Readers, I’m going to apologise now. This post was originally going to be a light hearted and carefree jaunt through my weekly endeavours, but it has most assuredly not ended up that way. Blogging, as with all things, does what it wants with no regard for any predestined plans made by mere mortal authors like myself.
So buckle up, because I’m about to drop some mildly depressing truth bombs on you all.
It may be pretty obvious, but I have come to the gradual realisation over the last couple of years that a) growing up really is hard as balls and b) destined to send even the sanest soul to the brink of collapse. We live in a world geared towards living the perfect life; being “the best you” and generally striving for (key word here folks) unreachable heights. We’ve created a sort of magical mirror world that shows us who the fairest of them all is, and it’s always someone with more money or better hair or prettier instagram filters than ourselves. We set unachievable ideals and scrabble round trying to fill them, but always seem to fall short. Now, for some people, continually pushing themselves to get to the top; to get the better job, better body, better life, is a realistic goal. But guess what? It’s not for me. Some days I literally struggle to get myself dressed, never mind about being the best I can be, and half the time I’m too exhausted with myself to try any harder.
Now I know I am a glass half empty kinda gal. Pessimism comes as easy to me as breathing and I live in a kind of envious awe of those who can look at something and only see the positives (or can frame the negatives in a better light). I understand in all too startling clarity that thinking the way I do is a choice (if a somewhat second nature one) and I realise that it is possible to train yourself to think differently, but panicked denial and acceptance of failure is my safety blanket and it’s so much easier to retreat into a quantified negativity than an unknown positivity.
My Mother knows me too well – whenever I’m struggling I will, without fail, end up weeping happily at a gift she’s posted through with un-erring timing. She understands the fight and encourages me in the best way.
Case in point – my churlish attitude to my accomplishments recently. It’s stupid, but I’ve been such a Debbie Downer about the things I’ve done and it’s not a healthy attitude. There’s no logical reason either really, because this last week, I have achieved. I’ve done a full Enor MOT and done things I’ve been putting off for years.
I went for a hair cut (which is still a task I despise at the ripe old age of 26 and 363 days). Short hair has proven to be a false economy, and whilst I enjoyed a few months of super quick showers and not having to worry about hairdryers, styling or bobby pins, I am now in the tremendously awkward stage of having to commit to growing it and living with a completely shapeless yet frustratingly uncontrollable blob. Still, as scientifically proven, trimming inspires new growth and I bit the proverbial and I booked in. Admittedly, I was a tad miffed not to get my usual chap, who just sits me down, does what he wants to make me look presentable and says a pleasing fuck all to me. Instead I had to survive Erica, who was not at all helpful. She kept trying to carry on awkward conversations and somehow managed to not only maintain, but indeed strengthen the whole early 2000s Leonardo Di Caprio vs. Deidre Barlow vibe I’ve got going on at the moment. However, it’s something to tick off and means I’m free for another 6-8 months (I’ll just rock a lot of hats in public for now).
I went for an eye test (heavily overdue) that I’ve been ignoring texts and letters about for over 6 months now. (TMM supportively came with me and sat next to the Kylie cut-out, which he insisted was definitely taller than the real thing). I was there for a grand total of 25 minutes and a majority of that was spent in the waiting area peering nosily at all the doohickeys. I didn’t awkwardly laugh when I used any of the eye testing machines (nervous habit) and only panic lied a few times about which lens was better (even more of a nervous habit. I don’t mean to fib, I swear. I just literally cannot work out what I can see when they ask. It’s like when someone tells you to breathe and you immediately start to suffocate like a weirdo. To be quite honest I’m surprised I’ve ever had the right glasses).
I even registered at the local dentist (even more heavily overdue – read 5+ years, probably to the mighty shame of my once dentist nurse aunt) which took a good 4 hours of run up; including but not limited to a rousing pep talk to myself hidden under the duvet and far too much unnecessary sweating. Admittedly, I’ve not got my first appointment until next Wednesday and you can bet your bottom dollar that will send me of into gales of hysteria, but at least I’ve trapped myself into it now.
The trouble is, whilst I know each of those things is something I’ve been scared/petrified of doing, and I’ve actually finally done them, all I can think of is how silly I am. I’m an adult now, and I should be able to complete every day tasks like this with graceful aplomb and limited forethought. Instead, I work myself into a frenzy of hysteria and have to cry in a toilet on a semi regular basis.
I want to be able to be proud of myself for completing a task that was hard for me, rather than measure it against this unattainable scale of adulting I’ve decided exists. That is to say, I don’t want to be smug or seek attention, but I want to be able to think positively of myself. I know deep in my heart that I will never be enough. Never brave enough, never tidy enough, never tanned enough – my singular achievements will only ever be measured against my countless failings (new word), but this in the insidious nature of the beast. It takes time to learn how to be nice to yourself, how to take comfort and pride in succeeding at the things you do rather than seeking to tear them down.
However, there is one thing I have been able to allow myself to be content with, and that is getting my tattoo. As a lot of you will know, I had no intention or plan of getting a tattoo (except a long held sort of tentative desire). I had ideas and Pinterest folders, but I’d kind of come to the sad realisation that I would never work up the guts to get one. Turns out, if you don’t plan and let yourself get swept along with supportive friends, you don’t really need the guts. Who’d have thought it? The lovely artist was delightful and completely relaxed and just swept me along with his genial attitude. By the time he’d drawn up my idea and asked if I just wanted to go for it, I was pretty much ready to throw caution to the wind. Obviously there was still some residual fear, and I think the whole situation was 10% social awkwardness of not wanting to back out, 85% ballsy fuck-itness and 5% sheer white noise.
Bees – a symbol of industry, hard work, loyalty and my home town of Manchester. A Hexagon – the symbol of structure, balance and unity. My Tattoo – a little of a, a little of b and a lot of just loving a bee.
I’ve looked at it since though and been proud in a sort of second hand sort of a way. I think possibly because it’s not something that anyone else could have any say or judgement over; it’s something that is of no loss or gain to anybody and it’s not social scale of success to measure myself against. It’s something I wanted and something I did and I can’t find many faults with it, which in itself is a victory.
I’ve come to terms with myself a lot more over the last few years though, and whilst I understand that my faults lie in the things I cannot control and my failings in the things I can, I know now that my mental health issues are not something that can be cured but instead something that can be managed. It is not a mountain to be scaled, but a road to be travelled and learning to live with that is the first step in the right direction.
“We deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we have suffered enough”
– Nikka Ursula