea of consequences has been something I’ve been thinking about for a while, it probably has a proper name but for now I’ve termed it the Domino Effect.

Flash forward a few days and filling in (yet another) job application I was asked what my best two qualities were. I decided without hesitation that my optimism and resilience were the best things I could offer (they’re kind of the same thing, shhh). My optimism comes directly from my belief in the Domino effect; my belief that basically the world is a weird place where weird things happen that lead to even weirder things. In this way nothing ever actually ends because the consequences, even if they’re dormant for a while or not physically measurable, go on kind of like a ripple effect.

My being in Edinburgh began with me sitting in the wrong seat at formal months ago – even things that seem like nothing can spiral so quickly into something. This is why I live in the slightly erratic way I do, trying always to say ‘yes’. The seeds of these small beginnings are out there, and the wonderful thing is that we have the option to choose to be present, to allow the chances to take hold and to set off another line of dominos. I’m optimistic because the next chance encounter is always just around the corner, the next weird circumstance is about to happen, I’ll be in the right place at the right time sooner or later.

Suspected by only one person of being in the wrong seat that night

I think cynicism has become fashionable because it’s easier. Being optimistic and believing in a positive outcome means you’re exposing yourself to the possibility of being let down, we’re expected to be embarrassed if this happens, even told we’re fools for hoping. Admittedly being optimistic has gotten me into trouble before; I sometimes believe in people a little too much and effectively scare them (lol..?). But the wounding I get from this is only temporary, so I’ve never truly regretted being optimistic – with optimism that is acted upon there is never ever a ‘what if’. I think openly investing in the hope of success is one of the bravest most truthful things one can do.

So always hang on in there folks, in true optimist style, I genuinely believe everything will work out just perfectly.

Five Weird Post-Graduation Habits

1. Taking on overly ambitious Pinterest projects: ‘Impressive yet so simple’. WRONG. The first time I made the samples pictured below I put in a tablespoon of salt rather than a teaspoon. But this time I am older, more sophisticated and most importantly know the difference between tsp and tbsp. However the disaster is aesthetic rather than taste-based; the dough bore an attractive resemblance to sludge so was impossible to spiral. And so I present to you the biscuit metaphor for my life:

How you think you look vs. how you actually look

Our most disturbing face-swap

2. Resuming the Great Sibling War: This is a battle fought on two fronts.

i.) Firstly we’re engaged in a game which everyone with a sibling will be familiar with, but unfortunately has no name. I can only explain it in very rudimentary terms: when one is looking at the other, one of us will make a particular hand gesture and the most recent one to have seen said hand gesture wins. The other is in a state of shame and humiliation, which may only be broken by tricking the current winner into seeing them make the hand gesture. Because there is no visible end point we can only presume its like Game of Thrones – you win or you die.

ii.) The second tactic in the war is creative insults, which needs no explanation, only an example: ‘I’ll pull your ears off and shove them up your nose’.

3. The Fleetwood Mac Coefficient: So this is a routine thing, every job application must take no longer than the length of The Very Best of Fleetwood Mac (two hours and twenty-one minutes). Every application is appropriately begun with the song ‘Monday Morning’, which is good, yes, off to a good start. By the time we get to disc two things are getting weird with the odd pairing of ‘The Chain’ and ‘Don’t Stop’ – the twitchiness of ‘The Chain’ followed by the optimism of ‘Don’t Stop’ has me appropriately panicked/pumped (always treading the line) for the home run. If any potential employers find Fleetwood Mac lyrics embedded in my CV, I am terribly sorry, blame Stevie.

4. Saying ‘Hiiiiiiiiiii’ to my dog literally every time we make eye contact: In the mind of my dog I am at the bottom of the family hierarchy because I went to uni first and he hasn’t forgiven me. He likes to literally push me around and pointedly ignores me, so saying ‘Hiiiiiiiiiiii’ is a bit like the Great Sibling War (see 2). Except I always win. Because he can’t speak. Heh heh.

Hated since 2K14

5. Running: I recognise that this is not what one might describe as an odd habit, but unless I am being chased, I do not run. Cannot run. My body has what can only be accurately described as an allergic reaction to running. Not only does my own nature disapprove, nature ITSELF has shown its discontent – the first time I ventured out I was stung on the lip by a mysterious flying insect. Swelling. Horror. SWELLING.