Wednesday, 29 May 2019


My current bank balance, in case you were wondering.

Due to a combination of re-structuring, lies and all-consuming frustration, I have recently found myself to be unemployed. Not great in the long run and, if I'm honest, a tad demoralising.

Yesterday, in an attempt to calm myself the fuck down, I decided to try a yoga session. Unfortunately, this did nothing to soothe my mood and I burst into tears 10 minutes in. Luckily, I was at home, but still, hysterical crying is seldom the reaction expected of an exercise commonly associated with calmness and serenity.

Currently trying to rectify my present financial situation, I'm finding myself becoming more and more obsessive and upset each and every day. All I seem to be able to think about is job hunting, I check my emails at least 12 times an hour and my mind is constantly saturated with anger at the fact that I have to go through this whole fucking process again.

Whether we like it or not, money is a key component of survival in the Western world. We need it for food, we need it for shelter and we need it if we plan on doing a variety of things involved in leaving the house.

It also seems at the moment that 99% of the conversations I have with people seem to revolve around my current employment status. How's the job hunt going? People ask. Are you trying XYZ? Have you applied to this place? Everyone around me has a bizarre obsession with whether or not someone is paying me to do something and, subsequently, the contents of my bank account.

Now I'm not completely void of the ability to understand human emotion, and I know that most of them are doing it out of care and consideration. But, in all honesty, it feels to me as if they only seem to care if I'm employed or not. Regardless of how my insecurities may make me feel at times, I'm more than my bank balance, more than the contents of my resume and cover letter and I'm sure as hell more than my fucking LinkedIn profile.

Don't get me wrong, I would really like a job. I'm bored, frustrated and do not do well with having free time, but I'm slowly realising, for today at least, that whether or not someone is paying me on a regular basis has very little to do with who I am. I'm a writer, plain and simple. Does this mean that I receive a regular wage for doing so? No, but it does mean that I've been lucky enough to find something that I'm not only passionate about but also incredibly good at. How about, instead of asking me how many hours I'm spending trying to convince a complete stranger that I'm the perfect person for each and every individual role, maybe ask what I've been writing about lately. Who knows, you might actually find it interesting.

And no, I don't want to apply for a job in my local pub. I need at least one place I can relax.


Monday, 27 May 2019

Raising awareness and shutting the fuck up

I've started writing many a post on my hatred of the term "raise awareness", but none of them have reached the point of publication. Not really sure why other than maybe I can't quite put across how fucking angry the term makes me. Thankfully, through the glory that is Room 101, I'm finally feeling able to put my words out there for all to read.

When telling presenter Bob Monkhouse why she wanted to throw marathons into the fiery depths of Room 101, Katherine Ryan uses the phrase "We've heard of it, sit down" in response to the eternally repulsive and unrelentingly nauseating phrase raising awareness. Thanks to this glorious and very public exclamation, I really think I've found someone else who gets it.

Now, the phrase raising awareness is often used by self-righteous and small-minded morons who, for some inexplicable reason, don't realise that, as members of the human race, a vast percentage of the population are also aware of the existence of the same certain topics they are. Subjects include cancer, world hunger, global warming and common mental health conditions such as anxiety and depression.

That's right, I said common, bite me.

Now, do what you want in support of these charities. I'm not disputing their importance and I really don't give a shit about what you do in your spare time. Climb Everest, jump out a plane, shave your head - whatever gets you out of bed in the morning, just don't use the overly cliched and completely necessary headline to cover the fact that you want attention. Yes, we get it, you want to visit an underdeveloped country on the other side of the planet to show the world what a kind and considerate person you are but don't expect me to pay for your holiday or rim you in return. Let's just say what it's you're really doing shall we, boosting your ego and raising money. It's 2019,  we should all be grown-up enough to be honest with each other by now.

Obviously, as I am a human being, my anger is powered by a pre-existing personal agenda, in this instance being BPD. When no-one has a fucking clue what something is then, and only then, do we need to raise awareness. I have no problem explaining my condition to people, as I'm fully aware that not a lot of people have heard of it, but the world and his middle-aged nextdoor neighbour knows what hunger is, so stop assuming that I'm a fucking moron for the sake of your inner hardon.

Can you tell I'm not in a great mood today?


Image By Source, Fair use,

Sunday, 26 May 2019

M'lord this is getting old

I can't believe I still have to write about this shit but, here we go.

On Wednesday, I was walking home from the cinema when I bumped into someone I used to work with. Going over to say hi, he actually CROSSED THE STREET TO GET AWAY FROM ME.

Seriously, I didn't know they made pussies that big that walk on two feet.

Now, let me make this clear, I have done nothing NOTHING to this boy. Working in the kitchen, I rarely interacted with him and, par a couple of occasions one of which being the staff Christmas party during which I chugged water for 4 consecutive hours meaning I remember the entire evening, I spent very little time with him outside of work.

Yet, for some reason, he still seems to be afraid of me. Because, you know, there's nothing more terrifying than a 5 foot 7 English writer.

I have said this over and over and over again and it seems to me that I'm going to be saying it until the day I die. My condition does not make me scary and I'm not going to hurt you. I might have a way with words and a limited (read, non-existent) ability to feel empathy but I'm not, as far as I'm concerned, any reason to be afraid. I may want to hurt you, as I discussed in a previous post, but news flash, I'm never going to.

At this point, I'm moving on from being pissed off about repeatedly having to reassure people that I'm not a danger to society and more just over it. I won't lie, it really used to upset me, but if you're really afraid of me and believe I'm someone to fear, then that's on you. I'm kinda over it now.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to jump out at old ladies dressed as a witch to see if I can scare them into having a heart attack, I'll let you know how it goes.


Saturday, 25 May 2019

Feeling Pretty Good

Won't lie there isn't really much point to this blog post other than that, in complete contrast to the majority of days over the past 6 weeks or so, I actually feel pretty good. I woke up on time, downed my meds and am mid-way through a YouTube binge of my new favourite obsession which involves watching cut down sections of House that get to the fucking point.

House baby I love you, but my attention span and shitty wifi won't let me love you as much as I want.

So today I'm just going to give to you a list of a few things that make me happy just in case, you know, I need a refresh every now and again.

Chickpea salad from City Market

As anyone who has known me over the past few years will know I have lived with eating disorders in the past. Going from feeling fine to being convinced the reason I spilt something is that I had breakfast within the time it took my first boyfriend to cum, I'm really not a fan of the whole having-to-eat-to-live process. One of the main things I hate about it is food shopping. It's time-consuming, it's expensive and it always leads to a sense of existential dread when I realise that I could have spent the ridiculously over-large amount of money I've just used to keep myself from dying on a pair of shoes. Regardless, there is one thing I am quite fond of and that's a certain salad from my local supermarket. Is it as overpriced as everything else in the building? Yes. Could I make it myself? Yes. Am I going to carry on buying it regardless? Also yes.

My latest Starbucks order

Fun fact, for the month of October my husband refuses to place my Starbucks order due to my Pumpkin Spice Latte addiction. Yes, it does cause me to enter into a sugar high equal only to that of a four-year-old in Wilko's Pic-n-Mix section, but it's also really really good. My latest order is a venti almond milk iced latte with sugar-free vanilla syrup. Tastes pretty good and allows me a slight moment of eco-smugness when I bring my reusable straw.

The sun

Along with my delicious plethora of mental health issues, I also suffer from severe, SEVERE Seasonal Affective Disorder. Between the months of September and March, I sink into a hole so cliche that leads to an inability to get out of bed, all-consuming exhaustion and unrelenting misery. It's shit, but I always know it's going to end, so I don't mind too much.

Thanks to the Canadian weather gods, there's been a little bit of sunshine over the past few days in Toronto, meaning I actually feel quite good. I mean yes it is punctuated with hours of pouring rain but I'm British, it's the only thing I know.


For anyone excited or intrigued that my love life might be improving, keep your tampon in. Hugh is my plant. I bought him from the hell-hole that is Canadian Tire a few weeks ago and he sits quite happily on my window sill. My housemate was even nice enough to look after him for me while he went away, which just emphasises my theory that she's fucking adorable.

See also the fact that she mooches around the flat singing to herself. So far my favourite has been her jazz phase.

The squirrels that live in my wall

Since I've moved in there's been an unrelenting scratching sound that I've attributed to a squirrel. Whilst it may be annoying, I'm assuming it's been there longer than I have and therefore technically I'm living in their room.

Lately, they seem to have found a friend. I've named them Henry and Jacque, and given them a little back story. So far Henry doesn't do much, but Jacque is a financial advisor from Nice who moved here with his Mexican wife Murial and they have two children named Clementine and Paul.

Because, why not?

The album Confessions by Usher

This one's kind of an old one, but it still holds true.

As a kid, ever so inappropriately, Usher's Confessions was one of my favourite albums. Inappropriate because it's mostly about boning and I was about 11 at the time but after finding it on Spotify and giving it another go, I've realised that it's really quite spectacular.

Why do I love it so I hear you ask? Because not only is it full of epic tunes such as Yeah and Burn, but he managed to make an entire album about knocking up his side chick and, I'm sorry, in my eyes that deserves a high five.

Heads up, if you sign up to Spotify Premium you can get 3 months for on 99 cents. Not at all sponsored and I don't get anything if you do sign up, it's just a fact.

Cherry blossoms

They're everywhere in Toronto at the moment, easy and relaxing to draw and, let's face it, just so god damn pretty.



Tuesday, 21 May 2019

Sweet Home Alabama

Unless you have miraculously avoided the internet over the past 7 days, which I'd say is pretty impossible, you will know that last Tuesday lawmakers in Alabama voted to introduce the strictest abortion laws in America. The devastating decision means that all women would be forced to carry a pregnancy to term regardless of age, incest or rape, once the fetus surpassed 6 weeks old.

The Heartbeat Bill, as it is often known, does nothing to support the women of Alabama, placing the focus on the heap of cells that she is carrying rather than her own safety. It's a massive punch in the cunt for women and healthcare professionals across the state, who could be sentenced to up to 99 years in prison if they are found to have performed the procedure.

Interestingly, there will be no repercussions for men who choose to leave their partners as a result of unwanted pregnancy, but that's for another day.

Obviously, I'm pro-choice and have about as much respect for anti-abortionists as I do anti-vaxxers. You're a twat, to put it likely, and anyone's mother who bore a child that grew to be as ignorantly repulsive as you should really have swallowed. You're an oxygen thief but, sadly, the lives of the stupid are seen as being equally valuable as a lump of cells and we're not allowed to get rid of them.

As a result of the ban, many people are using #YouKnowMe to tell their stories about having had abortions themselves, including Busy Philips (who I love) and Jameela Jamil (who I am fast starting to hate almost as much as I hate Cat Dealey).

I myself, have never had an abortion, but I did have a miscarriage when I was 19. Having not known I was pregnant, it really wasn't much of an issue as regardless of whether or not I had done so I would have had an abortion. At the time I was self-harming, drinking, had an eating disorder and was indulging in all manner of self-destructive behaviours that would not only have lead to the child suffering were I to carry it to term, but also to it to experience health implications as a result of my actions during pregnancy. This is on top of the fact that I was incredibly mentally ill, unmedicated and a flat broke student with no desire to reproduce at all during my lifetime. Would I have wanted to carry the pregnancy to term? No. Would I have been forced to under the new Alabama laws? Yes.

My problem with the new laws in Alabama is that not only does it discount the life of the woman, but also the actual life of the child. Why would you force a child to be born with severe health issues, or to be born directly into foster care in what is already an overstretched system? If you actively have the choice to prevent an unwanted child from being born, I have no understanding of why anyone would want to prevent you from doing so.

Were I, through horrible accident, to fall pregnant again, there is no doubt that I would have an abortion. Not only because I have no desire to reproduce but also, despite what the world may think, I'm not a completely selfish bitch and therefore see no value in bringing a child into the world that is quite simply, not wanted.

But then that's just me.


Wednesday, 15 May 2019

Fakery, Fuckery and Jeremy Kyle

As any self-respecting British person will have become aware of over the past two days, the iconic Jeremy Kyle show has been taken off the air after over a decade. A cornerstone of anyone's daytime TV schedule, the show has been cancelled after the death of a guest that failed a lie detector test.

So far there has been little to no reports on how he died but, as far as I can see, only one UK platform has suggested that the person in question took his own life.

The publication I refer to is the Metro, so don't get too excited.

Discussing the incident with a friend last night, what I didn't realise was that prior to appearing on television programmes such as Jeremy Kyle, guests are often given psychiatric evaluations, in an attempt to ensure their health will not be affected by appearing on the show. Ignoring how I feel about free and informed medical care being given to people whose main concern in life is proving to their ex that they didn't shag their sister, it's important to realise how easy it is to manipulate the results of these tests.

Whilst some people will always believe that people experiencing mental health issues are "faking" and that their problems don't really exist, I can vouch first hand for how easy it is to convince people, even medical professionals, that your health is improving. It's also important to remember that money is, and will always be, a contributing factor towards people's behaviour, and when a large sum of money comes your way, it can be difficult to resist.

What is often glossed over in discussions about mental health problems, is how boring they can be. Yes I know I need to rest and that certain things aren't within my capacity at the moment, but that doesn't mean I don't wish I was able to go out and live a "normal" life. When we're in a desperate situation and want to hold on to normality as much as we can, it's easy to pretend that we're doing okay. I don't mean this in a "Dave hasn't been to the pub this week give him a visit" kind of lie, I mean the kind of lie that allows us to progress through life in ways that we wish we could.

The issue with programmes such as The Jeremy Kyle Show and Love Island, which was suggested to contribute towards the suicide of contestants Mike Thalassitis and Sophie Gradon, is that if you want something badly enough, be it fame, money or success, it's very easy to act as if nothing's wrong. It may be difficult for doctors and psychologists to pick up on cues that might tell them this, particularly due to limited time and resources, but people need to be aware that it happens. 

We're humans, if it's one thing we do better than the rest of the food chain, it's lie.