Advice to my Teenage Self.

I wouldn’t go as far as to call myself an adult, but I definitely know a lot more about life than I did when I was a teenager.  If time travel was a thing, and I had access to it, and it wasn’t dangerous, and going back in time didn’t mess up the future, I would have some solid advice to give my teenage self.

Molly – Stop being so mad at your parents.  You are their second child, their first daughter.  They have no idea what they’re doing.  They might seem like they do, but they don’t.  They’re trying to do their best to raise you better than their parents raised them, and it’s only natural that they fuck up from time to time.  They push you so hard because they want what’s best for you – They want you to have the things they never did.  At the same time, don’t let them make you feel guilty.  You are your own person and you DO NOT have to agree with everything they say.  You can have your own opinions, but for God’s sake, respect theirs too.

Secondly – Be kind.  The people you think are ‘uncool’ or ‘weird’ are just different.  You don’t have to be their best friend, you just need to understand that they have their own shit going on, and you being dismissive or ignorant towards them is not going to help that. Smile, say hello, ask how they are and listen to their answer – You could have more in common than you think.

Third – Be yourself.  Sometimes it’s necessary to change how you act around people (eg. I know you think swearing is natural but people are offended by it.  Reign it in from time to time) but don’t ever pretend to be something you’re not.  Don’t pretend to like a band because some boy you fancy does.  Don’t lie about your age on the internet.

Fourth – Listen in class.  Education is the most important thing you can have.  It will broaden your horizons and make you more acceptant of people.  If you have all the facts, you see both sides of an argument and will stress a lot less over feeling like you need to pick a side.

Fifth – Fuckboys are a thing.  If a particular guy only wants to be with you when you’re at a party and he’s drunk, but won’t answer your texts during the week – He’s a fuckboy.  Respect yourself.  If a guy talks to another girl and admits later it was to make you jealous – He’s a fuckboy.  If a guy makes you feel insecure, instead of helping you attain a positive image of yourself- He’s a fuckboy and only cares about himself.  If a guy pulls you out of bed and drags you down the stairs because he’s mad – Not only is he a fuckboy, but he’s also an abusive cunt.  You do not have to waste your time and energy on boys who treat you like an object.  And if your heart hurts because of a break up – I can 100% guarantee you will feel better about it in six months (providing you draw a line under the relationship)

Sixth – How you look does not define you.  How you act and what you do is what people will remember.  Sure it’s OK to be proud of your appearance, but don’t let it be the centre of your universe.  Stop counting calories.  This will lead not only to issues that you will spend the rest of your life dealing with, but also decisions which will be the biggest regrets of your life.

Seventh – For the love of God, I know you don’t have much money, but please, please, if you’re going to wear leggings, invest in a pair that you can’t see your pants through.

Eighth – Everything’s gonna be OK.

Mental Health, Why I Blog and John Cena.

Thanks to everyone who got in touch on last weeks post.  I expected to get more than three questions, but I guess I was being pretty big headed thinking more people would be interested in my life.  Awh well. There you are confidence – take another punch in the gut.

 If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

If you asked me this when I was aged anywhere between 15 and 20, I would have had a never ending list of physical things I wanted to change.  I wouldn’t be as tall, I’d be thinner, my hair would be longer, my boobs would be bigger, I would have a six pack.  And why?  I wanted to make girls jealous and boys horny.  Although I’m not yet completely at one with accepting my appearance, I realise, it doesn’t matter.  There will always be someone on this earth who finds you ugly.  But also someone who finds you beautiful.

What I would change is my mind.  I’d get rid of the crushing anxiety.  I wish I could be more positive and outgoing.  I wish I didn’t have an eating disorder and body dysmorphia.  I wish my mental health was better, I know then that without trying my physical health would improve too. I wish I was 100% happy and confident all the time – That way, I wouldn’t make bad choices or have this often overwhelming negative image of myself.

What led you to start a blog?

I thought this question would be the easiest to answer, but I’ve been sitting here staring at it for the past 15 minutes wondering where to start.  I began writing a year ago because I wanted to be a vlogger.  If you’re unfamiliar with this term, it’s basically filming your life and sharing it online.  However, I wasn’t ready to face the impending criticism that comes along with vlogging, so I started writing instead.

I wanted to write to vent, to share my story, to appeal to others, to inspire and to entertain.  I wanted people to tell me that everything was going to be OK, because sometimes, I am really not OK.  In turn, I wanted people to feel that their struggle is not their own.  No one’s life is perfect – Sometimes it’s not even good – But fuck it, we can float on together.

I have always adored writing, and honestly – It’s the one thing I think I’m good at.

If you could have a billboard anywhere, what would it say and where would it be?

Thanks to John Cena for sending in this question last week.  I guess the only thing I have to promote is this blog, so it’d probably be a pretty simplistic design advertising MollysBook.  And it would be in an episode of Family Guy or The Simpsons, because that’s the only place where I ever read billboards.

I Need You!

Well butter me up and call me a biscuit, it’s been a whole freaking year since I started old bloggy here.

Seeing as I’ve been providing you all with such hilarious and thought provoking content once a week(ish) for a full 12 months, I wanted to know – Is there anything you’d like to ask me?

So the comment section on this post (and all other posts) is anonymous. You don’t have to be a member of WordPress to comment, so please feel free to ask whatever your heart desires.  If you don’t mind letting me know your name, you can also get in touch via various social media platforms (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter).

This could be a complete flop and/or total nightmare, but I mean it when I say; Ask me anything.  Dirty, clean, embarrassing, controversial, political, ethical, stupid, intellectual… Other various adjectives – I will answer them.

Next week’s blog is up to you.

Barney’s Story Time: Mumi’s Adventur

Lst week mumi came home frm work nice and early nd I said hello hello hello plz pet me hello hello hello oh god hello.  then I was rely rely bored so i decided to bark nd bark and bark and wine nd wine and wine till she let me come in bed nd get under the big fluffy sleepy warm thing and I had a snooze nd it was nice.

Heres me bein cute bfor walk

Mumi made food for her face hole and but none for mine.  she says I’m greddy but she is. she always eatin eatin eatin food and gives none to me evn thouh i know she not evn hungry, she just a piggy.  I see it go in her face hole, where does it go?  smells so gud, i’m hungry.  So after tht I wasn’t gonna snooze for her no more and be a good boy cuz why not, i wanna go outside.

Mumi always takes years to leav the human kennel  she has skin but puts on other layers like coat, hat, sock, shoes that I’m not allowed to eat so i just bite them and chew them and ok i do eat them sometimes sorri.

i got too excited when mumi got the lead because then i knew we were definately going to the magical place wer i can run run run and pee pee pee and poo.  i ran away frm her and she shouted so i decided to let her put the lead on my necklace evn though it choke me i dont care WE’RE GOIN TO THE PARK.

we got to the park and hooray I’M FREE so i run away and smell all the things i can see and I make sure those other dogs know this is my park.  the trick is to pee on everything.  even if you have no pee left in your willy, just lift ur leg and pretend, the other animals will think youve done a pee and will know the park is urs.

mumi was talkin into that little black thing that her and daddi have nd always look at, so i decided to run away and hide.  i could hear mumi shouting my name but i didn’t mind because there was still plenty of things to smell and pee on.  when mumi found me after 1 whole hour, she smacked my bum then picked me up and squished me and kissed me on the head and called me a bold boy but then said i was a good boy, so i was happi and she was too maybe.

we walked back to the human kennel when mumi said, oh fuck where are my keys, and we had to go around to the back where the adventur is.   there’s loads and loads of rubish at the back because the men who make banging noise at 8am always throw tiles and bricks and pallets and stuff over the wall becuz they r too lazy to hire a skip.  mumi tried to kick in the red door to our house and she looked sososososo mad.  then she tied my rope to a big hunk of wood and stacked up some rubish and wowwowwow climed up the wall and disapeared over into our yard where i poo!!!

the red door opened and i went into my house, but then i did a little sneak wen mumi was washin the blood off her cut hand, so i ran back outside and more adventur for me, see ya later mumi byeee!

more hrs later after mumi was shoutin shoutin shoutin i decided to come home and mumi was sad but she quished me and kissed me again and we watched tv and i ate a bone and humped a cushon and it was a nice day.

Things that Drive me Mildly Insane.

 

Let’s face it; most of us will never be 100% sane. In a weird way, I’m kinda proud of being a bit ‘cookie’.  There’s something endearing about a weirdo.

This being said, there are some small tribulations in life that push me closer into the realm of complete nutjob.  

My first one is to do with breakfast.  I pretty much always have porridge and banana for breakfast but every-so often, if I’m not completely starving, I’ll boil some eggs and have eggs on toast. What drives me mildly insane about having eggs on toast, is when you get those shitty eggs that you can’t peel.  Bear with me, because this is kind of difficult to explain.  You have to have experienced the shitty egg before you can really grasp how irritating this is.  Most of the time, when you peel an egg you crack the shell and get that silky skin underneath.  This helps lift the hard shell off.  Sometimes the egg white sticks to the shell and you spend an inappropriate amount of time going around the egg trying to find the silky skin so you can get the shell off easily, in big pieces. If you get a shitty egg, you end up losing most of the white, which, albeit may not the best part – but I don’t want to be short changed.  I want the egg to toast ratio to be equal. 

On a similar note, and equally as strange, are oranges.  I generally like oranges, but it drives me mad when I spend a lot of time peeling one, only to find it tastes like total dirt.  It’s not the taste that annoys me; it’s the effort I made getting there.

I know that most people find rude people irritating.  I also know that people are entitled to be rude, as everyone has bad days where even the sight of another person makes you want to scratch their eyes out.  I understand.  However, if you are employed in a job where most of your day is spent dealing with the public, you should not be rude.  It’s OK to be angry, but it’s not OK to be cruel.  I went to an orthodontist a few years ago, she had a receptionist who was the meanest person I’ve ever met.  My Mum and I would walk into the reception and she wouldn’t even look up to greet us.  That’s basic human behaviour. So we stand there for a good five minutes she asked us if we had an appointment.  Of course I have an appointment; you booked it for me last week. I’d been coming there for a year or more and she was still pretending not to know my name.  She was rude to everyone, like they were doing her a great disservice for needing braces. Everyone who spoke to her had that WhatTheHellDidIDo face. How did she even get that job? What happened in your life that makes you hate people that much? To this day, I regret not standing up for myself.  She’s still driving me mildly insane.

Next, I know I talk a lot about how much I love my dog, because I really really do.  However, he can really annoy me. Is this what it’s like to have children?  Like, you love them but have flashes of rage where you actually have to stop yourself from strangling them?  I would never ever hurt Barney, but when he chases his tail or eats my make-up brushes, or barks insistently at absolutely nothing, I can physically feel anger rising inside me.  I’ve found myself screaming at him things like “JUST STOP BEING BOLD!” or “WHY BARNEY WHY?!”. I had a friend over last week (oooh friend) and he thought the chasing the tail was funny for about 30 seconds then said “Yeah I can see this getting annoying”

The last thing that has driven me mildly insane this week has been the general reaction to Stephen Fry’s ‘Bag Lady’ comment at the BAFTAs.  I read comments about him being sexist, ignorant, judgemental, disgusting, rude… The list goes on.  Stephen Fry has had to deal with a lot in the past.  His comments were about a personal friend who, let’s face it, was dressed like the pigeon lady in Home Alone – should not be something he has to answer to.  

There are real villains in this world like dirt oranges, cruel people, untrained dogs and shitty eggs. Stephen Fry is a hero.

Friends Required: Apply Within

 

I have always been terrible at making friends.  When I first started school, I hated the other children so much that I insisted I stayed with Mrs Fegan, the cleaner.  She tactically convinced me into painting something one day, and when I turned my back she had sneaked away to get on with her duties.  I cried for the rest of the day.  I was shit at being a child.

Remember the Wendy house in the corner of the classroom that every school had?  I was extremely intimidated by other girls and the friendships they had so easily formed, so I didn’t step foot in the Wendy house till my Mum was late one day and all the other pupils had left.  My brother Harry played with me while my Mum and Mrs O’Connor talked. He stole a plastic onion and we laughed all the way home.

I did have friends eventually, but not until I was around 10.  These are happy memories, but I distinctly remember spending all or most of my time trying to impress them.  I was (and admittedly still am) extremely needy and over-protective, so if someone even indicated they were trying to steal my best friend, they were going down.  I’m not proud to say I was a bit of a bully in my final year of primary school.

The tables really turned in secondary school.  I learned the hard way that being a teenage girl is just the worst.  I had formed group of new ‘best friends’ who dumped me out of the blue one day because they just didn’t want me around anymore. Poof.  I was sitting there one day, offering up my gummy strawberries, and the next thing I know I’m at the back of the classroom alone and crying again.  It didn’t end there though, because they insisted on harassing me on MSN messenger and via text.  One girl in particular was relentless.  I’m not going to name names but lets’ call her Cunty McCunterson.  If anyone treated my sisters the way that she treated me, there is no doubt I would have the police involved. Can you tell I’m still bitter?  Yeah, I’m still bitter.

Fast forward a few years, to when I really was happy.  Truly happy.  I had friends that I loved and I thought I was set for life.  I still had issues with trust, but I finally felt like I could be myself. They meant more to me than my family.  In the end, I relied on them so much I took advantage of them and eventually they left me too. I blamed them for abandoning me, telling myself that if they had of loved me, they would have stayed.  I realise now that they actually gave me loads of chances to be a better friend, and I fucked each one up entirely.  I was never a bad person, I just made some really bad choices.

I told myself for a long time that I was better off alone.  I shut off from everyone and was drifting through life with the mantra that I didn’t care about anyone, and I eventually stopped caring about myself too.  Some people scraped the surface and made me feel like my old self (shout out to my sister, KD, KOH and JC) but in the end I knew I would let them down too.  So I shut them out as well.

*Cue violins* When I met Gareth, a part of me changed.  I wanted to do things differently. So I did. From the very beginning he meant something more to me, so I told him everything; what I had done and who I had let down, why I hated myself as a person and why I felt everyone hated me.  I told him I wanted to change and he believed me. For the first time in a long time he reminded me what it was like not to be so alone.

Being a newly reformed 24 year old is not ideal for making friends.  It’s not like school where you’re socially forced to talk to people.  The thought of voluntarily entering a communal situation like a yoga class or asking someone out on a girl-date is more horrifying than that first day of Primary School.  Truth is, I have no idea how to make friends any more. I wish it was as easy as messaging someone and saying “Hey you seem cool, wanna hang out?” But I’m nervous around girls.  I laugh at my own jokes and create awkward silences. I pretend to be cool and pretty when really; I haven’t showered in a week.  I run away from conversation but get jealous if you have other friends.  

 

The changes I’ve been trying to make this year have influenced this blog.  I need positive people around me.  Everyone is worthy of friends, and I need to stop being so scared of having them.

Mega Meatballs.

Despite being a vegetarian for the past six years, I’ve never been squeamish when it comes to preparing meat. None of my family are vegetarians, for me it’s just a lifestyle I chose and stuck to. I’ll never be one to preach, but would recommend trying to be a vegetarian for at least one day a week. You might surprise yourself.

This recipie however, does contain chorizo and minced beef, so maybe try to go meat free tomorrow…
I made this a few weeks ago for Boyfriends dinner. Taste wise he would totally recommend it; 

“These are the best meatballs I’ve ever had!”

– Gareth McGivern, November 2015

So for the sauce;

1 large diced onion

2 cloves of garlic

Chorizo (as much as you like, it melts down anyway and provides flavour)

1 red pepper

2 tins of chopped tomatoes

Some fresh or dried basil

Lots of black pepper

A large pinch of salt and equal that of sugar

Method;

Start by frying your onions, red pepper and garlic in some olive oil over a medium heat. Your pan should be a decent size and have a lid- it’s going into the oven later.

Once your vegetables are soft, add in your chorizo and sauté that for a while until the oil turns a sexy red colour. Add in your tomatoes and bring up to a gentle simmer, stirring often. Turn the heat down if you think it’s simmering a bit too vigorously.

Add in the rest of your ingredients and turn down to a low heat. Put the lid on, wash your hands, and get ready to make meatballs.

For the meatballs;

1lb of beef mince (or any mean I suppose)

Small amount of chopped chorizo

1 clove of garlic

2 slices of wheaten bread, smashed into breadcrumbs

2 eggs

Rosemary

Celery salt (or regular salt)

Big pinch of black pepper

Method;

Chuck all this in a bowl and mix. It’s easiest if you use your hands, though some people may prefare to use gloves (the disposable ones- not the yellow rubber ones under the sink).

Once throughly mixed, cover with cling film or tin foil or whatever and put in the fridge for at least 30 mins. This sets the mixture and ensures the ball doesn’t fall apart. Keep an eye on your sauce but it should be fine. Low and slow is the way.

Put your oven on to about 150 Celsius.

Shape your meatballs using your hands. Make them any size you want, but I made mine rather large because I thought it would be funny to serve boyfriend two big balls for dinner.

Fry your balls off in a pan. This isn’t really to cook them, but it gives them a nice colour and seals them further. Once they’re all brown, carefully put them into your bit pot o’ sauce.

Put your big pot into the oven and turn it down to about 100 celcius.

Leave it in the oven for around 3 hours. The longer it sits, the tastier it is.

Serve with pasta of your choice, in a baguette or if you’re really hungry, just eat them out of the pot
Let me know if your tried them, and how it went if you did!

Owning a Dog: Pros and Cons

When I asked my parents should I get a dog for Christmas, their response went something like; “No Molly, dear God, no.”  This isn’t because they didn’t like dogs, (in fact, my Grandad bred them when my mum was growing up) they responded like this because if there’s anyone that knows my flaws, it’s my parents.  Me?  Be responsible for something’s life?  Oh the horror.

They said I wouldn’t be able to look after it, it’d be too hard to train, and it would be unfair on the dog.  I agreed with them at the time, but continued to research breeds anyway because I’ve never listened to a word my parents say.

I bought Barney off a man in the car park of a hotel on Boxing Day.  This, I do not recommend.  Despite being the sweetest thing I’d ever seen, Barney was not a healthy puppy.  My heart broke slightly when I had to choose between him and his brother, and to this day I regret not taking both of them.  Within five minutes of having Barney in the car, he took a poo, and I knew then that I loved him, because I wasn’t even mad.

Barney was a Christmas gift for Boyfriend, who always loved dogs.  He had no idea what I’d done and I was nervous when I heard him coming home the day after Christmas.  I put Barney in a box and put a sheet of festive wrapping paper over him.  True to form, when Boyfriend came into the living room, Barney had jumped out of the box and peed on the rug.

The first, and probably the strongest Pro to owning a dog is that they are ALWAYS happy to see you.  When you’ve had the most terrible day at work, nothing is better than being greeted by your dog when you first come through the door.  It’s as if you’ve died and have been raised again. I’m convinced he thinks the last time he sees you go out the door was the last time he’ll see you ever. If your very presence can make a dogs tail wag at lightning speed, you’re doing something right.

Con.  Dogs don’t really like dog food.  Every morning when I come home from work I go to the kitchen to make breakfast.  Every morning Barney stands beside me waiting, hoping against all hope that I drop some food on the floor.  If either Boyfriend or I are eating in the living room, Barney becomes entranced, with one eye on your plate and the other hypnotised by the chewing motion of your jaw.  It’s as though he hasn’t eaten in days, despite having a full bowl of his own food in the kitchen.  Last Christmas, I made a ham.  Once the ham was finished, we had no where to put the stock and the vegetables left in the pot, so we poured it outside.  Obviously this attracted the dog, so we put up a fence.  To this day, Barney still tries to get over the fence to eat what’s left of last year’s Christmas ham.

Pro. Dogs are great conversation starters and ice-breakers.  People are just friendlier when you have a dog.  Dogs are funny, they do funny things.  When I take Barney to the park, everyone wants to chat because he’s there.  Once, after we first got Barney, Boyfriend and I were having a fight, and it was getting pretty serious. Barney trots in and squats to take a poo, proceeding to do this weird squat-walk across the living room.  What had happened was; he had eaten some string. He’d pooed most of it out but the rest was yet to be liberated, so he was just walking around with a dangling bit of poo on the end of a string coming out of his rear.  Boyfriend and I were hysterical, the row forgotten.

Con.  Cleaning up after your dog.  I’m not just talking about string-poo, but pee, vomit, rocks he brings into the house, half eaten toilet roll holders, half eaten books, half eaten Xbox controllers, half eaten clothes (including dressing gowns, shoes, socks, pans and bras) not to mention the amount of hair he sheds.  We have a black rug, and with a white fluffy dog…  Well we need a new rug now.

Pro. Dogs enjoy the simple things.  Barney needs food, walks, water and love.  That’s it. How I wish I could be made so happy so easily.

I had more cons drafted to write about but now that I come to it, they’re not cons at all.  Of course there are little things that annoy me but there is nothing I would change about Barney.  He might be bold and extremely irritating sometimes, but that’s all part of his little personality.  I never thought I’d say this, but I am now a ‘dog person’ thanks to my little scruffy ball of joy.  If you’re considering getting a dog for Christmas, please make sure you can look after it properly. Do your research, prepare your house, but most of all, make sure you can love it as much as we love Barney.

Fear.

“We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict.” – Jim Morrison

I regard myself as an emotional person, but today, I have found it difficult to go about addressing what I’d like to write.  I recently told Boyfriend that I wanted to start a 90 day challenge, the purpose of which to go about my day with a contrary outlook – To be more organised, more positive, to exercise, be mindful of myself in order to make choices that benefit me and those around me.  I realized long ago that this is the way I should be living my life, I hoped if I could practice this successfully for 90 days, I would be encouraged to extend the challenge and push myself to do greater things.

I failed on the second day.  I read that in order to make changes you had to start small.  I set myself two goals for Day One; 30 mins of exercise and to clean our bedroom.  Check and check!  I walked Barney then did a huge overhaul of my things – Clothes, shoes, bags, old bed covers – Anything that I held in my hands and wasn’t absolutely positive I wanted to keep.  I’m an excessively sentimental person and keep hold of pretty much everything.  However, this time I was brutal.  Dress I wore once that my mum gave me after a fight? Charity bag.  T-Shirts from Primark I kept just to wear to bed? – Charity bag. Scraggly old skirt I bought in a sale three summers ago and never wore? Charity bag. All in all, two bin sacks of clothes, four pairs of shoes and a few handbags. I hoovered under the bed and found places for everything; anything that didn’t have a place, didn’t have a purpose.

I was really proud of myself.  Boyfriend was proud too.  I felt great. Motivated.  The air felt cleaner.  These tasks were simple and productive, I genuinely felt like the 90 days was going to be a breeze.

The second day was a Saturday.  We had had a few drinks the night before and, well honestly I was hungover.  Ever tried to be motivated with a hangover?  It’s not ideal.  I spent most of the day in bed, either asleep or watching Pretty Little Liars on my iPad.  This I didn’t really regret – I love bed – But when Boyfriend left to go to a leaving party, I started to feel down.  I reflected on my day and it felt wasted. The more I thought about it the worse I felt.  I couldn’t even go two days in a row being a better person.  Barney hadn’t been walked, so I  just about forced myself to get up, put on jogging bottoms (didn’t change my bed t-shirt) and take him outside. He dragged me down the street and I dragged him home, after being out for about 15 minutes.  I felt worse when I came back.  I should have went with Boyfriend. I should have got up earlier.  Should have got dressed.  Made a meal instead of snacking all day. Should have taken Barney out till he was so tired he was the one looking forward to going home. Should have done the washing.  Should have tidied the kitchen.  Should have hung up the laundry. Should stop feeling so sorry for myself.

Depression is a bad thing, but you can’t argue it’s not a great word.  It sounds like something sinking, or being overwhelmed and suffocated.  That’s how it feels too.

The reason I failed on the second day is because I let this feeling get the better of me.  I indulged in it. It’s a lot easier to give up than to try, especially when you’re on your own.  If depression was a person he would say “You don’t deserve me.”  How dare I call myself depressed when there’s so many people who have it worse off than me? What right do I have to be unhappy? How can I, who has everything I need and want, possibly feel so low I can’t even take my dog for a walk?

Then the guilt sets in, and guilt is depressions most loyal friend.

The truth is I’ve been struggling with this cycle for a number of years.  The guilt, the depression.  It scares me.  Terrifies me.  It can come at anytime, and it effects everyone around me.  There’s no rock bottom, but a number of them more embarrassing than the last.  I pushed away the people who meant the most to me, because it was easier to give up than to try and explain.  How do you tell someone you haven’t kept in contact because you’re sad?  How do you explain that you’re angry at them, even though they’ve done nothing wrong? How can the actions I’ve taken and the pain I’ve caused be down to a chemical imbalance in my brain?

I’ve read a lot on the subject of depression and mental health disorders.  I’m no expert, but I know that 1 in 4 people will suffer a mental health problem. I’ve noticed a rise in media sources encouraging others to shake off the stigma of depression and get help.  Tell someone, do something.  Shake off the fear and take the first step.

Yes, you will ALWAYS get the person who tells you to “Just cheer up”, or the doctor who looks at you with a blank face and says “Well do you have any hobbies to keep you busy?”  No you ass-clown, I don’t enjoy them anymore, I’m fucking depressed.

I’ve had this conversation with a doctor (didn’t call her an ass-clown) and it was difficult.  I don’t think she understood, but it’s not really her job to.  I’m sure in that moment she would have rather looked at an ingrown toenail than my tear-stained, pleading face.  But she knew who could help, and referred me on to another team.  This is the 5th time I’ve been referred to a counselling service.

The reason I’m being so honest is because this time, I feel it might work.  The little rays of sunshine in my life get stronger every day, and I’ve realized that all pain is temporary.  I picture those who still have hope for me, because if I dwell too much on the people I have let down, there’s no escaping depression.  I fear the feeling of failure, but even if I don’t manage to do 90 ‘good’ days in a row, why shouldn’t it be an accomplishment to do one day? One day will bleed into the next, and the next.  If I slip up I start again.  I could look back on a month and see I had 15 good days out of 30. That’s half my time spent being the person I want to be.  That’s reason in itself to try harder in the new month.

The Problem with Unidentified Sadness.

Why is it that there’s times in life when you can’t be happy?  I’m not talking about those who suffer from a mental health issues like manic depression or bipolar disorder.  I’m talking about the inexplicable times where you sit back and admit to yourself that you’re just sad.

I have read and laughed at a number of articles online that have highlighted the differences between men and women.  One of my personal favourites is the picture of a man and woman in bed, obviously a couple, lying with their backs to each other.  They’re both awake and look deep in thought.  The woman is thinking something along the lines of; 

“Why doesn’t he love me anymore?  Why hasn’t he spoken to me in days?  Did I do something?  Should I change for him? Is it because I put on 2lbs?”

At the same time he’s staring into the distance thinking, “Why wouldn’t the car start last Thursday?”

I am not saying that men are emotionally vacant, which this article implied.  I am questioning why I am emotionally plagued.  This might be an entry I do not want my boyfriend to read after what I’m about to admit, but sometimes, I am downright insane.  

My boyfriend is my best friend, and we get along pretty much all of the time. I do feel sorry for him however, when I get the dreaded ‘unidentified sad’. There’s been a time where he’s come home from work and went into the kitchen instead of coming in and saying hello to me first.  This has upset me.  

He’s good at telling if I’m distressed because he asks, “Why you wee sourpuss face?” Which makes me laugh, then become more annoyed because he’s not taking my feelings seriously.  I become increasingly pugnacious with every word he says.  I’m a wee sourpuss face because I feel like being a wee sourpuss face.  Why won’t he leave me alone?  But he better not DARE leave me alone, not without fixing my non-existent problem of ‘unidentified sad’. He better sit there under my baleful stare.  But he better not look me in the eye. Or use a certain tone of voice.  Or sit less than six inches away from me. Or hug me for more than 10 seconds. Or stand up.  Or sit down.  Or breathe.

Let’s face it, when I have ‘unidentified sad’, that poor man is fucked.

When I was younger and my parents used to fight, they would bitch behind each other’s back to my siblings and me.  My mum would complain my dad never listened or took hints, and my dad would complain my mum should see a brain doctor.  I told myself when I was in a serious relationship I would just TELL my partner what was wrong rather than have them guess.  I was good at this at the start, but there came to be a point in our relationship where I just felt he should know.  He should know things, like I know that he’s looking for his keys.  He should know I’m mad that he didn’t text me first, like I know he’s mad because he’s hungry.  He should know what to get me in the shop even when I don’t know what I want.

My literary effusions are in jest, but in the past I have been in a very dark place.  I worry when ‘unidentified sad’ lingers with me throughout the day like a gloomy dark cloud.  I have found the best way to extinguish this feeling is by embracing it.  I let it get to its worst, and then I let it go.  Sometimes I need to be sad.  It’s wrong for me to labour myself with the delusion that everything is consistently rosy, because periodically (and realistically), it isn’t.

There are things that keep ‘unidentified sad’ away – spending quality time with my boyfriend (phones away and wine poured), my dog when he’s being a good boy, talking to my dad on the phone (mum too when she’s in a good mood), seeing my brother and sisters, food, knitting, exercise, painting my nails or doing my make-up, writing, breakfast in bed (despite crumbs), reading, watching cooking programs, or just sitting thinking.  

What helps me most is realizing that I am not alone.  I had a comment about my last post from a girl I haven’t spoken to in years, who told me she agreed with everything I had written and really enjoyed my blog so far.  I’m always solicitous to cultivate opinions so I was touched, her small act of appreciation brought a golf-ball shaped lump of emotion into my throat.  Just to know someone can identify with me as a person, makes fighting my own ‘unidentified sad’ seem perfectly perfunctory.