I’ve always perceived myself to be a person of immensely contrasting characteristics. I’m chatty and sociable, but also thoroughly enjoy my own company. I’m active and often full of energy, but also a sucker for a lazy day. I have many interests and hobbies to keep me occupied – and am notorious for finding entertainment in the most unlikely places – but I can also get bored quicker than a toddler with a new toy.
Loss is a soul-shaking sensation. And coping is its unpredictable cousin. The two often travel inseparably, one looming in the shadow of the other – an all-consuming barrier on your path – making it near impossible to predict how they’ll manifest themselves within you when they strike, or which direction they’ll shoot you off in as a result.
The memory on my phone is always full because of how many pictures I take. Selfies, sunsets and screenshots all contribute to the bursting seams of my iPhone storage – too precious to be deleted, yet not precious enough to ever be viewed again. But only a handful are deemed worthy enough to be placed on the mother of all social media podiums – the Instagram feed.
My best friend and I both recently had our hearts broken. I’m talking one of those unexpected, completely one-sided, open mouth crying, searching for answers and getting none kind of breakups – x2.
Insecure. It’s a word that’s been contaminated to sound like a disease. Like it’s a black and white diagnosis that you either test positive or negative for. Like people should keep their distance to protect themselves from catching it. Like openly admitting it’s a part of your life means voluntarily exposing the tremendous weight of the baggage you haul around with you.
When I go on nights out, I hide a pair of flip flops in a bush outside the club. There, I said it. I’m pathetic with heels, and I can’t afford to spend a fortune riding round in taxis every night. So, when I’m ready to leave, I simply retrieve my flats from their hiding place and begin my comfortable journey home. It’s not cool, and to most people it’s probably quite strange (especially those who’ve witnessed it). But it’s me, it’s my choice and it’s my life, and if there’s one thing I’ll never be caught apologising for – it’s that.
They’ve grabbed my bum, my breasts and even reached a hand up the front of my dress while brushing past me in a crowd. They’ve made me feel trapped, scared and miserable, and they’ve turned many a fun night out into a living nightmare. Like many women, I’m not only accustomed to ‘casual groping’ from men I don’t know in nightclubs – I actually expect it. Continue reading
Every single day is full of choices. Should I wear this outfit, or this one? What should I cook for dinner tonight? Who should I call about this issue? What do I want to watch on TV? We make them spontaneously, unconsciously, sometimes even carelessly. These small and seemingly insignificant decisions make up our day-to-day lives and yet, on so many occasions, we barely even give them a second thought.