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.

My Melpomene

Melpomene

Concealing mask,
Viable task,
War paint, top coat,
A facial basque.
Powdered face,
Saving grace,
Elegance, perfection,
And knowing her place.
Survivalism,
Obscuring vision,
Contours, emotions,
All crafted with precision.
Painted on,
Realism gone,
Eloquent, beautified,
The show must go on…

In ancient Greek mythology Melpomene is depicted as the muse of tragedy, grief and sorrow, yet when broken down through etymology, “Melpomene” means “to sing” or “the one that is melodious”. Music is powerful tool, encompassing the power to change emotions and indeed lives.

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I met my Melpomene at a dark time in my own life, though she went on to teach me great things about real pain and survival.

Upon first impression Melpomene was a vivacious and bubbly soul, I met her in group therapy for persons with particularly dangerous self destructive behaviours. I had to admit that I questioned intently why she was there as she seemed so light and alive. It took less than an hour to understand that this was her tragic mask, painted on with immaculate precision and of diamond durability. I have still, to this day, never seen her take it off in person.

Most of us experience a time in our lives we’d rather not have gone through, there are unfortunately too many people that have suffered abused at the hands of others, but Melpomene was an exceptional case. At the time I met her she had recently broken free of over 20 years of living with constant torture. From a young age Melpomene was denied the most basic of human rights. She was brainwashed into believing that this was her own fault and as a result was too terrified of what might happen if she acted differently to what she was told, objected to her treatment or breathed a word to anyone.

Yet to speak to Melpomene you would have absolutely no idea. Not that it was a contest, but it was apparent that she had suffered far worse than any of us ever had in that group, yet it was her that brought the sunshine to the table, it was she that could always find a positive to each problem we presented. She unwaveringly offered her support to the others both inside scheduled therapy hours and on the end of a phone outside them.

Her strength is incredible but her pain frighteningly real. In the initial stages of knowing her, I put a lot of her durability down to denial. Then she began to reveal more of what had happened and her vulnerability began to show itself in other ways. She’d often have to leave the group to vomit or would be unable to attend at all, as anxiety would prevent her from leaving the house. These were clear indicators of just how much her history was affecting her, yet she’d never show it to anyone else and she was never unavailable to anyone else. She understood the pain of others in the group and she never dismissed our worries, though they were vastly diminished compared to hers. She would write me little notes in my therapy folder or send me silly text messages under the table when things got heavy or too tough. She made the whole experience so much less daunting for me despite her own turmoil.

Steadily I watched Melpomene battle through the treatment program, working through exercises that she was terrified of doing. Task that seemed simple enough to the rest of us such as listening to music or going for a calming walk alone in the beginning were nearly impossible for her. Though she refused to let this beat her. She battled on and gave absolutely everything a go, she climbed mountains in that year and I was in awe. There was no denying how difficult it was for her, we could tell when she’d not slept for three days, when her weight dropped due to sheer anxiety or when she couldn’t make it in due to poor health. Yet she never once gave up, ran away or felt sorry for herself and she never stopped smiling.

A severe agoraphobic she went from not being able to go out or be in her home without someone with her to being able to go out to a pub and social events and even begin to build a relationship with a partner.

Melpomene was a huge inspiration and I have never lost sight of that when I feel too afraid to do something. The comparison of her fight and the enlightenment of her sheer courage made me want to succeed. It was tragic to understand that she would perhaps never be able to do a lot of the things I would be able to when we got better. Her age and general physical health prevented that but I knew mine didn’t. Whilst I wanted my own well being I also wanted to fight with her and share my achievements. I want to do all the things in my life in her honour and share my success - doing it always with her in mind.

After we were discharged from the group we have remained good friends. Regrettably, we now see much less of each other, time, life and circumstance reduce the opportunity but there isn’t a single day that she isn’t in my mind and heart. From sharing a battle, we now share triumphs. I cried when she told me that she’d managed to let herself eat fast food for the first time in 25 years and had been to the cinema by herself. This was relative and an equal achievement to me gaining a place at university. She tells me frequently that she’s so proud of me and I’m her shining little star, but it was massively thanks to her that I was able to do these things at all. If it were not for my Melpomene and without her courage, wisdom and incomparable belief in a life worth living, I would not have been as driven or inspired to move my life forward in the way I did.

She lives as an example to us all, that nothing is impossible to accomplish if you work hard enough at it and never give up hope. She has achieved more in life than some of the most celebrated people in the world, but she does not want praise, nor does she seek approval or sympathy - just peace. More incredible is how she now uses that new found confidence to help others in need working with other service users and reaching wider by posting motivational videos on YouTube to those without access to treatment.

My Melpomene continues to be a powerful anchor of comparison without intention, without condescending or competition. She epitomised tragedy in many ways, yet brought to my life great beauty with all the melody and mellifluence of the most heart rendering of ballads.

That L Word

I've been meaning to get around to posting my blog on this topic for quite some time, then when my February copy of Elle UK landed through my letter box this morning I was both surprised and a bit miffed to find that it contained an article by Hanna Hanra on the very issue. The article is written in beautiful way, it captured everything I wanted to say and the issues which I too am facing in my own life alongside the opinions I have around the "controversy" of it all. Though Hanra's article is well poised, I felt she lacked a real experience in the area, merely flirted with the subject, so I'm going to write my piece anyway.

I fell in love with my best friend and I don't mean in a platonic way. My best friend just happens to also be a girl.

I feel incredibly blessed to live in the twenty first century, within a society that for the most part accepts and embraces diversity and homosexuality. I myself have never particularly liked to categorise myself as hetro, homo or bi sexual - in fact long before I had any kind of a relationship with a woman I had listed on my Facebook profile that I was indeed interested in "men and women". I'm interested in people, gender doesn't really come into the equation. Though the "natural" world dictates to me that I "should" be interested in men, for sake of reproduction, for evolution, for going with the mass majority? I have to admit I never actively looked for a female partner, but I guess in retrospect I never really actively looked for a male partner, just that the latter were in greater abundance when it came to interest.

Throughout my life I've liked to challenge limits, in a quiet, passively rebellious kind of way - that's been my journey of growing up, finding where I slot in society. Mostly this has come in harmless forms of expression such as the way I dress, getting piercings or tattoos, dyeing my hair obscure colours and deciding to follow an "artsy" career path despite feeling I should go down an academic root because that was what I was "good at". But there have been darker elements such as my battle which anorexia, my rejection of the female form, becoming a woman and a long period of various mental health issues- a large metaphoric red flag that I wasn't quite okay with who I was in the world. My decision to be in a homosexual relationship, however, isn't to make a statement, it isn't about giving a big fat "fuck you" to conformity, it isn't about fashion, it isn't about finding who I am, it isn't about anything actually except what I feel for my girlfriend, for Josie. I can't control that - much less help it.

My relationship with Josie seemingly went from being close friends to something more literally overnight. I met her in college and within a few days of being in the same class I had set it in my heart that I wanted to get to know this girl, I knew we were going to be friends, but never had I imagined what was to come. Our friendship blossomed quickly - she makes me laugh, we share interests and views on the world, though are very people different at the same time. She is the girl I can go out with and dance all night drinking too much wine but equally stay in sharing our music and talking right into the early hours. The one I can completely embarrass myself infront of and not care, the one person I can be completely honest with and not fear her reaction. We understood each other quickly and trusted in the other wholly. We share deep things from our lives and comfort the others pain, knowing by instinct just how much to talk, just how much to soothe. When I left therapy earlier last year and shut off for a while, Josie would sit with me and say nothing with me as I did with her on bad days- we just have this comfort with one another, an unspoken communication, a respect and a love. It's the most balanced relationship I've ever had in my life, very open and without pretence.

When Josie moved in with me last summer I was the happiest little soul, a permanent sleep over with my best friend! Her in the very next room to giggle or cry with whenever it was required. During the months following we both got short term boyfriends, neither of which worked out and we continued in our lives being each others best friend, it had never really crossed into my mind that our friendship would ever be anything more. That changed after a few too many drinks one night and we ended up in bed together with frequent statements of "why isn't this weird?!". I knew immediately this was different, it wasn't an alcohol fuelled lack of judgement, drunk or not I know neither of us would've jeopardised our friendship for the sake of a bit of a drunken fumble, it wasn't like just casual sex - it actually definitely wasn't about sex and it felt so much more loving. We woke up together and giggled a bit but neither of us freaked out - it did feel right, it felt special - anything but wrong. There had never been a hidden agenda on either part - just obviously something subconscious and it just happened like that - though both of us hedged the point of what was really happening for quite some time, both afraid about what might come of it.

I like to think of myself as particularly open minded, if any of my friends came out and told me they were in a gay relationship I wouldn't even bat an eyelid- it's just not a big deal - or at least it wasn't until it came down to being about me. I'd had flings with girls before Josie but never really thought anything of it - it was a bit of fun, nothing serious and nothing that needed mentioning or sharing with the world. Just a twenty something girl experimenting with her sexuality (yeah I did kiss a girl and yeah I did like it)- as many of us do - nothing particularly special or notable about that. Though when Josie and I made a decision to be together exclusively I felt a mixture of euphoria and outright dread. I have always been a people pleaser, that's an essential part of who I am and suddenly I felt like I was doing something wrong, something that was going to be disapproved of and it worried me greatly. In my life I have done things that people wouldn't approve of but this is different because there isn't just me involved - there is also Josie and I wasn't going to let anyone or anything hurt her. This felt so special to me, I didn't want it tainted and for quite a while we made a decision to keep it to ourselves. Though hiding it made it feel like it was something to be frowned upon and what I feel is that wonderful that I wanted the people in my life to be in on it too.

Hanna Hanra pointed out in her Elle article that society is indeed open to the idea of gay love - but for men. It's accepted and understood about gay men and they are often portrayed in the media as colourful, fun loving people - indeed every girl wants a gay best friend, but lesbians have a much less glamorous portrayal. As a lesbian you are either an aggressive extreme feminist, are butch and lacking in feminine qualities, femme and dowdy or possibly some kind of pedophile. I certainly don't fit into any "stereotype lesbian role" and neither does Josie. In fact I was more than a little offended when we came out to friends at party that after a few drinks someone asked who the butch one was - why does there have to be a dick (metaphorical or not) involved in a relationship? Is this a construction created by men I ask? For this is obviously a realm they cannot enter or is that me being an aggressive feminist? Why do lesbians have such a bad rep? And the even bigger question was why was I buying into it? I have lesbian friends who I don't regard any differently because of their sexuality and they certainly didn't change who or how they were before because of coming out yet I feared that people would think that I would. Both Josie and I have been blessed enough to have been brought up by liberal parents. When I told my mother she was fantastic, as I knew deep down she would've been - but it still had taken me a long time, I still felt sick telling her despite her saying what I'd known deep down she would - that she was happy so long as I was. Even so even she voiced that she thought it best I don't go around telling everyone (as if I was going showing up to family parties naked covered in rainbow body paint shouting about my lesbian lifestyle). She was concerned about what others would think and how they would judge me, "Don't tell your Grandma". I know this was out of protecting me and not wanting me to be subjected to any kind of cruelty - though I reassured her I am prepared for that and in all honesty not bothered by it - it was the opinions of those I loved that mattered to me. I still haven't been able to tell my Dad - and that's not because I fear he'll reject me (I know he won't) but because I don't want him to look at me differently - I am still the same Ruby - actually a much happier and well balanced Ruby.

Of course there have been questions in my mind about my future, I still don't class myself as homo/hetro/bi sexual because of my relationship with Josie but neither is that to say I do or don't see myself spending the rest of my life with her - no more so than I would if she was a man. Josie knows about my omnipresent desire to be a mother one day and I know she'd never get in the way of that - there are so many options today - in fact I even read an article about how children of lesbian couples statistically perform better academically and have a much greater level of mental well being - I'll toast to that! These are all bridges I'll (we'll) cross should we get to them but right now this is about she and I. Enjoying what we have and enjoying each other.

I do feel it's safe to say that what I feel for Josie is unlike what I've felt for anyone I've had a relationship with before - she my best friend first and foremost and my lover additionally. Her happiness is all I think of and all I want to achieve and if that's at the sacrifice of other's approval then so be it. If that stereotypes me then so be it. Nobody really knows how this is except us and if makes us feel so wonderful as it does then how can that really be wrong?

I'm going to end as Hanra did her article with a quote from "The Miseducation of Lauren Hill" as indeed it is very true, "You can love anybody, but when you're in love with somebody, you're taking that person for what he or she is, no matter what he or she look like or he or she do". Love can't be put into boxes and neither can we.

Pearl Necklaces of Wisdom

My Granny is a grand 90 years old tomorrow. To celebrate this fact my family had a gathering at her house yesterday and it pushed me to finally write a blog about her, a woman I hold incredibly dearly in my heart.

She is now losing her short term memory, she is, of course, aged, slowing down but there is not a single slice of her spark missing. She often tells me stories about her life, recalling with impeccable detail things that happened years ago and no matter how many times I might hear the same story it will always fill me with wonder, I could, can and do listen to her for hours on end. She has lived a life that not many could compare to.

My Grandmother was born in 1920 in New York, to first generation German migrants. She lived through the Great Depression and served in the American Navy during the Second World War. She did things that were just not done in her time and often giggles as she recalls her mother frequently saying, "Dorothy whatever will you do next?". She trained as a professional ice skater, toured all over the USA and Europe as "Lady Rebecca" in Holiday on Ice, which coined her the nickname "Becky" which she still is called today. Following the war she went with her GI Biller Rights and studied in Paris, lived in the South of France, married once, divorced. Shared an apartment in Paris with a man who worked for a fashion magazine, has had drawings of her as a model in fashion magazines, went to modelling school. Met my Grandpa, a Navy Officer, whilst visiting friends in England and whimsically tells the story of how it really was love at first sight. After marrying my Grandpa they lived out in India on a tea plantation with my uncle and aunt before returning to England shortly before my father was born... and these are to name but a few things. She still tells me she opens her curtains of her sleepy little village on the outskirts of Preston and says, "How on earth did I end up here?". We have all said to her for years that she should've written her life story, sadly I think it's a little bit late for her to be able to do that now but it's been crossing my mind more and more these days that maybe I should do it for her. Her stories are imprinted on my heart and I'd love to share with the world the wisdom of this incredible woman and her stories that would out shine any fictitious piece.

She always was until very recently impeccably dressed. We used to share cups of tea on a Sunday afternoon both flicking enthusiastically through the Sunday Times Style supplement. She has the largest collection of berets of anybody I've ever met, all with matching scarves. She delights in my dressing and I love hearing her recounting various garments over the years and showing me beautiful black and white photographs of her in her youth. "Quite the diva" as my Aunt commented on Saturday and then looked pointedly at me. This "passion for fashion" is inherited it seems. It was she who pushed me to keep modelling and delving into a fashion career. Over the years she has given me many of her garments and pieces of jewellery - all of which I wear frequently and often delighted in showing me off to her tea guests before recounting another of her stories from her youth. A far cry from a "typical" Grandmother figure and she frequently protests at my giggles at her crackers comments, "but you wouldn't want a boring Granny would you?" ... to which I always respond telling her I wouldn't swap her for the whole world (and I mean it even more each time I say it).

My Granny and I hold a special bond, I lived with her at a young age and again as for a year and a half at 19, though I know she loves each and everyone of us equally, the extra time we have spent together has given us something, there is an underlying understand of the other and a very deep affection. She has had a massive influence in my life and I think out of all of my relations she and I have a very unique relationship - we share a spirit, a gumption for life, an attitude to go out and grab absolutely everything. It is hugely attributable to her that I look at the world as a mirage of riches, a kingdom of magic, a plethora of possibilities. I feel deeply honoured when she tells me that I remind her of a young version of herself - we live an awful lot through each others eyes.

It was incredibly moving that upon my Dad making a toast to her yesterday that she sipped her champagne with her shaky hand, she took a deep breath and made a speech. Words which I've had her say pragmatically my whole life, "I'd say to anyone, that in life you have to just go out and do things. See and find opportunity then do it. I have lived my life and I have lived it well. I don't regret anything- you will doubtless make mistakes, make wrong choices but I think it's far better to do that than to never have experienced at all. I think there can't be anything worse than getting to being old and sitting back saying I wish I'd done that... It's far worse to regret the things you haven't done than those you have. Go out and seize every opportunity because life is for living".

I can take my Granny's words from this day but more importantly I carry her soul with me, her spirit lives in my genes and I would be very, very content in my life if I live to be just even half the woman she is.

Mon Corps - C'est Mon Histoire

I have been contemplating getting a new tattoo for sometime now, I flirted with a few ideas, things I like and came to a few various conclusions based on where I am at this particular point in my life. This, of course, is something that is going to be imprinted on my body for the rest of my life so it needs to not only be meaningful but also have significance.

I view my body like a map of my life, it tells my story, which continues to be written daily with the aging process.
I was born with two birth marks that I still have, an upside down crown shape mark at the top of my thigh and a small non-descript one on my right ankle. I have a marking from being a toddler, a small tablet sized white scar at the top of my thigh on my crotch line from where my Dad (so I am told) squeezed a spot there whilst changing my nappy. My knees show faint silvery scars and purple patches from grazes as a school child playing in the street, falling over my first bicycle handle bars. My first pet Rosie, a black and white dwarf rabbit, has left me with a little line scar on my left ring finger where she bit me (and wouldn't let go) whilst I was cleaning out her hutch at seven. If I stick my tongue out, I have a noticeably "flowery" edge to it from where I fell off a bar stool at nine and bit my tongue in my Dad's kitchen and reaching behind me for a drink. The roof of my mouth has a smooth patch from where I burnt it eating a cheese and potato pie from the bakery near my Granny's house at eleven.
My little sister's place in my life stamped by the small scratch dint she left on my face when she was a toddler. Freckles that increase as the years go by, my fair skin aging and being exposed to sun, remind me of family holiday's abroad and getting sunburned whilst playing in water. My growth and development are noted by stretch marks, hips, thighs, breasts 12, 15, 18, 22. The passage of becoming a woman. Skin on my face already aging, crease lines on my brow - years of laughing and frowning. The fashionista's feet are a patchwork of colours from rubbing shoes and mishapped from wearing teetering shoes with pointed toes. Holes from piercings and dints from those closed up.
Turmoil is marked too, my knuckles on my right hand remain scarred by callouses from years of bulimia, I have faint white scars from periods of self harm. A tiny egg shaped scar at the bottom of my back from when I first moved out of home and still plagued by self harming thoughts I kept my razors in my bed and lead on one by accident.
My body for the most part will tell it's own story, as it has already done but does not always tell the stories of the mind, it does not denote the opinions and emotions around the marks. My tattoos however are deliberate and meaningful in their own right. The card print down my spine, the club, heart, spade and diamond; a tribute to my survival of my anorexia. My view of life being a game and having to play the hand you're given and also in relation to the "Solitaire" poem I wrote about my experience. The little ruby on my left buttock - both comical due to it's positioning and important in it's meaning. The ruby was done with my oldest friend (Lucy) Quinn as she too got the same design in black (Lucy in the sky with Diamonds). The ruby to me represents reinvention, regenerations and rebuilding the self - renaming and re birthing. It's a salute to the more frivolous things in life, joie de vivre and the riches life has to give as well as being a representation of my nickname.

I know my body will naturally continue to write it's story on itself but I too wish to add further to the story of my mind, express my creativity and pay tribute to the trials and tribulations, joys and triumph of my spirit too. I'll keep thee posted on what I decide to have inked next...

Food For Thought

For those of you that know me well enough or frequently read my blog you will know that food has been somewhat of a taboo subject for large proportion of my life. I'd be lying if I said that it isn't still an issue at times, I have hiccups, though mercifully I have the strength, resources and enough experience to never again fall into the depths of anorexia that I once was.

This last week however I've found myself obsessed with food in a whole different way - cooking it! I have always had an interest in food but because it's been such a turbulent journey to being comfortable with what I put in my body I've never really pushed the interest too far. Just cooking for myself I could never really gather much enthusiasm for; all that effort for myself when usually I'd end up hating myself for eating it anyway didn't seem worth it. Food for me often came prepackaged - with clear calorific content safely printed on the box (and on my brain).

Feeling so wonderfully happy in my home, living with people that I not only enjoy the company of but care a great deal about brings out this nurturing and nesting instinct in me. Whilst these past few weeks I've lost quite a bit of weight I decided that something needed to be done and so not being able perhaps to cook just for myself I turned my hand to cooking and baking for the household. I had a conversation with my male housemate about how he sees food as a beautiful thing, not in a tongue in cheek kind of way, but how it is so incredible that you can put something in you that nourishes you, gives you life, vitality and joy and being given the gift of that is something really special. It warmed my heart greatly. I find it so rewarding knowing I can give that to somebody, it's so enriching to watch somebody enjoy something I have created and be nourished by it. In turn they're helping me, I feel the greatest gift of all is being able to give and I feel it so much easier eating my creations in sharing in them with the people around me. Meals become a loving experience not just a refuelling process.

Bitch Therapy

Recently I've found myself increasingly feeling the heat. I feeling incredibly happy that my styling work has reached another level, that I feel confident enough to stop working just for images and add a reasonable fee to my services. I find it so difficult to switch my fashion obsession off, so combining this with cramming my (already over full) schedule with even more shoots is having a lovely sky rocketing effect on my stress levels.

I was getting to a point mid last week, especially being ill, of feeling perpetually sick that this is how my life is going to feel for the next "x" amount of years, working in the industry that I have chosen. Can I really keep this up without ending up an anorexic gibbering mess of delirium? I am such a ridiculous perfectionist that doing what I do will demand all of me no matter how much I try and schedule and organise in some "me" time I'll still find myself working. It's not exactly helped by the fact that all my leisure activities actually relate to work. I cannot sit on Facebook without networking, blogging involves fashion usually, going on a night out leaves me scouting for outfit ideas and making connections with like minded people, I can't watch films without thinking of things within it that give me shoot inspiration or articles to write. Going to bed is requiring diazepam because I can't stop my brain even when I stop my body.

I figured that something had to give - and seeing as I am unwilling to give anything up (I want this TOO much) - I decided I had to find some way to vent some of this steam. I am not a bitch by nature, I am actually quite sickeningly happy with a unnaturally positive outlook on life (I think I have to doing what I do), but there is a little element of me that is incredibly cynical. I know my chosen industry is going to require me to grow a thick skin, I am realising this more and more as my career progresses and so I do need to build my resistance. At heart I'll never be one of these cut throat fashionistas but I feel I have a gift for giving off that image. Hence the birth of "Viva Yer Diva", a new blog to my Ruby Noise family. It's striking a happy medium between still "working" by writing and researching but it's so cathartic and therapeutic in a sense that I am literally ripping to shreds all the things in life that irk me and venting a little bit of that frustration I feel under my work load.

It may possibly create me some enemies but those who know me do know better. As we know I have great fun playing with my alter ego the "Diva" and here she is in blog form: http://www.vivayerdiva.tumblr.com . It's also good practise for my life long ambition to become the next Mrs Mills (of the Sunday Times Style supplement).

It paints me out to be an absolute cow of the highest degree but my God it's fun to write and if it brings a giggle to someone else's day then I feel my karma is balanced out. Kind of. I hope.

You Eat Apples Right?

So I get a message from my Mum yesterday asking me what an iPhone was - I gave her a brief explanation saying it was a phone made by Apple that basically was le shiz. She then informs me that she's just received one with her Roger's (she lives in Canada) home package that she and her husband recently had installed. Which is lovely, except this is my mother who still gets me to send her text messages for her when we're together because she can't figure out how to do it without spending an hour over it (usually with her glasses on and a wonderfully comic expression of concentration on her face).
So whilst I'm trekking home from work at quarter to nine at night I'm also Facebooking her from my Blackberry (to her computer - we haven't got that far on the iPhone yet) trying to explain to her a) What an iPhone is and b) the beginnings of how to figure it out.
Now I don't mean to sound like I am calling my mother a technophobe - she's actually incredibly skilled with computers - to the extent that I once watched her manage to completely rebuild her laptop in my youth from despite it having absolutely no screen. Said screen being smashed to smithers because she dropped it down the stairs, actually my mother's track record with technology isn't too hot luck wise despite her skills, I do seem to be housing another rather intoxicated laptop that she fed a glass of wine to in my bedroom too. However phones for some reason seem to be an alien entity to her - so you can imagine my amusement when she declares she has this iPhone.
Well, the evening progresses - we both get excited when she manages to send me an international text message from it, I tell her she can use it like an iPod and play her music from it, if she downloads iTunes and from what I can gather she read the manual from cover to cover. I get frequent updates of the new features she's found with a particular highlight being the proclamation (with several exclamation marks) that she could play The Sims 2 on it!!! I am happy for my mother and her iPhone, wishing her a long and happy experience with it's joys (not jealous, not one bit).
Time passes, I sleep (don't think she does) and I received a message this morning from her saying, "This isn't an iPhone really, I don't think - the paperwork says it's an iPhone but it's Samsung and iPhones are Apple?". *face palm* I asked her to turn it over and to let me know if there was a picture of a little silver Apple on the back to which I got the response, "No it doesn't - I think it's a piece of shit actually".

I give up.

LOVE you Mammy and your phonophobia.

Faith from Paloma

I was rather enlightened and inspired by an interview with Paloma Faith that I read in Stella supplement from the Sunday Telegraph yesterday.

I do frequently get told that I remind people of Paloma - it was purely co-incidence that our styles seemed to be similar and we're both red lipped, red haired ladies. I was doing the "Paloma style" before she emerged on the main scene but it was upon reading this article that I realised we had quite a bit more our appearance in common.

My personal life motto, "everyday is fancy dress dah-ling" so frequently rolls from lips, but is so said in a way that is tongue in cheek and ever so slightly self deprecating. It is true that every day is fancy dress to me but that isn't necessarily referring to my sense of style reflecting that more of costume than of day wear. I spent many years searching for who I am, as I am sure does almost every young woman. I went on a journey before arriving at this point that I felt quite comfortable to express myself freely, and my chosen expression being my image and fashions. This said however, does not mean that I am completely safe and comfortable with who I am. I inwardly smile when somebody comments on how they wish they could have my confidence to go out dressed like I do - not caring what people think because the truth is actually more like the complete opposite. True, I don't care what people think about what I'm wearing, but I do care about what they think about me as a person. Dressing in the manner I do, in this "fancy dress", allows me to create a role for myself to play, I can walk out of my house playing a whole host of alter egos and therefore not myself. It's become somewhat of a personal little hobby of mine is adapting to being a different person in different situations, my favourite of course being the "diva dah-ling".

In reading this article with Paloma I was struck by the lines, "Faith, 25, has a deep need to dress up. Her "bog-standard look" is a pencil skirt, seamed stockings, a pair of heels, a silk shirt and a 1940's hat". Familiar much? It continues, "This is what she wears 'when I can't think'. When she can think there is no limit to the comedy clothing and rainbow-hued make-up she will don." She goes on to explain how a role in a primary school play allowed her to come out her shell, transforming from the painfully shy child she was, "I remember feeling like if it's not me it doesn't matter. And I still do that. You know, people ask me, 'Oh do you ever not dress up?' But it's to do with me sort of becoming somebody else in order to be confident".

Now this isn't to say I am not comfortable with who I am, incidentally I am very comfortable with who I am but I like to reveal that to only a select few, it's a method of self protection and almost a selection process if you like - this disguise gives me a distance at which to assess people and time to evaluate how they will respond to me and whether I can give them what they want and in return they can give to me. As Paloma commented, "When she's not dressed this way she thinks people are not as kind or respectful to me".

Dressing the way I do is my trademark - people recognise me instantly from behind, regardless of my current hair colour or that my style could be the complete opposite of the day before and I like this fact. It gives me a sense of purpose and my role in society. Like Paloma, my style has opened doors for me and people are intrigued by my creative ideas, I am not easily forgotten. I feel often that clothing is dismissed as unimportant outside of a fashion world but it communicates instantly with the receptor a lot about the wearer - even though neither part may realise it.

Now Paloma has an MA from Central Saint Martins, film and television work and a platinum album under her sequined garter and massively a lot of this kicked off thanks to her iconic style. Indeed she was asked to join her first band before any of them had heard her sing a note - the image sells. Now as it happens, in my opinion, Paloma has a sensational voice and following this article I found myself having to buy tickets to see her live at the end of October. The voice and the outfits in one place.

"Just close your eyes and make believe.
Do you want the truth or something beautiful?
I am happy to decieve you".
Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful - Paloma Faith.

...Now I'm just panicking about how not to be dressed in the "wannabe look a like" role at the concert.