Monday, 15 September 2014

My First Hate

My friend Kelly once asked me if my first boyfriend was my 'first love'?

I quickly told her that no, he was my ‘first hate’.

Unfortunately there were more hates to follow after I eventually split up with the son of Beelzebub. Fuck knows why it took so long to break free, probably some kind of insecurity issue on my part, or maybe even on both our parts. I think it’s about as safe as a padlocked chastity belt to say that I've never really been a good judge of character.

Maybe I knew exactly the kind of character I was messing with and subconsciously wanted to attract that kind of chaos into my life?  I do wonder.

Psychopaths, sociopaths, professional shitbags, the sneaky untrustworthies and relentlessly unreliable don't tend to let on in the beginning how they will ruin your life.  They don’t introduce themselves and quickly add that going on a few dates and then getting into a relationship with them will see you eventually stripped of self-esteem, dignity and, in my case, rational thinking.

The first time round I was too naive and insecure to recognise the destructive situation I was in. A different ‘partner’ years later stalked me both during and after our break up. 
How was I finding these people?  Why was I welcoming literal danger into my life?  I wouldn’t smear myself in antelope blood and enter a lion enclosure now would I.

My reactions to their actions turned me into some kind of crazy bitch too. During my first reign of terror with nameless boyfriend number one I actually assumed that that was how relationships were and how all teenagers were supposed to be behaving.  It you weren’t doing it like us then you weren’t doing it right.  How fucked up is that.  Arguments over silly things growing into out of control, aggressive fights. The more it happened the more ‘normal’ it felt.

When we broke up I found that I wasn’t really that unstable, or that crazy, or that jealous, or that self-conscious person at all.  And very slowly I began to work out who I truly was. Notice I say ‘slowly’.

Getting over what has happened during these relationships has been a lengthy process.  Dark memories remain and depressing thoughts continue to manifest as a result of my questionable choices.  Working out that I deserved better (and that better does actually exist) was my first and biggest step.  But getting over the past is another thing.

It is beginning to get better now, maybe because most of the bad stuff happened some time ago now and with each day, month, year it is further and further away in my memory banks. I have spent enough (lots) of time fretting and replaying the emotional horror stories over in my head and its now been 'spent'.

Growing up, getting older and supposedly wiser (just a tad less naive in my case) I've really learnt how to dispel the badness out of my life and ignore and avoid the people and situations that are no good for me.

Living in the moment; in the here and now, is vital practice for a sane mind - yet not always so simple to do. If I have a day where I feel off balance a walk in the local park or around the lake really helps me to clear my mind.  I look around and above my natural eye line, instead of just staring out at the path in front of me, and see the horizon, the trees and the birds, other people with their children or walking their dogs. I breathe in all the good fresh air and really focus on clearing my mind, chucking out all that bad clutter.  Sometimes I mill around the local high street and vintage shops.

Doing something quite simple but something I wouldn’t normally do is always a good distraction as I begin to concentrate on that task. Finding something new to research helps take the mind off the past, looking up a new recipe or signing up for a new course or hobby.  Appreciating small pleasures; a soak in the bath reading a book or magazine, having a conversation with a friend. I’ll find something gripping or funny to watch on tv or my iPad. Drinking/drugging should never be used as a distraction or a comforter.  It doesn’t help and it won’t end well.

If I’ve learnt anything over the last ten years it’s this:

Realise you deserve better, know that better is out there, move forward and move on, clear your head, burn bad memories and make room for new ones.
It’s one thing to find yourself in a bad situation, it’s another to realise you need to get out.  Sometimes, thankfully, it fizzles out, other times its tougher to change your environment. But I’ve done it many times.  It can be done. xx

Saturday, 6 September 2014


Why drink so much that you get into a state of oblivion.  Where you black out and remember nothing the next day.  Is that any way to live, or to exist.  You could’ve spent the evening in a coma for all you know… what a great night. 

You could've been anally probed by aliens wearing masks made of penal flesh and you wouldn’t know it.

Then there is the fact that just because you don’t remember doesn’t mean nobody else in your presence doesn’t remember.  They were witness to your behaviour.   

As I begin to realise this I take stock on how much I’ve drunk in the past and how much I’m drinking now.  I’m actually pleased with myself now that I don’t feel the need to get hammered that I once felt.  And its alright!  I’m actually a much happier, and altogether  a more‘together’ person.  However, I now face a slightly different but almost related problem.

My boyfriend sleepwalks.  And his sleepwalking is triggered by alcohol – lots of alcohol.  And unfortunately for me my bf is a fairly heavyish drinker (like his parents – slight dig intended.) 

It is usually a similar pattern each time, the sleepwalking begins when he needs to go to the bathroom.  In his semi-conscious state he’ll forget the dynamics of the room so he is often having to feel his way around every inch of wall, perplexed and confused by the lack of door.  

Now I just think people who DON'T sleepwalk are awesome!

Often he will conclude that the bedroom is the bathroom and that the wardrobe is the toilet!  It is then becomes my job to ensure he doesn’t piss on my clothes.  He's twice my size and becomes some kind of aggressive, sweaty and bewildered mess and very difficult for me to gain any kind of control.  He’ll push me away elbow in my face as I try to motion him into the correct direction of the bathroom and grunt incoherently at me telling me to get off of fuck off or to wait a minute.

He once eventually found the door after feeling himself around edges of the room,mime artist style, but forgot how to open it.  He pulled and pulled on the door handle, foot up against the wall for extra leverage but the door wouldn’t open. It was in fact a door that pushed open the other way.  He then pulled so hard that the handle on the other side of the door fell off and onto the floor with a loud clunk.  In his dream state thought he was stuck in the room forever.   

Our most recent instalment of his sleepwalking adventures particularly pissed me off.  And not just because it wakes me up, not just because he wanted to piss in the wardrobe, not just because he gets aggressive with me when I try and direct him into the direction of the bathroom but because he scooped our miniature dachshund puppy from her crate and dragged the confused little dog across the carpet.  He then picked her up fireman style and held her over his shoulder – the look on her face as worried as the expression on mine.

I had every intention of milking this one of his slumbersome and destructive strolls around the flat.  I couldn’t get back to sleep again, mainly because I was so angry with him but also with anxiety that he might get up again and drunk-sleeping do something outrageous.  But I had to go the bathroom myself about sevenish so I got up still heaving with all the big furious emotions that I was going to unleash on him the moment he was up that morning... only to find a spider the size of my head in the bath.  The only action I could possibly take was to quickly forgive my beloved boyfriend of his horrendous night time hobby and get him up and out of bed to rescue me from death from fear of spider.  Where is the justice, I ask!

Thursday, 28 August 2014

I've decided to change my age by deed poll

Unhappy birthday to me... 
Since we are allowed to change our names by deed poll I would like to change my age.  I would like to be 27 again please.  I will fill in all the relevant forms and send them off to the Prime Minister or to the queen or Satan or who ever deals with such matters and get it all official and nice.

My birthday lands towards the arse end of the year, and I always seem to add a year onto my age from new years day.  So I'm already making myself almost a year older before I need to.  Maybe it's just because that's the next age I've got coming up or maybe it's to get the 'wow' reaction that I sometimes (always) get when I'm asked my age. I've always looked, and definitely act (irresponsibly), younger for whatever age I've been.  It's in my genes. My mum would get on the bus for a half fare when she was 25 years old.

I've always disliked my birthday. As a kid I liked the presents and the cake but it signified, not just the end of summer, but the end of summer holidays and going back to school.  Then there were the occasions where I would try and make a big deal of it but something would go shamefully wrong. Like the time a friend got hideously drunk and tried to punch me. The time I got hideously drunk and turned up staggeringly late (and staggering) to my birthday dinner. The other times where I've tried to arrange something but some of my invited have rinsed themselves out and done themselves in after the August bank holiday. Then realising that some of the people I considered to be my friends were actually my friend's friends and not mine. Or the times that I simply didn't even have anyone to round up to celebrate with because I'd moved town/city.

The main reason I hate my birthday is that it signifies another year that I haven't achieved any of the things I ought to have by (insert appropriate age). But then I never really have been the most conventional of people so why should this surprise me.

Nowadays I don't really give my birthday any legs. I'll go into deny and avoid mode. The days have gone where I group people together to go drinking as a celebration of another year of me. Besides, drinking has since become such a huge source of pain for me it is no longer a way for me to celebrate.  When I do drink it's actually by 'accident'.

The most I'll do for my birthday is that I will go out for dinner with my boyfriend's family. Which is usually perfectly lovely providing his mother keeps her phone/camera out of my face. She is one of those creatures who thinks that I (and everyone she knows) enjoys having a stream of photographs taken of them and instantly loaded to Facebook for her friends to make comments on.

My boyfriend will spoil me which is obviously lovely but I can't even enjoy that properly like a sane person because I begin worrying about his birthday being next and that I won't know what to do.

Age has since become a factor and wish to rewind the years on my personal and biological clock and happily and ignorantly live in a time warp where all my ambitions and better opportunities still lie ahead of me.

Do you hate your birthday?  Or even your age for that matter?

Thanks squirrels x

photo credit: drinksmachine via photopin cc

Saturday, 23 August 2014


There are too many things to cringe at when I think back.  But that's not what I thought at the time - back then I was brilliant! I was a fucking wizard!  

My behaviour meant I was having a good time, proof I really knew how to have fun. The more attention I got the more valuable and relevant my life was.  

I was in the spotlight.

I have ignored a perfectly good gate and climbed a ten foot wall instead, just so I could jump off the top, like, on purpose.  Result: me wriggling around on the floor sniggering with success and slight pain, lapping up any attention I should receive by anyone who noticed me.

I blagged my way onto the maternity ward after a colossal night of excess and appallingness, when my best friend gave birth to her second child.  Once there I was quickly asked to leave by the nurses, having briefly seen my friend’s baby, as my loudness was upsetting the other mums.  I fell asleep on my way out of the hospital and was woken up by security. 

The night before the hospital incident I had cut most of my hair off with my mum’s kitchen scissors, whilst drunk and without a mirror, because I wanted to look like Kate Moss.  Obviously hacking my own hair off will achieve super model looks – not like a professional hair salon or a complete face and height transplant!

I told people, and for some reason every taxi driver, that my name was Kat short for ‘catastrophe’. Impressed with my own awesome geniusness.

I was the perpetual partyer, a glamorous disaster and the perfect poster child for the ‘just say no’ campaign.

There have been many black outs and many regrets.

My acting up and desperation to be noticed, even if negatively, goes back to early childhood.  The flip side to my showing off was to hide away under my duvet for weeks at a time, avoiding the world and my problems as well.

I took treatment for depression but drank on top of the meds.  The two really not mixing well together I seemed to become even more outrageous on top of an already attention seeking persona.
The outcome was carnage and I was both the destroyer and the wounded.

It is as though my brain is wonky.  There are moments it totally works right, but deep within there is something else living in side of me.  Like some chimera kind of being or spirit. An alter ego fused within me that didn't get to be born so instigates mischievously as an act of revenge.

I’ve indulged in self pity and external blame for literally my whole life now.  Constantly thinking over why am I like this and why couldn't I have what other people have and why this and why that….

I’ve made peace with my past but I miss some of the chaos.  I don’t think I’ll miss those sleepless endless nights of pointless talking with unknown shadows in someone else’s kitchen.

I realised at some point that I never really knew how to express myself and part of me always felt suppressed. This is something I have really paid attention to over the last couple of years.

I sometimes look back with sadness but other times I look back and cry with laughter.  I’ve had amazing times and hung out with the most fiercely fun and creative. I’ve made friends, some good and some erratic, and then lost acquaintances I didn’t even notice had gone.

Now my life is in a new phase. One I feel I wear well like a comfortable old favourite cardi.  I have loved ones and I feel safe

I haven’t suffered too much mental hardship of late and I’m beginning to feel settled in my own skin. There will always be a little streak of crazy in me but I will control her and introduce her at appropriate times only.  My new favourite hobby is staying home watching back to back box sets on Netflix.

Thursday, 14 August 2014

Dear teenage me

The nineties won’t last forever even though you think it will always be the nineties and, obviously, everything has been invented. 
You think that the world will never change, but it does. 
Don’t worry, this is a good thing and you will change and evolve along with it too.  

It’s like how you loved the eighties as a kid and thought that everything that could be discovered had been and what could anyone possibly need beyond colour TV and Sony Walkmans.  Music must surely be at its best.  Well then the nineties come along and you love the nineties more, like one big comfortable and pleasurable new friend.  You believe that this time society has definitely reached its peak.  Well guess what, it continues to change and move forward.

School will become the smallest of stains on your memory and isn’t worth the tears and effort of worry you put into it each day.  Those girls you hang out with will turn out to be the same bitches later on too.  Your real friends are yet to be met.  I wish I could stop you being such an attention seeker – you don’t realise it now but the attention you are attracting is the opposite of good.

Luckily fashions change and you actually develop a sense of style.  You’ll stop back-combing your hair to all levels of haystackdom and dying it that fuck awful colour – you’ll later want to destroy all photographic evidence that that muppet wanna-be goth version of you ever existed.  If only you’d stop messing with your hair and visit an actual salon. 

There was never any reason to empty the entire contents of your make up bag onto your face and eventually you learn to make the most of yourself.  If only you would realise that you are actually pretty.

Remember how your school had a computer?  Move forward a couple of decades and everyone on the planet will carry a tiny, slim and sophisticated one in their pockets, one which you make phone calls on and take photographs.  And connecting to an almighty power called the internet.

Films like Back To The Future and Total Recall get it so wrong.  There is mention of computers but no mention of the internet, kind of like how The Bible doesn’t mention dinosaurs. 

There wont be hover boards and flying cars or nail varnish that changes colour with the touch of a stylus. Nails will become more decorative with patterns and extensions and all colours beyond cliché red and cliché pink.  Technology will make everything simpler and more sophisticated.  There will be technologies that come along and blow your mind and then become retro just as quickly.  Others will change the world forever. 

You will live in London like you've always dreamed and you will have more fun than you can imagine in ways that you cannot yet even contemplate.  There will be tricky times too when your lifes frustrations pour from your tear ducts, but this is part of your learning experience. 

You will not become a world famous fashion designer like you keep telling everyone as this requires a lot of hard work which you seem to forget to do and you like to do a lot of hiding under your duvet instead.  You don’t stay in London either – eventually you move to a place that you haven’t yet heard of, but don’t worry, it is beautiful and it’s really, really good for you.

Michael Jackson will die and Madonna will live forever.  I’m sure once immortality is fully developed by scientists that Madonna will get first dibs on the potion.

You will give up smoking for good.  I just wish you could have done this sooner!

You will eventually learn how to read people better as you never were a good judge of character. You will begin to trust the good ones and learn to eliminate those who are bad for you. There will be heart ache at times, but again this is necessary.  It seems you will always be scared of spiders and I still can’t tell you yet if you will ever pass your driving test.  I hope you do.

I don’t think you’re going to have kids but I think you know this already. Saying that, from where I’m at right now there is still time if you want to change your mind.

Luckily you cotton on to the enjoyment of reading again after a lengthy pause where you obviously felt it wasn’t drinky or ravey enough. As with many life development tools you decide to cast it over to the geek corner while you get on with your perpetual partying. At one point you temporarily cut off the circulation in your toes, this lasts for about six months, while hanging out with people whose surnames and job titles you never know.

You will go through a strange mind bending twilight thing whilst frequenting underground clubs where you think that you and all those in that space around you don’t exist once the party has finished. The clubs will lose their edge for you after a while and you will happily live alongside the ‘normal people’.  You will find pleasure in everyday activities and no longer so wrapped up in finding another plane of consciousness. That is a fun experiment while it happens but it won’t and can’t last.  Don’t worry when the superficial bonds with undependable and delinquent ‘friends’ begin to fade away – the next phase in your life is so much more meaningful.

You will find your place in the world.

You’ll meet people of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds and you will love them for who they are and they will teach you about life, career and stuff about yourself too.  You will be surrounded by a vibrant and exciting collection of people. 

You will make some big mistakes, but everything will turn out as it should.

It is important for you to remember not to be scared of the changes because you evolve and learn with them.  Please don’t forget this when you get older than I am now. 

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Arguments in my head

The little voice that lives inside my head right behind my face is an angry little shit goblin; a thought intruder that preys and feasts on any crumb of happy thoughts.  It is an inner spokesperson for all my worse thoughts, fears and bad memories. A voice out of control that wants to ruin everything.

Everyone has an inner dialogue where they speak to themselves, replay memories and go over their concerns.  Mine obviously despises me.

The result is farfetched worries, exaggerated memories and, most often of all, imaginary arguments.  What is the fuck with that? 

And arguments that have actually happened but have been recalled and added to.  It is bad enough that my head has been taken over by these intrusions in the first place but I often find that I don’t even win during the new edition rows and debates. You’d think I could at least make the most of the replay or made-up scenario and turn it around in my favour. 

I can conjure up a right old mess of imagination that serves no purpose but to make me mad or make assholes out of otherwise innocent friends and acquaintances, past and present.

The narration is strongest during the morning.  I notice it most during my shower.  I hop off to have a shower and come back angry.  This can be very confusing to the non-showering person who I've left behind in the non-showering room (always my bf).
To him my morning routine looks like this:

Leaves room ordinarily and acceptably ok > goes to have shower > returns from shower furious.

Maybe it’s the aloneness and my vulnerable state that lures all those bad memories and negativity in.  The head space invader loves when nobody else is around to breed its doom.

I wonder if this impulsion that I have is a way the mental me prepares the physical actually-outside-of-my-head me for such an incident, ensuring I'm equipped just in case any of these completely fabricated situations actually happen.

Sometimes I wonder if it happens because I actually enjoy it.

Distractions are good.  Should I be stressing at work, about work stuff, my inner stress stops. This is because the stress fairy is satisfied with the amount of stress that the whatever situation at work is creating and calls off sending her cousin the angry little shit goblin from taking over my mind.

The noise stops while I'm in the company of other people, exciting or otherwise.  Or when I'm really happy about something like buying new things, or organizing the recycling (I know! isn't it strangely fun?) Or if I am engrossed in some other activity like obsessing over why the bath towels smell like Super Noodles.

There are times when it doesn't happen at all and then I'm all like ‘hey I'm not doing that thing where I'm arguing with someone who I haven’t seen for several years about stuff that didn't happen or did happen but doesn't matter.’ Then I start wondering if those people who I haven’t seen for so many years do the internal arguing/row thing.  That seems to rationalise it, just for a moment.

I've begun telling myself 'no'.  When those thoughts try to sneak in I’ll put a happy thought in its place, or remind myself to appreciate all that’s good in my life.  As you can imagine, or have maybe even experienced, this is so much easier said than done.  But I'm determined to keep moving forward with this thought process as it is my only hope.  

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Sam's place

Even though I lived there too we always referred to it as Sam's house, or Sam's flat or Sam's place. 

EVERYBODY knew Sam's place. 

I've forgotten how many years he has lived there, his mum owns the place, amongst others.  I eventually moved out after two and half years but that makes for another story.  

The row of flats are set back from the St Paul's Road between Highbury/ Islington and Angel underground stations.  You walk up the steps to where the shared balcony with the adjoining flats is and then through the wooden gate onto our private courtyard.  

To the left of the front door are two recycling boxes overflowing with wine and beer bottles of every coloured glass and branded labels as you can possibly find within a five mile radius.  To the normal household this would appear to be the consumables of at least a year's worth of booze but at this flat we manage to fill the recycling boxes every couple of weeks, and in less than that if someone gets really excited.  

So on this particular day I let myself in with my key, the black iron gate that protects the front door is unlocked so I know that somebody is home.  Again in the normal household, where all the residents have full time jobs you would expect everyone to be at work at this time of day. 

But not at this flat. 

I go in and I'm met with the usual smell of alcohol and that recycled aroma of alcohol that has travelled through the stomach and breathed back out again that flows through every room.  It's pretty quiet which is unusual. 

The newly fitted kitchen with its black granite surfaces is to the right, before the stairs, and as usual it is cold and messy with unwashed dishes, empty beer cans, over flowing ashtrays and various fancy dress garments and old ladies hats.  

The top layer of the chicken outfit is half draped over a kitchen chair but mostly hanging onto and touching the dusty floor.  The familiar purple wizard’s cape has been screwed up and discarded in one corner as if flung off by its previous wearer and forgotten about.  I also notice that my orange plastic comedy sized sunglasses that came from a festival in Amsterdam have been taken from my bedroom and have joined the clutter in the kitchen, oh and there's a pink straw hat, the kind that you might see on Mrs Marple.  I have no idea where that has come from.  

I go up the stairs already imagining what chaos is going to greet me. All the main rooms are there, the sitting room, the bathroom and three bedrooms.  The overall décor of the flat is modern, clean off-white coloured walls, brown leather furnishings and unfortunately an unforgiving beige plush carpet inevitably stained with the red and brown and whatever coloured alcohol has been spilled on it. 

The place is dead quiet which, like I said is unusual because we never sleep at the same time here....
..…the same as we don't all seem to go to work every day as we should either. 

Especially Sam who is also fondly known to his friends as 'Lord Faffington' and is often known to be ''working from home''.  Yes working from home in inverted commas indeed.  I pass the sitting room, where most of the hedonism of this little London flat takes place and without looking I already know it is in the same state of disarray as the kitchen with the addition of cds everywhere, cd cases covered in the familiar white dust and rolled up notes or pieces of magazines.  People also like to flamboyantly jump around and throw things in the sitting room so the sofa cushions are probably strewn about the place and somebody I’ve never met before will be asleep on the floor.

I already know this and I haven't even been in there yet. 

I head for the bathroom first which is located at the furthest point from the landing and is on the left to Sam's bedroom.  Now when I first moved into this flat Sam hid his promiscuity from me, probably out of politeness, or maybe even in an attempt to hide his intentions!  Either way a man's promiscuity isn't something one can keep hidden for very long!  That would be like asking a child to pretend they don't like sweets and to then continue pretending to dislike sweets even when in the presence of brand new sweets!  

So I'm heading for the bathroom but the door is locked, indicating that it is in use, when a girl I have never seen before comes out of Sam's bedroom, wearing very little and a guitar. This isn't all that unusual and my other flatmate and I are completely used to complete strangers coming out of rooms in the flat, but Sam now has a girlfriend...a girl he really likes, loves even, and whom he has been with for a little while now.  

'oh hello' she says, 'I'm just leaving'... ooh ok.  

So this doesn’t look good, bearing in mind we all know Sam’s missus.  Oh but of course…on closer inspection the girlfriend is there also, all tucked up under the duvet all naked with a sheepish look on her face… looks like my beloved flatty and his girlfriend have found themselves a new hobby!  

A hobby worth bunking work for!

Thursday, 22 May 2014

My mum

My mum used to be such an angry woman, with dark moods and a frustrated temper.  She always had an eighties perm and a frown on her face.

Mum seemed to be in the kitchen for what seemed to be my entire childhood, making a mess and a fuss over the simplest of meals.  I remember the smell of the ironing and the huge pile of dad's shirts and our school uniforms.  She would set herself up in the corner of the kitchen, the iron hissing as she stared into the surrendered fabric.

When she was sitting in 'her' chair watching TV I knew I had to be quiet.  If I spoke to her she told me to sshhhhh!  I told my friends at school that my mum didn't like me. I could never understand their reaction when they said that of course she liked me.  'No, she really doesn't' I would reply, confused that they would say that when they hadn’t even met her.

My mum never attempted anything more daring than a tweed skirt and British Home Stores' blouse.  I resented her for not being as cool as the other mums.  I remember her picking me up from school once with an even tighter perm and I cried all the way home.

I don't remember much more of my childhood but that’s just because nothing happened.  We stayed indoors.  My mum being quiet and furious and me bossing my brother around; blackmailing him to do as I’d say otherwise I'd tell mum that he called 'The Shoe People' The Shit People.  I had a whole arsenal of blackmail stories – and the power was all mine.

My dad would come home wobbly and loud telling us stories about talking dogs.  My brother and I would giggle childishly and ask for more stories, relieved that he was home.  My mum scowled and told us off for encouraging him.

As I got older my mum grew smaller and plumper.  She changed.  She started to smile.  We sometimes mucked around together making cartoon voices and taking the piss out of my dads friends or people on the telly.  The older I got the more relaxed we were with each other.  I remember thinking that she liked me. 

When I left home I would phone her for no reason.  She was excited to hear about what I was getting up to.  I would tell her about drunken nights out and people I’d met - she would giggle like a teenager.  When I went to uni my mum proudly announced that I didn’t need a man in my life.  She decided that I probably wouldn’t have kids and instead I would be a ‘career girl’.  

We speak less now but that’s just life.  I don’t recognise the woman I grew up with.  She stopped me from getting to know her.  Eventually she told me the reason why.  I told her that I knew.  I had made a point of working it out for myself.

Saturday, 26 April 2014

Mood swings

I've always been a very up and down person because my moods tend to be as follows:

One minute I'm:  Eeeekk hooooraryy yayayayaya wooooooowooooooo hubba hubba

43 seconds later it's like:  Boooooooooooooo hmffff I hate myself, the world is shit, yuck, rubbish


And then:  Hehehheheehehehehehe who wants to get drunk and stuff, yippeeeeee

Later: Naked on the bathroom floor: "whats going on?"

Sometimes I'll worry extensively about why I'm not as normal as the normal people but then other times I think its actually quite nice to be a little bit weird.  And I am a little bit weird.  Although I can very effieciently and effectively cover it up if I need to - like say, on a job interview or in front of friend's relatives, but get to know me really well and all this random stuff pours out of me like a broken lava lamp on a particularly sticky day.  So I've got a crazy head and I try to keep it all to myself.  Sometimes its fun to share it someone else but sometimes its the wrong kind of stuff to share and that's when I bottle it up.  And when alcohol goes in then I'm no longer in control of what comes out or in front of whom.  That's why I'm best keeping drinking to a minimum.  But its still fun to do on occasion so I haven't completely given it up.  Just warning you.

Thursday, 13 February 2014

Hangovers and self loathing

It's Monday morning and I can't believe how horrific I feel after accidentally getting drunk on Saturday.  My boyfriend and I popped out very briefly to do a spot of shopping only to be ambushed by a violent blast of hail stones. We popped into the nearest Slug and Lettuce for cover....where they happened to be promoting 2-4-1 cocktails.  I even tweeted how shopping had turned into cocktails all jokingly and happy.  Over the years I've ticked various different alcohols off my list as ones to never drink again... Anyway Prosecco is still very much on my list as a go-to.  Kir Royale after Kir Royale and many more Kir Royales later... I'm completely obliterated and have stupidly forgotten to eat anything.  

I progressively become more wonky and more shouty.  I get more badly behaved, which can be either really unpleasant or really entertaining, and no doubt anyone who sees drunk Kat will assume that I actually enjoy acting like such a div in public.  I suffer hugely in many ways when I drink.

The hangovers that I never used to experience have made themselves present with a vengeance, making up for those early years of self abuse, doubling and tripling the pain.  For a good couple of days after the binge I become an angry, tearful, self-loathing, involuntarily bulimic, brain tumour pain, bipolar sufferer who can't have the lights switched on or get out of bed, except to violently throw up.  

I also have to face the fear.  

Misery and memories I'd rather forget, a spiral of guilt, regret and embarrassment whirs around inside me. My vision is blurry and I'm sweaty and unhappy.  The flat is a mess and I've not only wasted my weekend but the first part of the week too.  The gloomy depressed me, who is never that far away at any given time, has been fed ammunition and is unleashed yet again.  I make a dramatic phone call to my boyfriend telling him that I am ready to die so I can't feel the pain or humiliation any more.  He turns up with a rescue package of food, fruit smoothie, pain killers, love and foot squeezing and helps to talk me down from my tower of hate and self-loathing.

I've tried very hard to become a member of the adult society where I am in control of myself, my actions and what I chose to consume but occasionally I get caught out and the hell-raiser inside of me raises her boisterous head once and again, pulling the rug from under my feet before I even realise what's happening.

I have gone from a full time drinker to a part time drinker to hardly drinks at all. Sometimes it is a bit fun to get drunk, however its the tipsy bit before that I find buzzy and exciting.  But I can rarely end there.

Why is it so easy and delicious to get drunk?

Wednesday, 12 February 2014

Valentines Day

Why I love my boyfriend:

  • He saves me from spiders and other monsters
  • He puts up with my shit
  • He's all nice and handsome
  • He's tall which is good for getting up-high stuff
  • His hair is the same colour as a Golden Retriever puppy
  • We make up our own jokes, even though they make no sense to anyone else
  • He drags me around the flat on the bath mat when I'm drunk and incapable of walking or supporting myself
  • He gives me the best advice, better than anyone else I've ever met on the planet
  • He gave all his Kinder egg cars to Matilda (apart from the Porshe because he really likes that one)
  • He looks after me when I'm sick
  • He protects me when I'm being attacked by sadness
  • He squeezes my feet
  • He has super-hero survivor instincts
  • He instinctively knows how to do all DIY
  • He cares about the squirrels
  • He still likes me even when I hate myself
  • He loves me all the time - and I've never met anybody who loved me unconditionally before

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Project sausage dog puppy

My niece gave me a drinks coaster with an animated sausage dog on it for Christmas.  For my birthday a few months before she gave me a mug with the the words 'Giddy Aunt'... this tells me a few things.  She knows I like sausage dogs, she realises that I'm giddy, she knows I like drinking - hence the mug and the coaster and I'm talking coffee and other drinking. 

Now I don't think that she bought them herself because she has just turned two and of course two year olds don't have their own money, they are also pretty small to reach the shop counter and pay for the items anyway.  Plus I have a sneaky suspicion the writing on the gifts was my brother's hand writing. Although I do like to think that she is pretty clued up for a two year old. 

This wouldn't be the first time I've been bought a gift featuring a dachshund...and now FINALLY I am getting closer to getting my first real miniature sausage dog.  Next month I move into a new, pet friendly flat and this is when project puppy really begins.  It's about flippin' time.  I've grown up with dogs as the household pet and have always wanted my own.  Weiner dogs being my favourite, ever since Victor Meldrew accidentally picked one up and 'answered' it instead of picking up his portable house phone, shown here:

I'm exciting about the little adventure we will have together.  So this news has really made my year - that and the fact my mum sent me an email the other day with an 'OMG' in it.  Bless her!

Friday, 31 January 2014


Boy is it easy to waste time or what.  I've spent the morning flitting from one tab on my laptop to another interjecting now and again with little bouts of walking around the flat.  Pointless, get-up-and-walk-around-for-no-reason, before I sit down and get on with wasting more time.  Funny how I get those little spurts of energy to get up and do no good thing, instead of sitting and getting on with my work. Needless to say I haven't done any work yet!

I spend so much time wasting time that when everyone else is on their way home I begin to get some actual what-I-get-paid-to-do work done!  I'm finding myself increasingly easily distracted either with the squirrels that have been trained to come to the back window for feeding or by reading a whole bunch of news articles and other blogs because I'm telling myself this helps with my 'creativity'.  I guess watching Real Housewives of Orange County must be helping my creativity as well...ahem *cough *cough.  I also find myself going over to check what's in the fridge, even though I definitely know what's over there in that there fridge because I had a look fifteen minutes ago.  Suddenly I feel the need to start cleaning the grout in the bathroom tiles and taking the recycling out to the bins.  Hmm and I bet if my actual job was to clean the grout in the bathroom tiles or take out the flippin' recycling, guess what I'd be doing instead?  Yes, getting on with the websitey stuff I'm supposed to be doing in the first place.

At least the weekend is within licking distance :)

Friday, 24 January 2014

Why aren't you on Facebook?

My boyfriend's mum is obsessed with Facebook. She is constantly checking her iPhone for updates and posting pictures of her cats in various different sitting positions around the house.  Like anyone with an obsession she doesn't understand why everyone else doesn't feel exactly the same way she does. 

She also loves cats, which I do not. 

So anyway, my boyfriend's mum found out that I do in fact have a Facebook account.  

It is a private account which I set up to keep in touch with a couple of old friends I hardly ever see and to connect with my fellow drama students to discuss coursework and the like.  Also, I signed up in case I would ever have to use Facebook in an employment situation (I don't want to look stupid at work do I)

Bf's mum didn't find me by looking me up, she found out because she heard me telling her daughter, my friend, about it. And, as is her habit to repeatedly ask the same questions as if it was the first time ever mentioned, she asked me TWICE that evening 'so did you say you ARE on Facebook?'  You see for a long time I wasn't and she knew that.  And she would ask (repeatedly) 'oooh why aren't you on Facebook Kat?' desperately wanting to be Facebook friends with everyone she knows.  So when I did eventually get on Facebook, for the reasons mentioned above, I continued to let her believe I still was NOT on Facebook.  Even when we changed the subject that evening I could tell from her face that she was still thinking about the Facebook conversation.

After a family debate about whether rabbits should be allowed to drive cars or something similar bf's mum couldn't hold it in any longer and finally said to me 'so are you saying that I can't find you if I looked you up?' 

I replied 'No. It's a private account, no one can find me and I hardly ever use it so there would be no point anyway' and that's the story I'm sticking with.  And no doubt about it she will ask me again.

I feel the two of us speak separate alien languages. Trying to explain our points to one another and trying to listen and understand but without the message really getting through, ending with both parties just grinning at each other thinking 'what the fucks wrong with you?'

My original feelings about not joining Facebook was the knowing that I'd be looking up people, who otherwise should be banished from my life, at four in the morning after a few too many cocktails.  I'm not saying everyone on FB does this (they do!) I just know that I definitely would.  The other reason is that the people who should otherwise be banished from my life could do the exact same thing to me. I have already experienced this with such people contacting my brother and close friends via FB asking for my number and so forth etc.

There's no need to keep asking me why I don't use Facebook (or do I like cats yet.)  People are allowed to be different to one another and have their own preferences - otherwise what would be the point of living.  

Some people, like bf's mum, think that if they keep on about something then the other person will eventually crack and give in just to keep them quiet about it.  

But I'm the opposite.  The more someone gets on at me about something I don't want to do the more I dig my heels in.  I don't just give in and say 'oh go on then' to shut you up.  I will keep saying no until you get bored of asking.

So I have concluded to block bf's mum before she even tries to find me on Facebook.  

Thanks for listening x

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Giving up smoking

In the future people will say 'I remember smoking'... it'll be one of those passing phrases like 'I remember floppy discs'. Smoking will become an old fashioned, passée activity. A dying trend and not in the cool retro sense like victory rolls or knitting. The smell will be associated with 'old people' the same way some might say moth balls or lavender is. Kids will associate smoking with something their grandparents do and for that very reason will be a reason to not do it. 

I remember feeling outraged when the smoking ban was announced in the UK. This felt like a personal attack on me and my choice of bars and clubs I frequently visited. Having grown in a society where smoking was perfectly acceptable, and extremely common amongst everyone I knew, the thought of not being allowed to smoke indoors was like being told we were not allowed to talk indoors. Endless drunken debates with my friends (and anyone who I would make listen to me) ensued as to why should we stop smoking in public places. As much as I talked about it I was still in some kind of denial about it and believed that something would happen to turn it around again - a bit like the disbelief that Michael Jackson would perform 100 concerts but not knowing why it wouldn't happen, and then he died. 

There was many a debate within my social group. I was head speaker. My opinion was that it would be as fair to introduce a law which meant everyone must smoke - then there is no reason to ban it due to poor passive smokers working in bars and restaurants, who incidentally, had CHOSEN to work there in the first place! And why stop there, smoking could even be taught in schools so everyone knew what to do. That seemed just as fair as introducing a ban. So fast forward a few years and ask my ex-smoking self about the smoking ban! 

The smoking ban is one of the best legislation ever passed in this country. I gave up smoking nearly two years ago. I always knew that I wanted to give up before my thirty fifth birthday for two main reasons. One, I didn't want to develop the smoking lines that my mum had - even though she had stopped smoking about ten years before they appeared, and two, I was always told that the contraceptive pill I was taking couldn't be prescribed to a smoker thirty five or over due to possible links to heart disease. It seemed such a long time since I was given this information but wow how that land mark birthday soon came around! It is actually coincidence that I gave up just before that age. My boyfriend had given up and I was getting tired of the social setting I was in and everything associated with it. I made the decision to stop, realising I wasn't enjoying it anymore, and that was pretty much that, maybe the odd puff here and there when I was drinking in the those first few months but I was soon completely free. 

And what a turn around. 

To even see someone smoking brings up a nauseous feeling in my gut which then travels up to land in my throat. I can feel my throat tightening and I experience flash backs to the dry flaky lips and dehydrated face after a night of heavy smoking. The inside of my head felt dehydrated. Even smoking without drinking could easily give me a hangover the following day. 

And don't talk to me about the smell. Urgh! My nostril hairs are screaming in agony just writing about it! The thick, strong odour of poisonous fumes that surge up the nose and attack my senses. I swear it didn't smell like that when I was a smoker. It's become an odorous cocktail of chemical, manure and hot tarmac. It is so thick and engulfing the smell and the fumes compare to nothing else - perhaps maybe a nuclear plant blowing up. I never could've predicted I would feel like this once I had given up - if I didn't know better I would think that someone had used hypnosis using all those nasty associations to replace any craving I might have ever had. 

There are no more phlegmy coughs or smelly hair or stained fingers. Air is fresh and it is a pleasure to breath it. If I'm stuck behind a smoker as I'm walking somewhere my natural reaction is to cover my mouth and nose and quickly over take them. The sickness I am feeling in my stomach as I write this speaks for itself.  

Somebody gave me an electronic cigarette in those early days but I soon weaned myself off of that.  It was the taste and the drying of the throat which put me off...and it wasn't even as strong as a real cigarette so it just made sense to completely quit.  

Haha, I win; smoking, you lose!  Now I will never look back. 

Friday, 17 January 2014

Why can't my subconscious tap into the happy the same way it can tap into the sad

I've had loads of great experiences and had LOTS of fun over the years so why, sometimes, is it easier to feel sad for no reason than it is to be happy for no reason?

I remember feeling so so utterly sad that to move from the sofa required so much effort I felt I should make a phone call to get some help.  Heavy pushing down on me, and so I just stay there. Why doesn't my subconscious tap into the happy as quickly as it does the sad?  Lying on the sofa unable to even move my head.  Not wanting to eat but knowing that not eating is making me weaker.  I need to fight being weak if I'm even going to begin to feel un-sad.  

There is a perfume on my jumper that I had sprayed the other day.  But you know how everything smells different when you're sad. This day it has a different meaning.  This day it is a left over residue of the other day.  The other day I was dressing and readying myself to go out - to leave the house.  It seems like such a long time ago in comparison.  If only I could make it over the kitchen to make some food, that would be a start in my recovery.  If I eat something and pretend I'm ok will that bring on the happy.  Can I disguise it and dress it up - somehow trick myself that everything is ok?

I try and will myself out of my pit of sadness but I just lie on the sofa hating everything too much to get up.  Going over to the kitchen is still too much effort no matter how much I tell myself it will help me get better - the first steps in curing my bout of the sads.  

Going outside is completely off limits - the mere mention of it is crazy talk.  There is no reason known to man why on earth I should ever have to leave this house.  Or this sofa for that matter. I will live my life right here marooned in the sitting room.  Oh I do have driving lesson though - I can't really do that in the living room can I.  Hmm I might have to buy some food at some point.  No I don't need any of it.  I'll stay here and wallow in shame and self pity - much better than leaving the house to attempt to live.  So I'll just stay here and cry. 

Hopeless little me in this big wide world.

Monday, 13 January 2014

I've fallen in love with Estee Lauder's Advanced Night Repair

In recent months a family member seems to have become a little on the obsessed side about my skin.  I say obsessed because the topic of my skin comes up almost every time I see her.  Questions will go something like this: 
'do you use a face scrub?' - 'sometimes'
'how often do you use your (derma) roller?' - 'when I remember to'
'have you used it lately?' - 'no, it's blunt so I need to get a new one'  
'when was the last time you used it?' - 'can't remember, it's blunt I need to get a new one'  
'what cleanser do you use?'  'I don't I just use something to remove the last traces of makeup'
'oh a toner?' - 'No, more like the kind of thing teenagers use to prevent spots'
'an astringent?'  'I guess that's what it is yea'
'what moisturiser do you use?' - 'It depends, I use various and at the mo I'm using a vitamin E cream from Superdrug, but sometimes I use L'oreal or Garnier'

Repeat all questions again next time we meet and also point at my face to new people I haven't met before and say - ooh she DOES have good skin.  

You see I wouldn't say that the 'quality' of my skin warrants so many questions - I've literally been interviewed about my skin.  You know when someone seems to be over complimenting you, you begin to wonder what they're up to and if your mind works in suspicious ways like mine does then you might even start to get a little paranoid. Although she lies about her age my guess is that she is about thirty years older than me - maybe this has something to do with her new found infatuation with my face.

I have the kind of face/skin that shouldn't be let loose in public without cosmetic aid (I do sometimes venture out bare faced - and I try to disguise my appearance, pull a hat down over my face, scurry around as quickly as a squirrel on speed so as not to be seen - literally - because I'm moving so fast - I don't want to be accused of trying to scare any local children.)  My skin is naturally anaemic pale with grey under the eyes. I'm Night of the Living Dead in girl shape, unless I've been on holiday and out of the English weather. Then I'm tanned and freckled and an absolute delight to look at.  If I've ever wanted to pull a sicky at work all I have to do is turn up to the office without make up on and I'll be told to go home at once and not return until I'm better.  My cosmetic staples to ensure I'm an acceptable member of the land of living are: concealer to hide the grey, blush to brighten my complexion and mascara to define my eyes.  Occasionally I'll use a highlighter on the cheekbones and under my eye brows and black liquid eye liner if I really want to impress!  I don't like foundations or tinted moisturisers and my makeup stays pretty natural much of the time.  So, as someone who has never considered themselves as having good skin I was surprised to be asked what skin care regime I use and told what great skin I have.  Pale, but not interesting.

I was feeling like 'thanks for the compliment but enough all ready' and beginning to think the lady in question could suffer with memory issues which would explain the repeated interrogations.  But there have been compliments from other sources too so I decided to have a good look at myself, wondering what all the fuss is about.  And you know what I DO have good skin!  And you know something else, there is a product I've been using the last few months that I completely forget about during said interrogations.

Estee Lauder's Advanced Night Repair Synchronized Recovery Complex II

The Advanced Night Repair eye cream is where it all started for me when I was given a free 6m pot sample with the purchase of an Estee Lauder smudge proof mascara.  Ask the lady at the Estee Lauder counter in Boots - as I'm sure this is a running offer with the smudge proof mascara.  I wouldn't have looked at this product twice if it hadn't been given to me as a free sample. However I began to use it that evening and have used it ever since. The skin around my eyes feels much smoother, it even feels thicker (maybe plumper is the right word?) and my eye lashes also feel conditioned.  It is luxurious.  Apply with the ring finger as this is the right amount of application pressure for the delicate eye area. I don't really have any lines around my eyes apart from really fine ones when I smile which now seem almost invisible.

Impressed with the eye cream, which is actually called (but too long to keep writing) Advanced Night Repair Synchronized Eye Recover Complex, I decided I would splash out on the Night Repair serum for the face.  Since using the product the texture of my skin has improved, looking and feeling smoother and softer. The overall tone of my skin is better too.  The best that it has been since forever - it looks like I'm wearing a primer even when I am not - for this reason Advanced Night Repair is going to be a part of my life forever.

It costs £48 for 30 ml and so far the bottle has lasted aprox three months with still some left to go.  It is a little hefty on the price tag for what I would normally consider spending but so far I'm impressed and it's cheaper than 'preventative botox' (apparently the jury is out as to whether preventative botox even works) 

If you read any of my other posts you'll see I'm trying really hard to better my little self.  I've stopped smoking and (almost) stopped drinking.  I don't stay up being rotten all night and I don't hang out with reprobates anymore. Maybe that is why my skin has improved.  Or it could be genetics. But there has been a recent improvement to my skin and Estee Lauder could be the reason.  Either way I am impressed with the product so far and will continue to use this 'insurance in a bottle' :)

You can always ask for samples at the beauty counters to try it before you buy.

Please feel free to leave comments or ask me questions.

Thanks squirrels x