Tomorrow used to be my favourite day of christmas. Since Dad was a teacher, he'd be on school holidays, once I was at work I'd take the day off too and we'd go around all my aunts delivering christmas presents. When my Grandma was still alive we'd go to hers, and then down through Monmouth to Grans to pick her up and bring her home for the holidays. Mum would have finished work when we got home and christmas would have properly begun.
I've written a lot in the last few months about my links to my Welsh heritage. This post though is in reference to my English roots. Or perhaps more accurately, my Forest of Dean roots. I say that because anyone who's ever been there will appreciate that it feels like a place of it's own. Nestled between the rivers Severn and Wye, it sits largely cut off from it's own country, and within shouting distance of it's neighbours in Wales. Foresters have their own nuances and peculiarities, particular customs and to all extents and purposes it's own language too - have you tried having a conversation with someone that's never left the hundred of St Briavels?! This funny little land is where my dad calls home. It's full of magic and intrigue, every tree seems to whisper tales of old into the air as you wonder through them, their myriad of roots covering over thousands of years of history and industry.
It was to this magical land that I sojourned a couple of weeks ago, in search of my family roots, to learn new tales, to relearn old stories, to walk new paths and re-tread old ones. I discovered a vastly improved Dean Heritage Centre, and found out whilst I was there that my grandad helped set it up in the initial stages. It's a great start for anyone new to the forest, to learn a bit about life in the forest in years gone by, through the stone age, iron ages and Romans to the industrial revolution and the great wars of the twentieth century.
The forest boasts the oldest continuously sitting court in the country, which sits at The Speech House near Coleford. Adjacent to the Speech House is the Cyril Hart Arboretum. It was set up in 1910 and now is home to a wide variety of tree species from around the world. It is the role of the verderer to ensure a continuous suitable supply of oaks for the royal navy. This responsibility also includes caring for the 'royal oaks' - the ancestry of which goes directly back to the first royal oak planted for Elizabeth I in the sixteenth century. The arboretum is one of those places where every corner you turn, or angle you put your head at, is a picture you want to memorise for ever. I spent countless hours walking the paths through the mixing pot of tree species with my sister, our grandad and Sam the dog as a child. Early morning walks were the preserve of just us; it was an unspoken rule that no matter who else was staying, it was the four of us out for a walk every morning before breakfast - rain, sun, wind or snow. Despite all the years that have gone by since the four of us were there together, it was just as it ever was, and hopefully as it always will be.
Cyril Hart was the verderer for many years, and a friend of my grandparents. He saw to it that an oak be planted in the arboretum in honour of my grandad to recognise the work and positive impact he had on the life of the foresters. Seventeen years on, the tree is looking very well.
In 1971 my grandad received an OBE for 'services to employment in community' - bringing industry to a deprived area. In the 1940's British Acoustic Films Ltd brought the brewery in Mitcheldean and sent 54 employees from London to work there. In 1948 my grandad came on board, and by the 1970's, as part of the Rank Xerox Corporation, the workforce totalled around 4,800. Sadly, following the economic climate coupled with the cheaper labour forces overseas, a lot of the factory site has recently been sold off. Before this occurred, one building was named after my grandad in his honour. Thankfully the new owners of the site have kept this link to its history, and for the first time, I got to see where my grandad worked, and his name above a door. My grandad died when I was twelve, and one of my biggest regrets is never being able to sit down with him and ask him about his life. Luckily though my dad has told me much, and continues to do so. This was the first time for me that it really felt 'real' though. Standing in the old brewery site, looking up at 'Wickstead Building' above the archway I got a real sense of him as a business man, looking up at his office window, and walking the steps he would have walked. As the tears rolled down my cheeks (once again!), my mum asked why I was crying. I was crying from frustration of what I missed out on, for the loss the community would have felt when the factory sold off vast chunks, but mostly I was crying from pride.
My trip continued along the golden mile, and from there, took me to Ruspidge where my family lived, and then finally on to Cinderford.
I hadn't realised how much I missed this little magical world, how much every new or revisited view made my eyes open wider and made my lungs breath deeper, as if trying to suck the soul of the forest into my very own sense of being. I will be back soon.
It was to this magical land that I sojourned a couple of weeks ago, in search of my family roots, to learn new tales, to relearn old stories, to walk new paths and re-tread old ones. I discovered a vastly improved Dean Heritage Centre, and found out whilst I was there that my grandad helped set it up in the initial stages. It's a great start for anyone new to the forest, to learn a bit about life in the forest in years gone by, through the stone age, iron ages and Romans to the industrial revolution and the great wars of the twentieth century.
The forest boasts the oldest continuously sitting court in the country, which sits at The Speech House near Coleford. Adjacent to the Speech House is the Cyril Hart Arboretum. It was set up in 1910 and now is home to a wide variety of tree species from around the world. It is the role of the verderer to ensure a continuous suitable supply of oaks for the royal navy. This responsibility also includes caring for the 'royal oaks' - the ancestry of which goes directly back to the first royal oak planted for Elizabeth I in the sixteenth century. The arboretum is one of those places where every corner you turn, or angle you put your head at, is a picture you want to memorise for ever. I spent countless hours walking the paths through the mixing pot of tree species with my sister, our grandad and Sam the dog as a child. Early morning walks were the preserve of just us; it was an unspoken rule that no matter who else was staying, it was the four of us out for a walk every morning before breakfast - rain, sun, wind or snow. Despite all the years that have gone by since the four of us were there together, it was just as it ever was, and hopefully as it always will be.
Cyril Hart was the verderer for many years, and a friend of my grandparents. He saw to it that an oak be planted in the arboretum in honour of my grandad to recognise the work and positive impact he had on the life of the foresters. Seventeen years on, the tree is looking very well.
In 1971 my grandad received an OBE for 'services to employment in community' - bringing industry to a deprived area. In the 1940's British Acoustic Films Ltd brought the brewery in Mitcheldean and sent 54 employees from London to work there. In 1948 my grandad came on board, and by the 1970's, as part of the Rank Xerox Corporation, the workforce totalled around 4,800. Sadly, following the economic climate coupled with the cheaper labour forces overseas, a lot of the factory site has recently been sold off. Before this occurred, one building was named after my grandad in his honour. Thankfully the new owners of the site have kept this link to its history, and for the first time, I got to see where my grandad worked, and his name above a door. My grandad died when I was twelve, and one of my biggest regrets is never being able to sit down with him and ask him about his life. Luckily though my dad has told me much, and continues to do so. This was the first time for me that it really felt 'real' though. Standing in the old brewery site, looking up at 'Wickstead Building' above the archway I got a real sense of him as a business man, looking up at his office window, and walking the steps he would have walked. As the tears rolled down my cheeks (once again!), my mum asked why I was crying. I was crying from frustration of what I missed out on, for the loss the community would have felt when the factory sold off vast chunks, but mostly I was crying from pride.
My trip continued along the golden mile, and from there, took me to Ruspidge where my family lived, and then finally on to Cinderford.
I hadn't realised how much I missed this little magical world, how much every new or revisited view made my eyes open wider and made my lungs breath deeper, as if trying to suck the soul of the forest into my very own sense of being. I will be back soon.
Growing up in England as the daughter of a proud Welsh woman (I say that like it's unusual, but I'm not sure I've ever met a Welsh person who isn't proud of their country) I loved and supported Wales before I understood what a rugby match even was. It is questionable as to whether I have actually fathomed the technicalities of a rugby match twenty years later, despite my incessant questions to my parents during and after matches as to why various rulings were made or actions were taken!
I digress.
In amongst my childhood memories of my family members retelling stories of pirates and dragons, kings and queens, giants and imps, are those of my beloved grandad and my mum regaling stories of Wales as a force to be reckoned with on the rugby pitch: revered, feared, admired and unbeatable. As a child in the eighties and nineties, the Wales rugby team I grew up with were mediocre, struggling to live up to the footsteps of the good and the great, trying to show the world they were still up there with the elite of the rugby world.
The last six weeks have been dream like. I have been able to see the grace, spirit and beauty I felt in the tales of my childhood. Hearing comments from pundits, players and coaches from around the world suggesting time and again that Wales were likely to win the competition made my heart swell. I finally understood what my mum and grandad had been talking about all those years ago. The team played with style and passion, whilst also being intelligent and measured. They played for every second of every minute of every match, even scoring a converted try in the dying moments of their final match. Due to some errors in kicking, and an horrifically bad call by Alain Rolland, the Webb Ellis Cup is held in the hands and hearts of the New Zealand squad.
For me though, I've got something more precious. I've finally gotten to experience those stories for myself, and in spite of the fact that my grandad has been gone 13 years now, I feel closer to him, I feel like I have a better understanding of his heart and his soul.
I digress.
In amongst my childhood memories of my family members retelling stories of pirates and dragons, kings and queens, giants and imps, are those of my beloved grandad and my mum regaling stories of Wales as a force to be reckoned with on the rugby pitch: revered, feared, admired and unbeatable. As a child in the eighties and nineties, the Wales rugby team I grew up with were mediocre, struggling to live up to the footsteps of the good and the great, trying to show the world they were still up there with the elite of the rugby world.
The last six weeks have been dream like. I have been able to see the grace, spirit and beauty I felt in the tales of my childhood. Hearing comments from pundits, players and coaches from around the world suggesting time and again that Wales were likely to win the competition made my heart swell. I finally understood what my mum and grandad had been talking about all those years ago. The team played with style and passion, whilst also being intelligent and measured. They played for every second of every minute of every match, even scoring a converted try in the dying moments of their final match. Due to some errors in kicking, and an horrifically bad call by Alain Rolland, the Webb Ellis Cup is held in the hands and hearts of the New Zealand squad.
For me though, I've got something more precious. I've finally gotten to experience those stories for myself, and in spite of the fact that my grandad has been gone 13 years now, I feel closer to him, I feel like I have a better understanding of his heart and his soul.
For the most part, I genuinely don't mind being single - I like that I come and go as I please and only have to factor in living my life & doing things I want/have to do. That's not to say I don't want someone to curl up and chat with for hours, or just be silent and completely comfortable with. Of course I do, I doubt you'll find much people who don't want that.
There are a few things that really bug the hell out of me though.
It's such a little word 'we', and in so many circumstances is completely acceptable. But every now and again, it pops up with surrounded with a blanket of smugness or an air of superiority, and topped with a great big dollop of pity. Luckily, my nearest and dearest don't sit in this boat, if they do, they may have found themselves man over board by now.
Then there's that inevitable invite 'Dear XX plus one', and the ensuing decision making - do I beat myself up about trying to find someone to take with me, and then the fall out of feeling like a failure if I don't find said someone? Do I take a friend and know that people are thinking 'look at her, bless her, she had to bring a friend'? Do I brave it out and say it's just going to be me, and be the awkward odd number to the party? Or, do I hide away from all these options and say I'm already booked up so regretfully decline the invite?
The thing that irritates me most is my own reaction to 'so are you seeing someone at the moment?' - my need to justify my singledom and responses like 'yep, just been so busy with uni', or 'yep, but you know what it's like living in a village'... the rest continue in a similar vein. Why should I excuse who I am, or how my life is? Why is it that to be 29 and single isn't okay?
There are a few things that really bug the hell out of me though.
It's such a little word 'we', and in so many circumstances is completely acceptable. But every now and again, it pops up with surrounded with a blanket of smugness or an air of superiority, and topped with a great big dollop of pity. Luckily, my nearest and dearest don't sit in this boat, if they do, they may have found themselves man over board by now.
Then there's that inevitable invite 'Dear XX plus one', and the ensuing decision making - do I beat myself up about trying to find someone to take with me, and then the fall out of feeling like a failure if I don't find said someone? Do I take a friend and know that people are thinking 'look at her, bless her, she had to bring a friend'? Do I brave it out and say it's just going to be me, and be the awkward odd number to the party? Or, do I hide away from all these options and say I'm already booked up so regretfully decline the invite?
The thing that irritates me most is my own reaction to 'so are you seeing someone at the moment?' - my need to justify my singledom and responses like 'yep, just been so busy with uni', or 'yep, but you know what it's like living in a village'... the rest continue in a similar vein. Why should I excuse who I am, or how my life is? Why is it that to be 29 and single isn't okay?
There are a few thoughts milling around my mind that I've been thinking of blogging about, but for one reason or another I've not done it. Not in small part due to not knowing quite what I want to say about the subjects other than that they're in my head or in my life at the moment. So, instead I'm doing mini blogs about them now, and if they turn into something bigger then so be it...
- Perhaps the first thing I should write about is that it's taken me probably a month to write this entry, and I've had this page open for some time now without writing more than the first paragraph. Putting things off. I'm not sure exactly *what* it is that I'm putting off, but I feel like I am putting something off. I feel like I've been putting something off for some time, and it's not a feeling I like very much. Okay, deep breath, truth time. I'm putting off being serious about slimming world again. I need to talk about it without shame, and I still find that so hard. Typing this I have tears in my eyes. I don't say it for sympathy, I'm not writing this for anyone else. I'm writing it for me. So I can read it, register it, and move on and stop putting it off. Sure it can be tough, but the reward is so worth it. Time for the putting off to end, the planning to begin and a future to bring into a present. And breathe out.
- Subject matter number two - rugby. Yes, it's that time again, when the best fit-to-play players in the world gather in one country and fight until their hearts feel like they will burst for the love of their nation and the pride of their fellow country men and women. For those eighty minutes, I lose myself entirely into the game, forgetting to breathe, holding my own hand so tightly it may break. Tears of joy, tears of frustration, tears of anger and tears of passion. Wales are in a tough group, but they're playing well. They fully deserved to win against South Africa, and it's a crying shame the ref misjudged Hook's penalty - if it weren't for that they would have had the match. Samoa was a win - it wasn't pretty or stylish, but it was a win and that is what counts. Monday sees them faced with Namibia, which *should* be pretty straight forward win. And then Fiji. Fiji who destroyed the hopes and drams of a nation four years ago...
- I've started a new volunteer job at Chrysalis, a transgender support and counselling charity. I applied as a counsellor, but actually I will be facilitating the group sessions and the group therapy. I can't add the group therapy hours to my accreditation, but that's fine. It the experience I want, and the knowledge, not the piece of paper.
- I happened to mention to a friend recently that it wasn't fair the people I'm attracted to at the moment have all been in relationships. His rather astute response (clearly he's spent too much time with me - it's a very counsellor-y comment) was along the lines of 'do you think you are attracted to them because they're safe'? This has stayed with me and been in my mind for a while - have I done that? Is it a preservation thing? Or a form of self-harm? Or both? Or is it just a random occurrence?
- On a cheerier note, I'm sticking to learning my guitar, practising between lessons and enjoying getting a bit better each time. It's nice to feel that achievement on such a simple level (I mean simple in comparison to a degree in a year kind of level) - getting back to basics and enjoying something I can see a constant improvement on and is just for me.
- The thing I most want to write about, which I is likely another reason I've not written anything for a while, I can't write about. It's a client at work, who uses up a constantly pretty fair chunk of my mind, and part of my heart (in a professional way I hasten to add). Not being able to off load about it doesn't help - I can get the anxiety out at the moment.
On her0inchic there is a list of affirmations from which you can pick ones to read to yourself each morning when you get up. For where I am right now, these are the ones I'm carrying with me (metaphorically):
-When I fill my body with good things I need-rest, proper nutrition, satisfying work, loving and caring, my effectiveness grows.
-Today, I will make an effort to take one small step toward reaching one of my goals.
-I can cope with change today without turning to or away from food.
-I look back and see that my failures are showing me the way to success. I will accept the best I am able to do right now as success for today.
-I may not be in a very good mood. I may not make visible progress today. But, at the very least, I can avoid self-destructive behavior around food. I can follow my meal plan for today, whether I feel like it or not.
-May I courageously continue the adventure of self-discovery.
-I can decide to be cheerful and optimistic, just for today.
-I am free to take charge of my life.
-I choose to release anger in harmless ways.
-I recognize my own true worth.
-I am the only person who thinks in my mind. I am the power and authority in my world.
-I am meant to be very different from everyone else. This releases the burden of feeling like I have to be someone other than me.
-I carry within me all the essentials of a happy existence.
-I will live my life in the way I want to be remembered.
-I will never please everyone and that’s okay.
-I am proud of myself for all I have accomplished no matter how small or great.
-One step at a time. That is how I will get where I am going.
-I am free to be all I can be.
-I make the world more special just by being in it.
-Whatever my weight today, I am a worthwhile person with valuable contributions to make to those around me.
-The only limitations I have are the ones I place on myself
There are some others I wanted on the list, but I'm not ready to admit to the half dozen people who may read this, and some I'm not ready to admit to myself just yet. Some of those I have on here were really hard to put on it, but I needed to push myself, and it was a step in the right direction for me.
I'm Coming Out, I Want The World To Know
I was watching 90210 (don't judge me!) earlier, and it was the episode where Teddy gets forced into coming out to his friends. A few weeks ago my manager suggested having a session at the LGBT group I run about coming out stories. Only it's not a one time thing - it's an every time you meet a new person thing, an every time you go to the doctors thing, an every time someone asks if you've got a boyfriend or girlfriend thing. You are constantly assessing and coming out for the whole of your life, and trust me, it gets tiring.
I've written before about being bisexual, and all the preconceptions that I come up against each time I make the decision to come out, so won't be repeating myself. Instead, this blog is about a couple of my coming out stories.
The first person I came out to was a lad who I had a complex and beautifully horrid relationship with. He was lovely. Well, actually, he was typically 18 and asked if he could get involved in a bit of girl on girl action (he's not been the last to ask that either... one track mind men...). But he was accepting and happy to just know me more. Cushioned by this reaction, I decided to tell a friend with whom I had an intense and safe friendship - we'd been pretty inseparable prior to me moving to Cardiff. Unfortunately his response was less than accepting, and definitely less of a response worthy of the pedestal I'd put him on. It was along the lines of "I can accept it, but I will never be able to forgive you for it". 'Ouch' doesn't really cut it.
I don't really remember specifically telling my best friend - she can correct me if I'm wrong on this one. I do imagine that she probably knew before I did though! I got a lot of my friends together from home and told them in a grand announcement - they seemed particularly underwhelmed. Not in an uninterested kind of way, but in a 'that makes completely no difference to who you are and how we care' kind of a way. After the response on the phone with my other friend, I couldn't have asked for a better reaction really.
The one thing I feel ashamed about is that I've never come out to my parents. To start with I used to say it was because I figured there was no point in telling them unless I got into a relationship with a girl. And to an extent I still think that. But increasingly, I feel like I should tell them because I'm hiding part of myself from them. It's turned around over the years to be about a need for me rather than an information sharing exercise for them. Which I guess is indicative of the fact that my head is in a different space to a few years ago.
I've written before about being bisexual, and all the preconceptions that I come up against each time I make the decision to come out, so won't be repeating myself. Instead, this blog is about a couple of my coming out stories.
The first person I came out to was a lad who I had a complex and beautifully horrid relationship with. He was lovely. Well, actually, he was typically 18 and asked if he could get involved in a bit of girl on girl action (he's not been the last to ask that either... one track mind men...). But he was accepting and happy to just know me more. Cushioned by this reaction, I decided to tell a friend with whom I had an intense and safe friendship - we'd been pretty inseparable prior to me moving to Cardiff. Unfortunately his response was less than accepting, and definitely less of a response worthy of the pedestal I'd put him on. It was along the lines of "I can accept it, but I will never be able to forgive you for it". 'Ouch' doesn't really cut it.
I don't really remember specifically telling my best friend - she can correct me if I'm wrong on this one. I do imagine that she probably knew before I did though! I got a lot of my friends together from home and told them in a grand announcement - they seemed particularly underwhelmed. Not in an uninterested kind of way, but in a 'that makes completely no difference to who you are and how we care' kind of a way. After the response on the phone with my other friend, I couldn't have asked for a better reaction really.
The one thing I feel ashamed about is that I've never come out to my parents. To start with I used to say it was because I figured there was no point in telling them unless I got into a relationship with a girl. And to an extent I still think that. But increasingly, I feel like I should tell them because I'm hiding part of myself from them. It's turned around over the years to be about a need for me rather than an information sharing exercise for them. Which I guess is indicative of the fact that my head is in a different space to a few years ago.
Gwlad, Gwlad, Pleidiol Wyf I'm Gwlad
In just twenty short days, the tournament of the year is about to begin. Yes people, I am referring to the holiest of events: the rugby world cup! The last three weekends have been a rare summertime treat, as there has been a Wales match every Saturday as part of the world cup warm up weeks. And what's more, they even won two of the three matches. It's not all good news though, as Morgan Stoddart has suffered a serious break to his leg, and Gavin Henson has broken his arm. Matthew Rees is out because he needs neck surgery, and to add to that injuries causing worrying doubts over Gethin Jenkins and Steven Jones.
This year's world cup is a bit bittersweet for me because of what's going on with the sale of my Gran's bungalow at the moment, and dealing with no longer having concrete ties to Wales. But enough of that.
I love everything that comes with the world cup - several matches in a day and figuring out who to support in order to give your team the best chances of getting through as possible. I love having an outlet for my love of Wales: the way the opening bars of the national anthem make my heart swell and my eyes sting with tears, and holding my breath like my life depends on it when they are camped on the defence try line for minutes at a time. In 2007, my heart soared as high winning against Canada and Japan as it plummeted losing to Australia and Fiji - exhilarating and despairing in equal quantities.
This year looks set to be tough, Wales face Fiji, Namibia, Samoa and South Africa in the pools rounds. Jonathan Davies summed it up beautifully on BBC today when ironically stating they had an easy start into the competition with South Africa. Then if any players were left standing they just had Samoa to look forward to - the men mountains from the South Sea Islands! Namibia will offer a much needed bit of respite, followed by Fiji... the team who destroyed their chances four years ago...
So it's watch this space and keep those fingers well and truly crossed. Cymru am byth, pob lwc!
You See Through My Disguise
I read a blog entry the other day where they wrote about their teenage bedroom, and it got me to thinking about mine. The irony is, that as I'm typing this, I'm in bed in that very room - albeit an altered version of it. I've never felt very safe in the house I grew up in; if my parents ever went away then I either filled the house up with friends or I stayed elsewhere because I'd get so freaked out by being in it on my own. But my bedroom was different. I felt safe in my bedroom. Cocooned and supported in a world where I felt anything but. It was the space in which I could let my heart break and the tears fall instead of wearing the face mask of happiness that I presented to the world on a daily basis.
If you ever wanted to know who I was at 16 then all you needed to do was come into my room - it basically bared my soul. I was lucky in that the decor was mine for the picking, so I had pale yellow walls with dark blue radiator and woodwork (anyone who knows me in the non-cyber world will appreciate my love affair with painted radiators). Topped off with dark blue curtains with gold stars and a vaguely matching duvet set.
The walls were completely smothered, mostly in posters from Kerrang! of my most beloved musical heroes - Nirvana, Marilyn Manson, Three Colours Red, Placebo, Feeder, System Of A Down, Coal Chamber, Korn, Defftones, The Offspring, Metallica, Slipknot - you get the picture. A large chunk of one wall was taken up with a 9 foot poster of the front cover of Placebo's 'Without You I'm Nothing' which somehow I acquired from our much loved and much missed independent music shop in Eastleigh: Pinpoint Music. The stories of our trips to that shop can wait for another day... I was fascinated by Brian Molko and his androgyny and bisexuality, little did I know I'd later come out as bi and be specialising in counselling gender variance.
Overlapping the posters were scrawled out copies of poems, both mine and proper authors, which if you'd taken the time to read, would have painted a very sad picture of where my head was at during that time. It would hardly surprise you that right up there was Sylvia Plath, WB Yeats, Emily Dickinson and William Blake (the 'experience' poems, not the 'innocence' ones). Poetry was one of my less destructive releases, and I still use it as a cathartic process today. I found it so hard to tell people how I was feeling, that poetry was my way of painting my picture, and for that I used my words and others. I also found a comfort in having Lorelei next to me as I fell asleep, knowing that I wasn't alone in how screwed up my head was.
Pictures also festooned my walls. I love my friends. I know everyone says it, but I really really do love them so much, and they've been an amazing support to me throughout my life. So rather than shut all my photo's away, they were covering my walls with their patchwork print of smiles and laughter and happy memories.
Mementos were there in force also - gig tickets, a Ford badge nicked from a car from the first time I went to Reading Festival, a 'Time Team' Membership car sticker stuck backwards on the wall, a Welsh love-spoon my Grandad gave me which now hangs in my kitchen, a smashed CD (which, if memory serves, was a Spice Girls single I got in a lucky dip at Pinpoint Music).
Then we get to the ceiling... obviously there was a light. There was also stereo speakers, a string of fabric chickens, CD's on string, several loops of cow bells, a Barbie on a rope, a Christmas decoration I made in infants school and refused to take down, a giant pencil (!), a dream catcher, and a fabric The Offspring flag that looped from my ceiling to door frame. Perhaps that's why I felt safe there... anyone in my room would have been garroted long before they could do any harm or steel anything!
Remnants of my childhood remained too... some animal posters, a shelf of nicknack's from holidays and gifts from grandparents, cuddly toys that I wasn't ready to say goodbye to, all my 100 odd Sweet Valley High books, which were counter balanced by the Marilyn Manson autobiography and the Communist Manifesto. It's that unique snapshot in time of childhood, adolescence and adulthood all blurring in together and a mixed up soul trying to make sense of it all.
*picture to follow
If you ever wanted to know who I was at 16 then all you needed to do was come into my room - it basically bared my soul. I was lucky in that the decor was mine for the picking, so I had pale yellow walls with dark blue radiator and woodwork (anyone who knows me in the non-cyber world will appreciate my love affair with painted radiators). Topped off with dark blue curtains with gold stars and a vaguely matching duvet set.
The walls were completely smothered, mostly in posters from Kerrang! of my most beloved musical heroes - Nirvana, Marilyn Manson, Three Colours Red, Placebo, Feeder, System Of A Down, Coal Chamber, Korn, Defftones, The Offspring, Metallica, Slipknot - you get the picture. A large chunk of one wall was taken up with a 9 foot poster of the front cover of Placebo's 'Without You I'm Nothing' which somehow I acquired from our much loved and much missed independent music shop in Eastleigh: Pinpoint Music. The stories of our trips to that shop can wait for another day... I was fascinated by Brian Molko and his androgyny and bisexuality, little did I know I'd later come out as bi and be specialising in counselling gender variance.
Overlapping the posters were scrawled out copies of poems, both mine and proper authors, which if you'd taken the time to read, would have painted a very sad picture of where my head was at during that time. It would hardly surprise you that right up there was Sylvia Plath, WB Yeats, Emily Dickinson and William Blake (the 'experience' poems, not the 'innocence' ones). Poetry was one of my less destructive releases, and I still use it as a cathartic process today. I found it so hard to tell people how I was feeling, that poetry was my way of painting my picture, and for that I used my words and others. I also found a comfort in having Lorelei next to me as I fell asleep, knowing that I wasn't alone in how screwed up my head was.
Pictures also festooned my walls. I love my friends. I know everyone says it, but I really really do love them so much, and they've been an amazing support to me throughout my life. So rather than shut all my photo's away, they were covering my walls with their patchwork print of smiles and laughter and happy memories.
Mementos were there in force also - gig tickets, a Ford badge nicked from a car from the first time I went to Reading Festival, a 'Time Team' Membership car sticker stuck backwards on the wall, a Welsh love-spoon my Grandad gave me which now hangs in my kitchen, a smashed CD (which, if memory serves, was a Spice Girls single I got in a lucky dip at Pinpoint Music).
Then we get to the ceiling... obviously there was a light. There was also stereo speakers, a string of fabric chickens, CD's on string, several loops of cow bells, a Barbie on a rope, a Christmas decoration I made in infants school and refused to take down, a giant pencil (!), a dream catcher, and a fabric The Offspring flag that looped from my ceiling to door frame. Perhaps that's why I felt safe there... anyone in my room would have been garroted long before they could do any harm or steel anything!
Remnants of my childhood remained too... some animal posters, a shelf of nicknack's from holidays and gifts from grandparents, cuddly toys that I wasn't ready to say goodbye to, all my 100 odd Sweet Valley High books, which were counter balanced by the Marilyn Manson autobiography and the Communist Manifesto. It's that unique snapshot in time of childhood, adolescence and adulthood all blurring in together and a mixed up soul trying to make sense of it all.
*picture to follow
Do you ever get those days when you feel all topsy-turvy? That's probably the best way to describe how I feel at the moment in that I feel quite contradictory and I'm not sure why. I'm not depressed, but I'm not happy either. I'm on holiday from work this week which isn't helping really - I don't feel like I'm making the most of it because I'm not happy. And then I'm putting pressure on myself which makes it all worse really. But then I allow myself to relax and go with how I'm feel and then I automatically feel less morose. Hence the topsy-turvy thing.
I'm also topsy-turvy about my Mum selling my Grans bungalow. The man at the bottom of the chain has, to be blunt, been a complete cunt and fucked things up royally after having dragged it out for ages. I'm not going into details, because it's all pretty dull. Long story short, Mum is now considering buying the flat at the bottom of the chain in order for all the sales to go through and get rid of Grans bungalow. And I have no idea how I feel about it. I know I don't like her or Dad talking to me about it - I want to shut it out as much possible. But then, I've wanted to shut the whole process out. I like even less the idea of having a property that I have completely no feeling for in Pontnewydd than I do having Grans without her or Grandad.
I also keep dreaming about old friends which is just a bit bittersweet really. It's nice in that they're people I felt incredibly comfortable with, and it's always nice to be reminded of that. But at the same time, it's just a bit sad to have to wonder how their lives are rather than to know the answer.
I think it doesn't help much that things with my sister aren't that fantastic again. We've not fallen out (for a change), it's more that she's doing her not bothering with me thing again, which sucks really.
On the topsy side of topsy turvy, I've started guitar lessons, am seeing much more of my friends, am back on line with slimming world and exercise, and have got a new counselling job starting in September.
I'm also topsy-turvy about my Mum selling my Grans bungalow. The man at the bottom of the chain has, to be blunt, been a complete cunt and fucked things up royally after having dragged it out for ages. I'm not going into details, because it's all pretty dull. Long story short, Mum is now considering buying the flat at the bottom of the chain in order for all the sales to go through and get rid of Grans bungalow. And I have no idea how I feel about it. I know I don't like her or Dad talking to me about it - I want to shut it out as much possible. But then, I've wanted to shut the whole process out. I like even less the idea of having a property that I have completely no feeling for in Pontnewydd than I do having Grans without her or Grandad.
I also keep dreaming about old friends which is just a bit bittersweet really. It's nice in that they're people I felt incredibly comfortable with, and it's always nice to be reminded of that. But at the same time, it's just a bit sad to have to wonder how their lives are rather than to know the answer.
I think it doesn't help much that things with my sister aren't that fantastic again. We've not fallen out (for a change), it's more that she's doing her not bothering with me thing again, which sucks really.
On the topsy side of topsy turvy, I've started guitar lessons, am seeing much more of my friends, am back on line with slimming world and exercise, and have got a new counselling job starting in September.
Degree In Awesome
I officially finished degree number 2 today. Unlike the first one, this is one I'm actually really proud of myself for doing. It was hard work, non-stop since September 5th, but it was awesome. Fuck that, for today only, I'm willing to say I AM AWESOME!!
Endings has been quite a theme in my life at the moment. I've ended all my assessments for uni with the handing in of my dissertation today. We had our last 'proper' day in our group - all we have left now is our presentations which are held elsewhere on Saturday. I met with a uni friend I used to live with yesterday, so inevitably we got to talking about old times - friendships and relationships that have suffered the fates of time. Also, she told me the sad news that one of our acquaintances from uni days had killed himself. He was someone I knew, although didn't know well. What I did know of him though, was that he was lovely, kind, friendly, and treated my friend who he dated as a princess. He also let himself be maligned and thought ill of in order to protect my friends relationship with her sister - a rare example of selfless behaviour. Add to that, two of the young people I support having serious attempts at suicide last weekend. Luckily, that's two endings that have been avoided. For now.
A couple of days ago, Omar and Rob decided to set this up: http://awesometeam.posterous.com/. The premise being, to take time to post something awesome that happens in your day and to share it with other people. I joined mostly because I didn't want to be left out, and at the moment I couldn't say with any certainty whether I will post on it regularly or not. But that's besides the point. The point is that the existence of this site makes me both happy and sad.
I know I'm certainly guilty of looking on the gloomy side of life, so having my posterous app popping up a message when someone adds to the site, is a really good reminder to look on the bright side instead. It has made me think for the last two days more about the good things that are happening in my days.
The sadness comes from the fact that we don't share our happy stories, especially the small things. Yes, my comment this morning was superficial and probably nobody else cares, but it made me think about why I'd put on glittery eye liner and the reasons behind that decision made me smile and walk with a bounce in my step.
I know I'm certainly guilty of looking on the gloomy side of life, so having my posterous app popping up a message when someone adds to the site, is a really good reminder to look on the bright side instead. It has made me think for the last two days more about the good things that are happening in my days.
The sadness comes from the fact that we don't share our happy stories, especially the small things. Yes, my comment this morning was superficial and probably nobody else cares, but it made me think about why I'd put on glittery eye liner and the reasons behind that decision made me smile and walk with a bounce in my step.
Just printed out the final copy of my dissertation - all 75 pages of it on fancy thick paper. I don't find this easy to admit to myself, let alone say out loud or type so the world (or two people who read this) can see - but I'm really proud of myself. This year has been so hard, I've cried, shouted, screamed and have thrown things. I've been inspired, excited, motivated, and have learnt. If I had to do it again, I honestly don't know that I would. But I'm so very glad I've done it. My heart and soul has gone into this degree, and in particular this dissertation, and I'm completely proud of how much effort I've put into it, and in turn what I've produced.
It's time to look towards what's next. So what is next? Next is getting pro-active about either persuading management to pay me to work full time on LGBT, or figuring out how to set up a charity on my own...
It's time to look towards what's next. So what is next? Next is getting pro-active about either persuading management to pay me to work full time on LGBT, or figuring out how to set up a charity on my own...
There is most certainly a privilege to having a gender. Just ask someone who doesn't have a gender, or who can't pass, or who doesn't pass. When you have a gender, or when you are perceived as having a gender, you don't get laughed at in the street. You don't get beat up. You know which public bathroom to use, and when you use it, people don't stare at you or worse. You know which form to fill out. You know what clothes to wear. You have heroes and role models. You have a past.
Bornstein
Bornstein
And On, And On...
I feel like a stuck record. I finished working on my dissertation at 2.45 this morning, and am set to get up in not many hours to start on the next chapter of it. What I really need right now is to off load about this hideously overwhelming feeling of anxiety and fright that feels like it's enveloping my life. I tried to with my parents earlier, but instead, blinked back the tears, smiled and agreed with the comments my Mum was making that were designed to 'gee me along' and kindly meant. Kindly meant but entirely ineffectual.
I think people are probably very bored of hearing about this stupid dissertation (well, this year of uni as a whole really), and I don't expect them to have to put up with hearing about it anymore. So I've not tweeted or altered my FB status to indicate another nights exhaustion, anxiety, frustration (etc etc). Nothing changes, so why bother? Tomorrow will be the same as today.
Yes, I know it's all over in 19 days, but really, knowing that doesn't help right now. It terrifies me.
I think people are probably very bored of hearing about this stupid dissertation (well, this year of uni as a whole really), and I don't expect them to have to put up with hearing about it anymore. So I've not tweeted or altered my FB status to indicate another nights exhaustion, anxiety, frustration (etc etc). Nothing changes, so why bother? Tomorrow will be the same as today.
Yes, I know it's all over in 19 days, but really, knowing that doesn't help right now. It terrifies me.
There have been a few things I've been half thinking that I should blog this last week or so, but for one reason and another, haven't. Which probably means they weren't that important after all. I'm having a week off at the moment - left work Friday lunchtime, jumped in my pre-packed car and headed straight for Cornwall. The 'ecolodge' I'm staying in has absolutely no signal - in fact the whole valley basin has no signal. Which is pretty lovely really, if not a bit weird to get used to at first. I have had to buy wifi access from the park so I can email dissertation work to my tutor and do research stuff. I did hold off doing this for the first 36 or so hours deliberately. I didn't want to fall into doing what I do at home but just in another place. So I made sure I broke routine. And other that writing this, I've pretty much only used my laptop for writing my methodology. Instead I've listened to a lot of music and have read an actual fiction book. I can't say how lovely it is (and how indulgent it feels) to be reading a book that has absolutely nothing to do with gender identity for once!
Yesterday I went to a cider farm, which is pretty much heaven on earth for me. Then had a leisurely hour or so at a gorgeous National Trust coastline site - shame about the fog though. Followed by a game of crazy golf in which I was spectacularly awful and the lad in the kiosk could well have been one of the Jonas brothers...
Today's been glorious, hence the sunburn that is now radiating off me like a Belisha beacon. Lots of swimming & meditating in the sunshine. Tonight off to Plymouth for dinner with some of my parents old college friends. Bizarre I know.
Tomorrow is set to be my annual sojourn to Tintagel and Boscastle. I can't explain why it feels different there. It just does. I feel more peaceful, more calm within myself and aware of myself when I go there. Which is just lovely. What I really need at the moment is a bit of time looking after me and putting me before my work, so that's exactly what I'm doing.
Yesterday I went to a cider farm, which is pretty much heaven on earth for me. Then had a leisurely hour or so at a gorgeous National Trust coastline site - shame about the fog though. Followed by a game of crazy golf in which I was spectacularly awful and the lad in the kiosk could well have been one of the Jonas brothers...
Today's been glorious, hence the sunburn that is now radiating off me like a Belisha beacon. Lots of swimming & meditating in the sunshine. Tonight off to Plymouth for dinner with some of my parents old college friends. Bizarre I know.
Tomorrow is set to be my annual sojourn to Tintagel and Boscastle. I can't explain why it feels different there. It just does. I feel more peaceful, more calm within myself and aware of myself when I go there. Which is just lovely. What I really need at the moment is a bit of time looking after me and putting me before my work, so that's exactly what I'm doing.
All Your Machinations Are Addiction Caused By Fabrication
This blog was going to be about the injustice of how the music we are commercially surrounded by is, generally speaking, soulless and forgettable - a world where songs address nothing more than some girls booty or how to 'get a ring on it'. What happened to music being political? To making a statement and attempting to change the world? When did it all get so tame and watered down?
But look beyond that, or rather, closer than that, and music still exists with all its politics and passion and drive to get their message out to people. Unsigned bands, singers and musicians are out there every night of the week in every part of the country, being true to their music and everything it stands for. Yes, it's great seeing bands you know and love in stadiums and arenas, but take some time away from that and look at your local music scene. Chances are you'll find some amazing artists there that will touch your heart and soul.
Tonight I went to support my beautiful friend, A.dam A.sun.der play, supported by Skin For A Canvas. I'd not seen SFAC before, and was very impressed - they're lovely guys and they have created some truly great songs. Take some time to find them on youtube or facebook - they're well worth checking out.
I come to what I actually decided I wanted to blog about (finally)... A.dam A.sun.der. He's a very good friend, and yes, I do love my friends and will always speak well of them. But this I'm writing as independently of the 'friendship bias' as possible. Having said that, this sentence is full of friendship bias - I'm innately proud of Adam (forgive me, but I can't keep writing his full name with the correct punctuation!) for a number of reasons - one or two of which I'm not blogging about, they're his story to tell, not mine. I'm proud of the person he is, and the person he's becoming. I'm proud of the path he's walked, and is walking, it's not an easy one to take. Adam is true to his music as his music is part of the person he is. When he's playing and singing he does so with his whole self, his music is soulful - not like James Brown soul music, but rather, his soul is intrinsic throughout his music. It shows through by the fact that every time I see him playing, his tracks alter slightly from the last time he performed them. His heart impacts onto each and every performance, and each one reflects part of where he is at that point in time. It's not singing by rote which you can get with people who play and play with the end goal being 'to get famous' With Adam, he plays because he can't not. It's who he is. And I'm completely proud of him because he won't sell out and take the X-factor route of entering the music industry (which, by the way, he'd win hands down). He's playing the little venues, but he's touching the hearts of those he plays to, and that's a pretty special gift to have in my book.
But look beyond that, or rather, closer than that, and music still exists with all its politics and passion and drive to get their message out to people. Unsigned bands, singers and musicians are out there every night of the week in every part of the country, being true to their music and everything it stands for. Yes, it's great seeing bands you know and love in stadiums and arenas, but take some time away from that and look at your local music scene. Chances are you'll find some amazing artists there that will touch your heart and soul.
Tonight I went to support my beautiful friend, A.dam A.sun.der play, supported by Skin For A Canvas. I'd not seen SFAC before, and was very impressed - they're lovely guys and they have created some truly great songs. Take some time to find them on youtube or facebook - they're well worth checking out.
I come to what I actually decided I wanted to blog about (finally)... A.dam A.sun.der. He's a very good friend, and yes, I do love my friends and will always speak well of them. But this I'm writing as independently of the 'friendship bias' as possible. Having said that, this sentence is full of friendship bias - I'm innately proud of Adam (forgive me, but I can't keep writing his full name with the correct punctuation!) for a number of reasons - one or two of which I'm not blogging about, they're his story to tell, not mine. I'm proud of the person he is, and the person he's becoming. I'm proud of the path he's walked, and is walking, it's not an easy one to take. Adam is true to his music as his music is part of the person he is. When he's playing and singing he does so with his whole self, his music is soulful - not like James Brown soul music, but rather, his soul is intrinsic throughout his music. It shows through by the fact that every time I see him playing, his tracks alter slightly from the last time he performed them. His heart impacts onto each and every performance, and each one reflects part of where he is at that point in time. It's not singing by rote which you can get with people who play and play with the end goal being 'to get famous' With Adam, he plays because he can't not. It's who he is. And I'm completely proud of him because he won't sell out and take the X-factor route of entering the music industry (which, by the way, he'd win hands down). He's playing the little venues, but he's touching the hearts of those he plays to, and that's a pretty special gift to have in my book.
My weekend, in bullet points:
- first 'lie in' for aaaages on Saturday- wide awake at 7.30
- early morning chatter on line
- cleaned, scrubbed, hoovered, dusted every square inch of my flat
- re-did a photo collage frame
- hung 3 new pictures on my 'random pictures' wall - they look cool
- watched The Boat That Rocked & gave myself permission to not do research at the same time
- met a friend for coffee in a surprisingly lovely coffee shop in Eastleigh
- dinner with my parents
- evening of chatter and chocolate with a beautiful friend
- cried as said beautiful friend is moving away in two months
- meditation
- sleep
- dissertation research
- tea and cake with a friend
- cancelled trip to art exhibition because of weather
- sorted through counselling paraphernalia
- dissertation research
- cleaned some silver
- had roast dinner
I'm on my last piece of coursework before dissertation time and then uni mark II is officially over. Other pieces have been harder than this one academically speaking, but this one has been the one that's been hardest to write. I've had a complete block to writing it - complete resentment over giving up any more of my time to it. Plus, the down side to having a postmodern tutor is that she gave no official title, no assessment guidelines or clear pointers as to what was needed. I'm actually only half way through it at the moment, but have decided that as I've finally gotten half way, it was a good time to deflect and procrastinate a bit more about having to do it rather than just getting on with it. Stupid thing is, the subject matter for this one is something that I'm actually really interested in. I think the thing I'm most fed up with is getting to 3.07 on a Sunday afternoon and feeling like I've had no weekend. Still having 1500 words to write also means I know I won't get anything of a weekend left by the time I've finished it either. Which is just another reason I'm not getting on with it rather than blogging about getting on with it.
One thing I have learnt in years of struggling with the crap in my head, is to forgive myself. So today I'm forgiving myself for what I've done, the physical pain is still there (as is the physical scar), but I'm letting go of the mental pain & lessening the mental scar (the pain I get from hating myself for doing it, for feeling like I've let myself and everyone else down). It's done, I can't change that. Best I can do is let it go & try a little harder to look after myself.
We all love a bank holiday, right? Wrong. I love the idea of a three day weekend, but truth is, this one was spent mostly crying on Saturday and packing up my Gran's home, then yesterday and today doing coursework. Rock and roll I think not.
And now, sitting in the darkness at 9.40 (because I'd not noticed it getting dark, not because I'm being macabre), I can feel my anxiety levels rising as my attention turns to going to work tomorrow and the fact that I have 4 days work to fit into three as a result of the bank holiday.
As an aside, just to mention my most stupid thought of the day: really wanting to write a blog entry that nobody would read, just to get stuff out, and thinking how frustrating it was that I couldn't do that. Then I remembered my diary.
And now, sitting in the darkness at 9.40 (because I'd not noticed it getting dark, not because I'm being macabre), I can feel my anxiety levels rising as my attention turns to going to work tomorrow and the fact that I have 4 days work to fit into three as a result of the bank holiday.
As an aside, just to mention my most stupid thought of the day: really wanting to write a blog entry that nobody would read, just to get stuff out, and thinking how frustrating it was that I couldn't do that. Then I remembered my diary.
Today was the end of another chapter. My Mum has almost completed on the sale of my Gran's bungalow, so it was today I went up with my parents and my sister and said 'goodbye'. I didn't want to go, but needed to - I never visited my Dad's parents home after the immediate aftermath of my Grandma's funeral and in some ways that's always bothered me.
I guess today wasn't so much about the sale of Duffryn, but more about the finality of my grandparents chapter in my life. I always felt much more attached to my Mums roots than my Dads - I've written about that before. But I miss having a reason to go back to the Forest Of Dean, and now I've lost my last reason to go back to Pontnewydd... I feel like calling those places home now feels fraudulent somehow...
Hard as it was, I'm glad I went today. A friend told me to soak it all in one last time and then I can go back there any time in my memory, so that's exactly what I did. The bricks and mortar may belong to someone else in just a few short weeks, but the memories - they'll always be mine & in that sense, there's nothing fraudulent in calling it home.
I guess today wasn't so much about the sale of Duffryn, but more about the finality of my grandparents chapter in my life. I always felt much more attached to my Mums roots than my Dads - I've written about that before. But I miss having a reason to go back to the Forest Of Dean, and now I've lost my last reason to go back to Pontnewydd... I feel like calling those places home now feels fraudulent somehow...
Hard as it was, I'm glad I went today. A friend told me to soak it all in one last time and then I can go back there any time in my memory, so that's exactly what I did. The bricks and mortar may belong to someone else in just a few short weeks, but the memories - they'll always be mine & in that sense, there's nothing fraudulent in calling it home.
It's Been One Week Since You Looked At Me
The title's a bit misleading. Or maybe it isn't...
So a week ago today I felt pretty shit (see post a week ago for details), and in attempts to help pull myself out of said shitness, I agreed to trying meditating for ten minutes a day for seven days to see if it helped. I just finished my seventh day and I can say with conviction that this won't be a seven day thing.
I've felt so much more grounded this week, I feel more in my own skin if that makes sense. I just feel more able to handle things; and while it feels stupid to attribute it to spending ten minutes sat down and breathing, well, that's the truth.
Committing to finding time each day for a week has also made me focus on my time use. One of the things I never feel I have enough of is time in each day, so the thought of adding in time to 'just sit' seemed a bit unlikely unless I planned it properly. It also forced me to look at my priorities in life - and I actually for once put my own self on the top of that list. I feel like I'm here to make a difference to people, but if I'm curled up in a corner in a blubbering mess, well then I'm no use to anyone. It's kick started my slimming world journey again, which hadn't gone backwards, it had just stagnated, the last year I've put on and lost the same 10lb about a hundred times. I've also planned in time on my exercise bike again every other day, and we all know what they say about endorphins being happy chemicals.
So it's been one week since I looked at me. Since I took a proper look at why I had had such a horrid week and what changes I could put in place to help limit the likelihood of that happening all the time (I'm not naive enough to think I'll never have a bad week, but maybe not such a bad one would be better). The result: Friday night and I'm not in tears and feeling utterly shattered and hopeless.
So a week ago today I felt pretty shit (see post a week ago for details), and in attempts to help pull myself out of said shitness, I agreed to trying meditating for ten minutes a day for seven days to see if it helped. I just finished my seventh day and I can say with conviction that this won't be a seven day thing.
I've felt so much more grounded this week, I feel more in my own skin if that makes sense. I just feel more able to handle things; and while it feels stupid to attribute it to spending ten minutes sat down and breathing, well, that's the truth.
Committing to finding time each day for a week has also made me focus on my time use. One of the things I never feel I have enough of is time in each day, so the thought of adding in time to 'just sit' seemed a bit unlikely unless I planned it properly. It also forced me to look at my priorities in life - and I actually for once put my own self on the top of that list. I feel like I'm here to make a difference to people, but if I'm curled up in a corner in a blubbering mess, well then I'm no use to anyone. It's kick started my slimming world journey again, which hadn't gone backwards, it had just stagnated, the last year I've put on and lost the same 10lb about a hundred times. I've also planned in time on my exercise bike again every other day, and we all know what they say about endorphins being happy chemicals.
So it's been one week since I looked at me. Since I took a proper look at why I had had such a horrid week and what changes I could put in place to help limit the likelihood of that happening all the time (I'm not naive enough to think I'll never have a bad week, but maybe not such a bad one would be better). The result: Friday night and I'm not in tears and feeling utterly shattered and hopeless.
Today Is... Today Is... Today Is...
- Took a deep breath and told my manager I'm struggling - volume of work & my head stuff (massive, instant feeling of relief)
- Day 4 of trying out meditation which is gradually feeling less weird and more helpful
- Ordered my time so I planned in some exercise, felt great to get it back into my daily schedule
- Did shopping for LGBT group for tomorrow night
- Lunch and dinner made for tomorrow & are Slimming World friendly ( I work to 10 on a Tuesday, so take dinner with me)
- Did some general planning
Taking a bit of time to plan out my actions a little bit, and factor in things I actually wanted to do as well as those I needed to do, has made today such a better day than the recent past. Sitting down at nine & knowing I've achieved everything I've set out to do today has been lovely.
You know sometimes when you wake up feeling particularly rubbish & want to fade into the semi darkness of your room and disappear forever? Today I woke like that, and then was reminded how amazingly kind a particular friend is via a photo and a less than 140 character comment accompanying it. I'm not saying I'm happy and bouncing and full of the joys of spring. In-fact, I rang my boss and lunchtime and told her I needed to go home - I didn't get there before the tears started falling. But that message; it made today just a bit easier and gave me the first smile that I've felt actually be more than surface this week.
How are you?
I seem to be being asked this a lot recently, and other than maybe one or two exceptions, I really don't think any reply is expected or wanted other than 'yeah, I'm good thanks'. I don't know what stops me answering the question truthfully - I could blame societal guidelines, but I think it's more than that.
Despite all my training, my work, and my personal therapy, I still find it a weakness to admit that I'm struggling, that I'm less than okay. I live in fear that if I say it at work then it'll be assumed I'm not competent or capable of doing my job and will be fired. I also struggle to see myself as worth spending time on me when I'm with other people.
I've just been out to dinner with 3 good friends who I've known for eight years now - two of them I've been on holiday twice with. Yet I didn't answer the question truthfully.
So here it is: I'm exhausted, I've been in tears every day this week, I feel constantly sick from anxiety and pressure & I feel totally stuck in this place.
I seem to be being asked this a lot recently, and other than maybe one or two exceptions, I really don't think any reply is expected or wanted other than 'yeah, I'm good thanks'. I don't know what stops me answering the question truthfully - I could blame societal guidelines, but I think it's more than that.
Despite all my training, my work, and my personal therapy, I still find it a weakness to admit that I'm struggling, that I'm less than okay. I live in fear that if I say it at work then it'll be assumed I'm not competent or capable of doing my job and will be fired. I also struggle to see myself as worth spending time on me when I'm with other people.
I've just been out to dinner with 3 good friends who I've known for eight years now - two of them I've been on holiday twice with. Yet I didn't answer the question truthfully.
So here it is: I'm exhausted, I've been in tears every day this week, I feel constantly sick from anxiety and pressure & I feel totally stuck in this place.
I love the career path I've chosen, and for about 90% of the time I'm certain I've made the right decision. I'm not doing my dream job, but I'm working towards it and getting closer, which is pretty much all any of us can hope for, right?
Sometimes though, something pops up that makes me think of the other possible routes I could have taken career wise. And that always leaves me feeling a little sad, thinking of the life that could have been, and in many ways I'd have loved to do so very much. Sometimes it feels very unfair that we only get on crack at this 'living' malarkey - there doesn't seem enough time to do all the jobs I want to do!
I'll watch a brilliant, impassioned, educative documentary on a part of history that for some reason impacts me in a way I can't put into words and wonder if I made the right choice. There's a part of me that feels unfulfilled because I'm not getting down and dirty in a trench someplace...
Days like today remind me how much I loved studying sociology, and how passionate I get about how society is created and developed. I literally today couldn't sit still when I was explaining to my group at uni how Anarchy For The UK links with postmodernism, and in turn with metaphysical poets like John Donne. Random link, but trust me, it exists. So then I start thinking about the route I thought about of teaching Sociology a-level and really getting into researching moral panics and folk devils linked with music based subcultures...
And then there's the cafe. My beautiful, musical cafe with cakes that people can only dream of...
There are a whole myriad of stupid career dreams - like playing bass like a demon in a metal band that packs out arena's the world wide... or being a skater that clears up at every event at X Games... - but those dreams are fun, they're the kinds of dreams that remind me of the feeling that anything's possible that I had as a kid. The other ones though, they have a feeling of bittersweet about them; wonderings of what could have been and did I pick the right path?
Sometimes though, something pops up that makes me think of the other possible routes I could have taken career wise. And that always leaves me feeling a little sad, thinking of the life that could have been, and in many ways I'd have loved to do so very much. Sometimes it feels very unfair that we only get on crack at this 'living' malarkey - there doesn't seem enough time to do all the jobs I want to do!
I'll watch a brilliant, impassioned, educative documentary on a part of history that for some reason impacts me in a way I can't put into words and wonder if I made the right choice. There's a part of me that feels unfulfilled because I'm not getting down and dirty in a trench someplace...
Days like today remind me how much I loved studying sociology, and how passionate I get about how society is created and developed. I literally today couldn't sit still when I was explaining to my group at uni how Anarchy For The UK links with postmodernism, and in turn with metaphysical poets like John Donne. Random link, but trust me, it exists. So then I start thinking about the route I thought about of teaching Sociology a-level and really getting into researching moral panics and folk devils linked with music based subcultures...
And then there's the cafe. My beautiful, musical cafe with cakes that people can only dream of...
There are a whole myriad of stupid career dreams - like playing bass like a demon in a metal band that packs out arena's the world wide... or being a skater that clears up at every event at X Games... - but those dreams are fun, they're the kinds of dreams that remind me of the feeling that anything's possible that I had as a kid. The other ones though, they have a feeling of bittersweet about them; wonderings of what could have been and did I pick the right path?
30 Day Song Challenge: Day Twenty Three to Thirty
I missed out on several days last week for one reason and another, so decided to finish it in one hit instead. The last eight entries can be found on the page link at the top of this page.
30 Day Song Challenge: Day Twenty Two - A Song I Listen To When I'm Sad
If I'm sad and I want to wallow in said sadness, then this is one of the songs I'll listen to. Partially because of the lyrics and the mournful nature of the music. But also because I can't hear it without thinking of someone who used to mean the world to me and I've lost (they're not dead - just not part of my life anymore - their choice, not mine). And that combination literally makes my heart ache.
30 Day Song Challenge: Day Twenty One - A Song I Listen To When I'm Happy
Can't help but smile when listening to this song :)
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