Breaking the Silence

This is going to be rambled, it’s going to be disjointed but it’s something I really do need to say and share:

One of the most deadly symptoms of eating disorders – silence. There exists an image of this poignant message emblazoned across a 5ft photograph of my face. It serves as a powerful awareness message as part of the work of S.E.E.D (Support and Education for Eating Disorders), a Lancashire eating disorder charity that I used to volunteer for until late September 2015.  

After attending S.E.E.D’s annual fashion show fundraiser in October where this poster was everywhere (or so it felt to me), wracked with guilt I began to feel that perhaps I had to break my own silence. Take my own advice. I felt torturous because I know this poster is ironic, because at the time that photograph was taken I was silently gripped in my own battle with anorexia and I still am. It has still taken me a further three months to write  this down and feel able to share.

I first felt encouraged to first start to write this all down after reading of a book, ‘Decoding Anorexia’ by Carrie Arnold. Reading this book has helped me re-evaluate how I consider myself in relation to my eating disorder and provided me with further insight. It has also given me some of the knowledge and most of all the courage to open my mouth again.  

After having ‘recovered’ from my first serious episode of anorexia at 18, I spent the following nine years of my life researching and personally studying eating disorders (whilst simultaneously relapsing and ‘recovering’). I have read many an academic thesis, psychology journals and countless books. I have learned the theory of psychological interventions inside out, supported many sufferers in groups and individually, I’ve written thorough essays, delivered presentations and answered interviews about eating disorders. I had cared for my partner watching helplessly as this horrific illness claimed every aspect of her and then fought tirelessly to nurse her back to health. I have worked among and learned from the experts and attended many a specialist training day. I have campaigned for awareness, fundraised for support services, participated in psychology research studies, given DNA samples. Most poignantly I have spent more than half of my life in some form of therapy, trying to explore and understand my own relationship with myself and my eating disorder. When it came to understanding anorexia, I had covered pretty much covered all bases. Or so I thought.

Earlier this year I relapsed and I have been feeling entirely powerless to the grasp that anorexia has on me. I had drummed up just about all the sheer determination I could muster to push me to use all ‘intellectual’ resources. The techniques and theory I know about treatment and recovery were considered, ready to arm me for the onslaught. This however served only to mildly slow down the speed of the cavalry but not the ferocity of what it is like to experience your mind being taken over by anorexia. I have begun to feel quite hopeless, continuing to push myself through private therapy desperately trying to be proactive in my recovery, but increasingly experiencing that I am becoming more and more disconnected from feeling anything other than anxiety. I have been finding it practically impossible to meditate because my mind is forever in hyper drive.  I had begun to panic that nothing could help me.  Eventually I settled into what is my current state - apathy – because thinking about it anymore causes me to see white noise.

This time around it has been the hardest and most difficult to admit and be open about the fact that I am suffering with anorexia (again). Despite all my hours of campaigning, raising awareness and telling my own clients that there is no shame in having a mental illness, I still firmly believed that I am to blame for my anorexia. This has kept me silent.

I have come to understand that I experience such levels of shame and humiliation regarding my illness because of the way we view anorexia (in general) as being a problem of sociocultural construct. We blame the media, we blame fashion, photoshop, malfunctioning relationships, faulty parenting, trauma, difficult life transitions, patriarchy, a culture fixated with thinness, peer pressure, Barbie dolls … we blame many things. But it was only on reading Decoding Anorexia that I realised that even I had failed to consider that becoming anorexic may be rooted in human biology. The roots of mental illness lie in our very genetic make up and physiological and psychological predisposition. For some reason these facts are hardly ever taken into consideration when it comes to eating disorders. Perhaps my lack of consideration for this fact is more indicative of my anorexic mindset than a preference for popular psychology.

I have been feeling that I am weak. That I have anorexia because I have simply internalised these sociocultural ideals – certainly this is many other peoples perspectives, layman and professional. I have chastised myself for not being either a) "conscious" enough to connect to a higher purpose or b) enough of a feminist to intellectualise my way out of caring about these ideals. I have felt for years that perhaps I haven’t committed myself enough to engaging with my therapy (despite dedicating many hours or paying vast amounts of money for it) and that was the reason I haven’t got better. I have on the whole felt like a huge failure for not being able to overcome this, for not ‘choosing’ recovery. Because of many attitudes and misunderstandings about eating disorders, it has been very difficult for me to view myself as actually having an illness and not just that I’m being selfish, lacking in emotional intelligence, weak, vain, shallow, stubborn or stupid (usually all of the above).

‘Decoding Anorexia’, explored how biology plays a huge factor in the onset of the illness. Reading this book I have come to understand that actually there exists a very real, biological reason that I have this illness and that it persists so ferociously. Through understanding this I can finally be able to conclude that actually this may not be my fault or even within my control! This is immeasurably liberating because I feel able to accept that I’m unwell and explore what I may need to now do to recover without the guilt of ‘it’s my fault’ feeding the problem (not feeding me). A fresh perspective once again – momentarily I felt hope.

Then came the hard part; realisation. I know obviously that recovering largely involves eating (no shit) but if it were that simple for me to do I’d not have anorexia. I keep waiting for the light bulb moment – and I don’t think it’s coming. Recently both my wedding ring and engagement ring fell off my finger. At first I felt nothing and then it was excitement and adrenalin that hit me before the sick to stomach guilt set in. Such is the nature of this illness, the only thing that you can feel fleeting joy about is getting thinner. Other than that it seems I can only identify two feelings – anxiety and guilt and sometimes I don’t even know which is which. I had absolved in late October that I may as well take a break from talking therapy, because actually I’m incapable of engaging now my anorexia has progressed to this point. I find myself doing things that can only be described as ‘crazy’, it’s almost like I am not myself when I’m doing it – I feel like I’m watching myself, removed and powerless.

I understand now that it is anxiety that is the true driver here and my eating disorder is the nasty byproduct I developed to try and cope with this anxiety and then it took over. I feel so overwhelmed by everyday life because my brain is on hyper alert all the time. Painfully over processing everything, holding on to things that I needn’t, mercilessly self critical about every single thing, eventually it all becomes too much and I shut down, neurologically. I shrink my world and my body so that suddenly all I have to think about food and weight. This only increases in intensity when undernourished because of the confusion that comes with not eating – hence why it becomes progressively more and more aggressive. It literally becomes unbearable to eat. I cannot think my way out of it, it’s entrenched.

This doesn’t mean I’m resigning myself to being ill, when you’re unwell you need medicine to help you to get better. The medicine you need for anorexia is food. The simple and unavoidable solution is to eat. Which obviously we all know but I understand now why I can’t do this myself because of the way my brain isn’t processing correctly – it’s not a choice. I know it’s unavoidable and the only way to get better is to eat and eat a lot. Keep eating until my body is at a healthy weight and only then do I stand a strong chance of better cognitive functioning and I can begin to do some proper therapeutic work to tackle the anxiety.

Physically I am in pain most if not all of the time. My teeth are ruined from years of being this way but now because I am so low on reserves they cause me agonizing pain and I’m too ashamed to go to a dentist. I am covered in bruises, mostly from work but also because it takes so long for me to heal. My neck and shoulders hurt from holding myself so tense all the time. My hips and knees permanently ache rising to acute pain on days when I can't seem to override the urge to walk (in the cold) for an hour (at least). My finger nails are crumbling, my hair is now so thin that I can see my scalp when I brush it – I’m in a mess physically. Mentally I’m just exhausted from having to battle through every waking minute of my own head literally sabotaging me from the inside out.

Despite this I have to push myself to be functional, keep plastering a smile on because otherwise I’d just stop completely. Holding down my job is the only thing that makes me feel like I’m actually doing something worthwhile. It’s a huge reassurance that I can at least still pay for myself and I have at least some form of socially acceptable answer when someone asks me what I’ve been up to. I haven't been open with my colleagues at work, nobody actually knows the truth of the situation (until now I guess) because I’m frightened of being misunderstood, frightened of not being able to explain myself, frightened of losing my job actually, even though I push myself incredibly hard not to let my illness interfere with how I work. I try my best to dismiss any comments about my size or just act as normally as possible when presented with offers of food (which are terrifyingly frequent in a supermarket). 

I’m wholly terrified generally. I know sooner or later I will have to eat properly and fully again, eat enough to actually regain weight and I’d much rather do that at home than in hospital. I’m at a point now where I really don’t have a lot of weight to play with before I will be carted off to an inpatient unit whether I like it or not.

Yet I still can’t pick up a fork frequently enough, I can’t stop compulsively walking, I can’t stop vomiting, calorie counting, restricting, body checking etc. I am terrified and my brain keeps telling me; I can’t stop yet because I’m not thin, it’s too soon to start eating again, I don’t need help yet, I can do this on my own. My brain is telling me lots of things. Anorexia doesn’t care that I actually used to like to eat, that I know what foods I used to enjoy. Anorexia only cares that I am thin. Except anorexia is not a conscious entity so it doesn’t know that I am ever thin.   

Naturally I am frightened and confused. I don’t actually know what to do. I think I probably need medication to help calm my anxiety down, just turn the volume down so that my brain has a fighting chance. I do not benefit from being told I just need to fight, try harder, surrender etc. I KNOW all of these things and believe me if I could do them then I would. This isn’t a case of me just being weak or ignorant, this is a case of me being unwell, I do not choose to be this way (I cannot stress this last point enough).  These misconceptions of what it is like to experience anorexia and the causes have left me feeling very isolated, alone and misunderstood –these do not make for healthy recovery circumstances or make it easy to be honest.

I WILL beat this – I have always had hope and I still do have. I know what I want for my life – I can see it all there in front of me but right now I’m stuck, really stuck … and so my first step in unsticking myself was to open my mouth and remove the shroud that I feel hidden behind every day. I can’t live a lie anymore – it’s exhausting. This illness is exhausting… and I just wanted the people in my life to understand that I am not being ignorant when I don’t reply to messages, when I decline social invitations, when I can’t seem to hold a conversation etc. This is why I had to leave my job at Breathe Therapies, this is why I am not continuing to pursue my therapeutic training at the moment and it feels an enormous relief to admit that.

I need acceptance and I need understanding but more than that I need patience and I need more help. So I’m breaking my silence yes to bring about understanding, but more than anything to ask for some assistance. I can’t do this on my own. I have a mental illness that is quite literally trying to kill me. I can’t begin to express how utterly terrifying it is not to be able to trust your own thoughts. I like to think of myself as a strong, intelligent woman and to not feel like I have the upper hand in my own mind is really paralyzing. So this is me admitting that I’ve relapsed and that I need people to know because silence and shame is only going to delay a proper recovery more so. It’s not personal that I haven’t told certain people – it’s been actually hard enough for me to admit it to myself and I just haven’t known how to begin talking … so I wrote this down and I’m sharing it now.

Angel with Fur - A Tribute.

On Tuesday evening I lost a little furry angel. Although she was "just a cat", in many ways I do feel I have lost one of my best friends.

Heidi came into our lives after having two previous homes, she was loved greatly in both, by my Mum before she returned to Canada and before that with a friend of my Mums who sadly had to pass her on because of allergies. I really feel that with Josie and I Heidi found her true home.

I have always loved cats, they've been an important part of my journey through life and I've always had deep respect for and pleasure from their company. When cats know they are going to die they usually take themselves off silently and do not return. They choose to die alone and therefore I am eternally grateful that I got to bury Heidi and say goodbye to her in my human way. I feel she sacrificed her feline dignity so we could have that comfort.

Heidi was a particularly special kitty though, she had a softness and gentleness with me that I'd never experienced in an animal before, she liked to lick mine and Josie's skin and would often nudge us apart so she could sit or sleep between us both.

She was also a keen adventurer and I think possibly part tree monkey! She did like to spend a lot of time up tall trees and especially on the roof! Living both with my Mum and us she'd often insist on coming into the house through an upstairs window and had an unfathomable aversion to cat flaps.

An aversion to cat flaps that is if she wasn't bringing us "presents". When we closed the cat flap so she couldn't do that any longer she then instead landed (through the window) on our table with the latest surprise in her mouth! Whilst I appreciated this was a gesture of fondness, it wasn't often best received atop our vegan breakfast! Cheeky little carnivore.

I will always be grateful to Heidi for keeping my Granny company too. If we were out and Heidi was inside, we'd often find her sat with my Granny, her ears poking up from behind the back of her chair. She knew who needed comfort and how to administer it. It's perhaps not co-incidence that Heidi passed away days before my Granny is due to go into a nursing home.

I neither believe it co-incidence that she died on her birthday but that didn't stop the shock. Heidi had just been inside minutes before I got news that she had been killed. Josie and I had just given her a special tea for her birthday and we'd all been rolling on the floor together with a balloon taking selfies of the three of us to remember her day. I'll be eternally grateful that our last moments together were captured. She must have gone out for one last play of the day before coming home to sleep at our feet as always. I know she went happy.




Yes, I am devastated that my little furry friend is no longer with us, but I am also incredibly grateful for what she gave to Josie and I. When I announced the news that she had passed away,  I got a message from a special friend who said that whilst we may never understand why she had to be taken so soon, Heidi had come to us to show Josie and I the power and potential we have as a unit to love and care for something, someone,  that relied on us completely. Heidi taught Josie and I about our capacity to be mothers, parents together. She took us from being a couple to being a family.

I know Heidi was thought of very fondly by everyone who met her, even the carers that come to help us with my Granny used to give her little treats and one even bought her a box of biscuits. Even those that didn't meet her and just know of her through Facebook fame had expressed their fondness for her. She was really loved and I think she knew it. She will be truly missed.

Josie and I buried her at the bottom of "her" garden under a big leafed bush that she used to sit under in the shade and watch us from. We wrapped her up in blanket and gave her her favourite ball. She was still warm and she did love being wrapped up like a baby in that blanket - so I just feel that we put her to bed to sleep forever. Her spirit will always be around and I'm happy that she'll remain in a home where she was so free, both domesticated and wild.

When Heidi died I cried for two days, the tears for the most part have stopped now but I have a dull ache where I know something is missing inside. I trust that time will be a healer, as it always is. Eventually I know another cat will come into my life, but not another Heidi, she could not be replaced. There is a quote by Leo Dworkin that reads, "No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat" and this is very true. I hold dear all of the kitties that have come and gone throughout my life, I lightheartedly remember them with fondness. But Heidi will hold a particularly special seat in my heart. I am grateful to her for all that she brought to our lives and taught to us as a result. Her essence will never truly be gone.

Heidi

"Angel with Fur"

1st July 2012 - 1st July 2014

Normal Girl

Signs that things are decending into shitsville:

• I have taken to drinking neat gin

• I am listening to Whitney Houston's Greatest Hits

• .. naked.

Yesterday I lost my job - actually no that is being dramatic, I didn't lose my job - I got made "temporarily redundant". They can't afford me (nobody ever could) but I can go back to my post when they have further investors. Which is great - a holiday with no fixed end date - except I'm not being paid and with no guarantee that I will have a job at the end of it.


I did what most self respecting people my age do when faced with financial crisis and considered applying for another degree. That way I wouldn't have to worry about anything else for the next 4 years whilst you lovely tax payers pay my way through self discovery - but I'd completely lose my last shred of dignity in the process. I left my degree in the first place to supposedly follow my "dream" of writing - and thus far it hasn't worked out. However, post 3rd gin shot after being "sacked" I realised that I am (almost) 24 years old and I haven't yet written my life story - how incredibly unpretentious of me! I clearly have an inferiority complex.

In the height of my self-pity I got to be thinking how the hell anyone actually survives without going completely insane. I would insert some profound psychological study statistic at this point or reference some socialist literature to emphasise how capitalism, commercialism, food modification etcetera is making us all globally sick but I’d be kidding myself into a false sense of intelligence.  I am no sociologist, and despite being a lesbian - I am neither an expert feminist, but it doesn't take a real genius to work out that there is something fundamentally wrong. I don’t need to be well read to understand these things, simply navigating myself through the twenty first century as a young woman is as much of an education about “life” that I will ever need. Thus the gin infused notion emerged that I must take all my worldly knowledge and immediately set pen to paper. You could write a "how not to life your life" book based on my mental health record and I am by no means anything out of the ordinary. Just your standard young woman that has absolutely no idea what she should be doing with her life and why it bothers her so much.

There are so many books out there now recounting troubled young womens recovery (or not) from a plethora of mental illnesses and I'm not about to write another one of those. No I see your issues and raise it by 16 others that I have been through - as have a shockingly high number of other people my age. Nobody would benefit from reading another of those. This is not to be a self help guide, an inspiration to others, an autobiography, a sociological rant - more a personal experiement I guess and if it takes some kind of vaguely interesting and tangible structure, I'll develop into a satirical novel about why "life" is actually just a big puppet show anyway. Whatever it will save me a lot of time in cathartic therapy.

Moratorium

Mint. Metal. Salt.
Mint, metal, mint, metal, mint, metal, salt. Mint, metal, salt. Mint, metal, salt.

Mint – metal - mint.
Mint – metal.
Mint – mint.
Mint – mint.
One, two.
One, two.

One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two and so on. Lick the salt. On the inside, in the outside, one, two. Super acute hypnotism, mint, metal. One before the other, mint, mint. Mint, mint. One after the other. Mint, metal, mint. Mint, mint. Mint, metal, salt.

Blind sight, mint, mint. Fixed focus. Mint, mint. Syncopated but obtuse, mint, mint, one, two. Dissonant, mint, mint, rhythmic, mint, mint, melodic, metal. Mint, mint.

Metal air, salt air, mint. Mint, mint. Fight. Mint, mint. Internal scream. Mint, mint. External roar. Mint, mint. Mint, mint. Mint, mint, metal.

And salt.

Mint, mint. Desperation, mint, mint. One two. Mint, mint.




Escape.

Hanging Up The Mask

I do not believe in mistakes. Nor do I believe in regrets.

I haven't exactly made it secret that I've been less than content with my degree. I have bitched and moaned about its lack of structure or evidence of any decent organisation from the staff and tutors alike. That said, I think I have to be truthful and own up that actually it's just wrong for me.

For many years I chased this big London College of Fashion dream because it apparently was a beautiful marriage between my twin loves of the written word and fashion. For years I'd decided this was what I was going to do and never really gave myself an opportunity to think there may have been another option. I had this pig headed belief that perusing this career line would make me happy. So determined was I that this was what I was going to do that I didn't actually stop to actually take stock of what my gut was telling me.

I am not cut out for the fashion industry. Yes, I still have a great passion for fashion as an art form, as human expression, as a reflection of politics, history and sociology, but I truly loathe what comes with it. I was somewhat aware, though partially living in selective ignorance, when I began the course but my trip to India really brought it home. I do not wish to dedicate my life to contributing to this sector.

Whilst I have made some great friends and met truly wonderful people through my short months on the degree, I could tell that I wasn't like most. Like them, I used to believe success and status was a measure of personal accomplishment, I used to believe that I had to prove something to my family, to myself, to the world. I used to believe that because I have an element of intelligence I HAD to pursue it through academic study and doing anything other than that was a waste of any gifts or talent that I may hold. Then I gave myself a bit of a mental slap for just parroting the beliefs of others - not what I truly felt.

So many people had well wishes before I left, little half (but not completely) jokes to remember them when I'm famous/successful/rich whilst some simply mentioned that they knew I'd "go far". What exactly does that mean? Surely being "successful" is accomplishing happiness?

It is difficult to break the spell after spending most of life being an overachiever; when your head and heart do exact opposite things, it stops being a gift and becomes a curse. I had (and to some extent still do have) a great fear that I will be judged and criticised for making this decision. I know there may be talk of how I have thrown away an opportunity, for people to raise eyebrows and tisk about this behind my back - but this is my choice.

"There's a narcissism to insecurity. When you realise that you're not the most important person in the world, being perfect doesn't matter - you're just one atom in the world." - Lauren Lavern.

Is there really anything wrong with just wanting to be the average Joe?

Should I complete my degree I can see myself several years down the line working constantly to keep on top form. Such is the industry that it is a relentless game of cat and mouse, you always have to be on the ball, always working, researching and fitting the part. I can't think of anything worse than my life being all about work, I do not want to take it home with my every night, lie in bed with it, eat, sleep, live, breathe my job. Some people are driven by their careers, they thrive on working - but I am just not one of those people. For me it is just one very small aspect of life. Nobody has ever been reported on their death bed to say, "I wish I'd spent more time at work". I've realised that same life is just too short to spend even a second doing something you do not want to do through choice, to spend even a second not doing all you can to be happy.

“Well what do you plan to do?”
“I plan to write”. – Susanna Kaysen


This is not to say that I plan to completely reject any form of creative pursuit. My Mum highlighted to me that, for now, I've "had enough of an education both in and out of the classroom". I am a writer - not a journalist. What I wish to do cannot be taught inside of an academic institution. One can either write or they can't. At this stage, development can only be a personal process, one of experiencing and living whilst having an opportunity to constantly evolve ideas. Being in university is effectively destroying my education.

I know that to build my life as a “writer” would be a luxury, like any artist we are blessed to be able to work doing something we love and as result it doesn’t come without sacrifice. I know I could not afford to keep a home through writing alone yet (here’s to hoping one day…). Depending on what Josie (my fiancée) decides to do I think I intend to return to my hometown (for financial reasons) and work a simple 9 to 5 (or stay in London and do the same), something that keeps me fed and housed but leaves enough brain capacity to really begin work on all the bits of works that I have dotted all over my brain, notebooks and life.

As I referred to earlier, as a writer life is about experiencing and I like the challenge of throwing caution to the wind for a while. Run a risk and see what comes along, save some money and see some places, begin to build a home with my beloved fiancée and make for a happy world around me.
"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim" - Nora Ephron.


The past is memory and the future is fiction.
Guess who's holding the pen...

One Hundred And Twenty Minutes

I am disgruntled because Ostrich has forgotten to turn on the radio. So I know immediately that I am going to have to make my entertainment fabricating little animations from the cracks in the walls. And there they are; Ostrich, the Badger and Voley positioned in crescent around me as we begin.

Ostrich, in her usual manner, has not even finished setting herself up before she begins to flap. Her phone rings and she spends six minutes squawking down it. By this stage in my career I’ve perfected the art of knowing exactly how long a minute is without looking, so I knew it was six minutes. While this charade is going on, the Badger gets up and down from his dishwater green seat once or twice, seemingly undecided as to whether to start or not. As if in a competition of extremes with Ostrich, his movements are laboriously slow and his chair gives a little protest creak when it’s finally landed on each time. Voley is not in my direct sight line, I can see him out of the corner of my right eye but have no real urge to strain to look at him. Such is the way of Voley, a little forgotten about in the corner.

Twenty three minutes pass and I realise that I’m too distracted to cut off from my surroundings. My right leg is crossed heavily over my left and straining down my nose I can see that it’s looking a little more purple than it ought to. I decide not to look at it anymore and go back to my cinematic wall cracks, but they’re much less interesting without the forgotten about radio music to set my films to. I get a bit brave and start to move my eyes around in their sockets, taking in a little bit more of what‘s around me. I feel a tear roll down my cheek, my eyes protesting at being broken from their glaze. I hold my breath whilst I relish the rebellious movement my body is making against my control.

Thirty five minutes. The Badger has his tongue out, it lolls lazily on his face as he squints down his glasses that are slightly askew on his large head. He makes dainty little movements which seem uncharacteristic set against the speed at which they are performed. From nowhere an image of the Badger trying to tap dance gatecrashes my thought path, I feel the need to giggle but disguise it with a dainty cough. Then I swallow.

Fourty three minutes and approximately twenty seconds in before there is great excitement. Ostrich has knocked one of her little tubs off her stool on to the floor. It is empty but I enjoy watching her bend and stretch to pick it up, I observe the muscles in her arm moving but then immediately wish I hadn’t because I want to do the same with my own. I hope that the break in her concentration will prompt her to turn on the radio. It doesn’t.

Fifty seven minutes. Ostrich works in a very staccato manner and she scratches her feet about the floor too. The rhythm is not syncopated but it isn’t unpleasant. I enjoy setting her beat to the Badgers melody of graceful gestures, I guess Voley would be the background, some kind of bass line, but I don’t know - I’ve practically forgotten he is there. I begin to enjoy my little orchestral trio in the absence of the radio but it is soon broken up by Ostrich’s phone ringing again.

Eighty seven minutes and there is little hope of Ostrich calming again. She begins to make conversation at the Badger and Voley and probably me too because I know she isn’t really concerned with a response. I begin to experience the conversation as a kind of “rhubarb rhubarb” background noise. This is favourable to noticing how static my mouth has been for so long and then to have to suppress the urge to move it in an exaggerated manner reminiscent of elocution lessons. My attention is brought sharply back because Voley speaks, I jump involuntarily because I had forgotten he was there.

Eighty nine minutes. I take time now to strain out of the corner of my right eye to view Voley as he and Ostrich begin to have a bit of a heated exchange. Or rather Ostrich takes an aggressive tone and Voley remains quiet and neutral. In my silent voyeurism I applaud Voley for not being apologetic and remaining steadfast in his side of the debate. Perhaps I was wrong to overlook Voley, he is not to be forgotten about, he is intelligent in positioning himself away from Ostrich so he can concentrate.

One hundred and eighteen minutes. Silence from Ostrich has become a long forgotten about desire, but I don’t mind so much because it’s become a kind of welcome second best to the radio. I have only two minutes remaining anyway and I intend to sing all the way home.

Her

As a writer, nothing quite soothes the ache or the chaos of notions and emotions in my head quite as much setting pen to paper and just letting my mind knit its pattern on the page. Except that is, when my mind finds itself wholly consumed with something I find impossible to write about – like now.
There have been too many occasions to count where I have set pen to paper as I am doing now and attempted to write about this; but it’s like trying to paint a picture of it when there are no colours on earth that beautiful enough.

I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone quite this much. I think of her and it’s so much more than just a fleeting thought– it’s an experience that takes over my whole body. It starts in my heart so gentle and warm but at the same time powerful enough to explode all over my skin; a warm shiver – a tingling of a million little kisses all over my body. Washed over with an emotion so overwhelming that my very soul wants to cry; cry with joy, with unending gratitude and humility that I have the most beautiful person in the whole wide world to call my own.

To me, she is not just a someone, she’s a feeling; a feeling that only those blessed enough to be completely intoxicated by the love for another person can empathise with. My drug of choice, my ecstasy, a pleasure so divine that it must be sinful. Yet she’s my angel and such purity cannot be defined in dark inks, language, at my disposal, has not the capacity for such divinity; which is why, once again, I’ll fail to write about her. I cannot do it, I lack the gifts to do her grace – but I’ll keep trying forever.