Signing Contracts, General Adulting, and Inexplicable Loneliness

This week marks the last week of my first semester of University. I’ve signed my first contract (here meaning I signed the first contract I’ve ever properly read and/ or cared about, I’m sure terms and conditions come under contract law somewhere), I behaved more or less like an adult, and I may or may not find myself slipping back into unhealthy habits and a generalised feeling of supreme loneliness.

Lets start with the fun bit huh? I signed a contract, a good one (well not a good one actually) for a house, a good house (a very good house) and it was stressful and exciting and genuinely terrifying for a minute there. The contract itself was quite possibly the worst thing I have ever read ever (and I’ve read Pamela.) The spelling was atrocious, the grammar was terrible and the fact that at one point one of my flatmates looked like she was gonna cry really only begins to describe how absolutely shhhhhhhocking this piece of writing was. But we signed it anyways. Why I hear you ask? Surely signing a shitty contract is, like, the worst thing ever??????

I mean, you’re not wrong.

But the fact is the house is amazing; good area; close to the uni; round the corner from town, and the main student pub; seven absolutely massive double bedrooms and original Georgian features. With my student debt I’m never gonna be able to live in somewhere as spectacular as this again. So, good contract or shitty contract, I’ll take it.

I’m not going to lie to you, the speed and confidence required to find a property, let alone a solid property for next year, whilst simultaneously dealing with your unchanged work load (and the fact that you can’t be certain of your choice in housemates because there’s months before move-in day) is stressful. House hunting sucks, and you have to answer unknown phone calls and talk to random blokes called Steve from XXX-Properties, who absolutely could run two viewings, but won’t, even if getting seven people with different schedules in one place at the same time is fucking impossible. It is truly terrifying, but needs must.

The less fun part of this semester has been the general adulting required to navigate it. Bus timetables and shopping lists and laundry and assignments with mean word counts. It’s hard, and it makes you want to cry, and then it started snowing, so now you’re sad and cold. Really student life is just a cycle of sad/cold and hot/drunk with some bad R’n’B music, a lot of pasta and some quality time in the library chucked in for variety.

I made a Christmas dinner, that was fun. And it went well. Unbelievably well, actually. I made Brussel sprouts for the first time, and they went so well I even got my veg-phobic flatmate eating them (the secret is pan-frying and smoked garlic, 60p in Morrrisons invest people, invest.) I never truly understood why my Mum drinks wine with dinner until I sat down with a burnt finger, cold potatoes and nine people wearing silver paper hats to eat a minimal amount of chicken and some frankly incredible Brussels. Stress.

Final part of my semester is loneliness, for want of a better word, and bad habits. It’s not so much that I’m alone, although I am and sometimes you notice your singledom more than others, its just that I feel pretty isolated. I’ve never been brilliant with the whole feeling left out thing, I was bullied quite badly as a child and the result was me spending a lot of time alone, as such I tend to get pretty sad and mopey when I feel left out of things. Like my best friends group of friends for example. It’s not necessarily that they don’t like me, although it would probably be best if they did, it’s that they don’t like me enough for me to be included in things, but like me just enough that I know I could ask for an invitation and receive one. Although I’d feel rude and imposter-y the whole time. And because I know they don’t really like me every time I see them I’m on edge; I feel jittery and sweaty and a little bit like a failure and there isn’t really any reason to. And yes, I know I should just talk to her, but old habits die hard and I’m still in the suffering in silence stage of angry-sad.

Also, I’ve started going out more, and that somehow makes me feel lonely too, I didn’t know it was possible to feel more entirely isolated in a humid room full of people and bass, than when you’re actually by yourself; but here I am. I think a big part of it is the separation I feel between me and the other people there. I’m never quite drunk enough, I never feel sexy enough or like my dancing is any good, I never feel in place. And its really fucking tiring. And I think the worst part is how entirely aware I am of how I look as well. Because I know facially I’m not terrible, my skin can be a bit shit and my foundation and my blush don’t always get on but I’m not ugly, sometimes actually I’m quite pretty. It’s not my face, It’s my size. I’m bigger. Not BIG, but bigger, curvy in the right clothes, but flat-out bad looking in the wrong ones. And looking sexy when you’re very aware of you’re own size is hard; you get self-concious and it knocks your confidence and you start wondering if this is why you’re single, and if it is what can you do about it.

So thats my semester in a nutshell, adulting and contracts and feeling lonely. Bad mental health days and Brussel sprouts. It’s been a time.

Until after my next accidental hiatus

Yours with love and Christmas (or Holiday) wishes

TheSarcastic Blogger

 

 

 

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Poetry in Motion

I would like to say that my life is a series of poetic moments

held together by the string of chronology.

That I look for the poetry in my life,

the great heart wrenching,

soul swelling,

life affirming moments

that define me.

I would like to say that I have people that fill me,

with a such a warmth,

as though I am my own sun,

my own springtime.

As though the love I feel cannot be contained,

and it bursts forth,

golden beams from my soul,

from my eyes.

But,

the truth,

is that I am without poetry.

My life,

is a series of mundane moments.

A string of the day to day with no variety,

with no love to give me warmth,

with nothing except the reality

of a smile,

of a hug,

of a laugh.

With nothing but the honesty

of a cup of coffee

and a chat on the bus.

With nothing more, and nothing less,

than friendship.

Which maybe, just maybe,

is poetry in motion

 

Feeling Not OK

It’s a difficult thing to define, feeling not OK. In this case it’s feeling tired and warn down and like I’ve had a very, very long day even though I didn’t get up until 12 and haven’t left the house.

It may or may not have something to do with my realisation that even though I definitely have friends here, people that I genuinely care about and of course my lovely best friend, I don’t really feel, well, OK telling them I’m not alright. I have spent the last half hour debating whether or not I should message said best friend and tell her I’m not OK. One part of me knows she’ll help, she won’t get mad, she won’t get pissy, she won’t tell me I’ve ruined her night and ask me to come talk to her in the morning instead. Because she cares. The rest of me is telling me that she’s a) definitely hanging out with her flatmates (they’re having a movie night) and b) possibly hanging out with her maybe something, (who happens to be a fab guy who will also not get pissy), and thus the notion of sending her something totally out of the blue asking for her support makes me feel guilty. which is really not helping matters, just for the record.

And so, here we are, instead of messaging her, I’m going to write this, and I might even post it.

I’m not OK. I’m not OK because today I had a several hour conversation first over DM and later on the phone with one of my friends from home. Don’t get me wrong I love her, I really do. She’s had a shitty last couple of months and, as much as I feel like sometimes we’re very uneven in the way responsibility and support falls in our relationship, I do genuinely enjoy hearing from her. During the course of this conversation we arranged times she would come up and visit and times I would go home and see her, we figured out, kinda, where the others life is at, I told her I was going to seek some mental health support (which I will as soon as I successfully book an appointment), oh, and another one of my friends (not friend, we are not friends) started weird one sided drama.

The drama got to me. Bad. Some days are better than others and today was a bad day. I honest to God just couldn’t cope. I was sat on the floor of my bedroom verging on a panic attack and trying to keep myself calm enough to remember that she is much, much too far away from me to do anything. It didn’t really help. Then I fought the urge to reach out to my best friend on the basis that she was out watching her flatmate play football and I would feel really terribly, awfully, guilty if I dragged her away. At the same time I really needed her, but I didn’t want to do that, and a tiny terrible self-deprecating part of me honestly believed that even if I messaged her she wouldn’t come, she wouldn’t leave for me. I’m not worth it. And then I felt bad for thinking that of her. Of course she would.

It hasn’t really stopped since then. I feel bad, I feel guilty, I feel like I might cry, or I might shut down at any moment. It probably doesn’t help that I just finished and submitted the first ever film studies essay I have ever done, ever, and It’s at degree level. It probably doesn’t help that today I woke up to a bad day for my mental health and one of my flatmate’s parents in the kitchen. It probably doesn’t help that I spent my first three hours awake today shut up in my room, that I feel like I haven’t seen anyone today and that I’m now (by virtue of that) some kind of social pariah, even though I know full well that no one in my flat has really seen anyone today. It probably doesn’t help that I have a bunch of stuff I was supposed to get done and that I just haven’t done. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve had a headache for the last hour and a half at least. And it definitely doesn’t help that if my best friend is hanging out with her maybe something and her flat at hers tonight that I won’t see her until tomorrow, and I won’t see her maybe something (my flatmate) until tomorrow when he brings two of his mates round, which is a shame, because he is one of the easiest people to be around ever, and right now I feel like even sitting here in the kitchen with one of my other flatmates, my typing the only sound in the room other than the constant hum of the heaters, is taking more effort than it should, and maybe he would alleviate that.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m not OK, and the thought of reaching out to the only person in the world I want to talk to right now is really, really scary. I don’t want to push her away, and I don’t want to feel like I’m relying too heavily on her, but at the same time, I really need her.

But I’m a coward at heart. And so instead I’m going to post this under oversharing, I’m gonna make some dinner that I don’t really want on the basis that I should eat, and I’m going to try and do the required reading for tomorrow before my head explodes.

Yours

TheSarcastic Blogger

 

Bad at friends

Bad at friends. That’s a pretty out there title, no? I considered calling it other things, but hey, why beat around the bush? I am bad at friends.

I ummed and ahhhed about posting this for a while, because what you’re about to read is entirely true, but in being so it has the power to upset some of the most wonderful people in my life, and so with that in mind, I’m going to start with a letter to them.

_______________________

To my friends, or at least to the ones reading this

I’m ok, really I am. You haven’t done anything wrong I promise, this is just how I am, and its no ones fault except maybe mine. So don’t worry. You’re wonderful and I love you to the moon and back, I really, really do. You have done nothing but support me, and without your love and time and effort I would not only be much more miserable, I would be a very different person. I’m not writing this to upset you, or anyone else, I’m writing this because that’s what you do on a blog, you talk about how you feel and what you’re doing. I’m also writing this because keeping it inside is exhausting, and there’s a certain level of anonymity provided by an unpopular blog.

Yours with more love than you know

E. x

______________________

I suppose I should kick the main body of this off with something of an explanation; I was bullied, for a long time, most of my life actually. Its not something I keep quiet about, I’m not ashamed of having been a victim of cruel people, everyone at some point or another in their life will be victimised by someone. But I often keep quiet about the result of that bullying, a bad habit I’m sure I share with a lot of other victims of bullying. You see I wasn’t bullied by some mean blonde with a seemingly random vendetta against me like in a bad American teen movie (well, actually I kinda was but that was a long time ago and its not really relevant.) I think if I had been my life might actually have been a tad easier. No, I was bullied by friends. People I trusted to the point that even when it started, even when I was so miserable and broken and hurting it felt like I could hardly breathe some days, I did not for a second consider the situation to be what it was; bullying. I was scared, so deeply petrified of the idea of making new friends that I put up with it, time and time again, repeatedly finding myself in the same situation, no matter how many times I seemed to leave toxic people behind. Part of it was that when the people you trust, and in most cases love, start to treat you like you’re worthless, when the people who assure you that they love you treat you like they don’t, then you don’t believe yourself loveable. I spent so much of my life trying to convince myself that I was loved by people I wasn’t, so much of it trying to fabricate emotion that simply wasn’t there, that I struggle to notice when genuine feeling is there.

In short…

I am bad at friends.

I struggle to make them, I struggle to keep them. I fight endless silent battles with myself every time I pick up my phone to reply to messages, worried that I’ll say the wrong thing and push them away. Another battle with myself every time I want to tell them something or invite them somewhere, constantly concerned that I’m boring or intrusive or pushy. I yoyo between worrying I’m suffocating them, and then they’ll hate me, to worrying I’m ignoring them, and then they’ll hate me. I live, day in and day out, with an obnoxiously loud voice at the back of my head reminding me there is every possibility that these lovely, wonderful, intelligent, brilliant people are just too polite to tell me they don’t like me. Every time I leave the room I worry they’re talking about me, every time we say goodbye I worry they’re thankful I’m gone. Frankly, it sucks. And its tiring. And I know, logically, that there is very little chance they dislike me, but tell that to the voice.

It’s a difficult place to be, and it makes day to day interaction pretty hard sometimes, but I like to think that I hide it well.

Now this is all pretty personal, even for an unpopular blog, but I do have my reasons. I’m writing this because I need it to be out there, because keeping stuff like this in is painful and exhausting. I’m writing this because maybe one day someone who feels the same way will come across it and know they are not alone, and because I want those people to know that one day they will find friends (like mine) who love them, genuinely, and who will light up their lives. Because one day they will realise, in a stunning wonderful flash of joy, that they have the power to light up those friends’ lives too. And that’s a pretty fab feeling.

Thanks for reading my ramblings.

Feel free to comment if you’d like to.

All the best

TheSarcastic Blogger

 

 

Boys

Not too long ago a friend asked me why I only want boys, one day hopefully, and I tried to explain. I tried to cram the wide disappointment that I felt as a woman in this world into sentences, and I couldn’t. I tried to explain that the thought of raising boys, even just one, that could understand that disappointment and want to do something about it felt to me like something massive. That raising boys who could cry in public, and wear lipstick or skirts or glitter if they wanted to felt like an achievement. That raising boys who had favourite flowers as well as favourite sports teams felt, to me, like something magical.

Now one day, I’m sure, I’ll write a post about my raging feminist views and general societal discontent. I’ll probably write a post about poisonous masculinity and reel off facts on male suicide rate, and male health, and male heartache. But today I’m simply asking you to share this dream of mine. Go forth and raise boys who are supported. Raise feminine boys, and masculine boys, and boys who go to the doctor because they’re sick, even if they are boys. Raise boys who are a boys, but never put up with boys will be boys as an excuse for anything. Raise boys that respect girls, and boys that respect boys, and boys that respect any and all other genders. Raise boys who respect themselves and others. Raise boys that are religious and boys that don’t give a toss about a higher power. Raise boys that are political and boys that are not. Raise bookish boys, and sporty boys, and artsy boys. Raise musicians, and doctors, and nurses, and teachers, and race car drivers, and bakers, and artists.

Raise happy boys, as far as you can.

And people, on the same note, support the men in your lives. Ask them how they’re doing, how they’re really doing. Help them and support them where you can, and before they ask. Ask them what their favourite flower is and buy a bunch, play their favourite song and dance with them, read their favourite book, watch their favourite movie, let them steal your hoodie. Call them out on their stress, on their self destruction, intervene when you have to. Don’t take anyones crap, and don’t let anyone give them crap either. Buy them a present ( if you can) because you can. Appreciate that society treats us like shit but, at least in some respects, its not treating them much better.

Be kind to each other guys.

TheSarcastic Blogger