Mirror Mirror on the wall

Once upon a time a girl looked into a mirror and was satisfied with the reflection that shone back at her. She had defining face shapes, no double chin and while she was curvy, she was just the *right* size. Exactly where she wanted to be and she did not care if other people thought she should lose weight because she was happy and she loved every single aspect of her body.

Then one day she returned to that mirror and she did not recognise the reflection. But worse of all, she hated it.

Girls. This is my story.

I used to love my body. I was large but I was proud. I was fit and active and strong. My spirit reflected out of the mirror and it was incredible. Sure, I had bad days but I felt so secure and happy with the view that I went and bought dresses. An item of clothing I had vetoed wearing as a teenager because I did not find them to be suitable, wanting instead to hide my garish body that no one should see.

And now I am back to that place. Back to buying overly bulky clothing to hide everything. To crossing my arms across my chest to try and feel smaller and take up less space than I know I already do. Of hating to have her photo taken so the world sees just how large and bulky and ugly she really is.

I know what changed. I got ill. I lost my fitness. And I ate my feelings.

My energy lowered and lowered and cooking for myself became too hard so I gorged instead on takeaways and microwaveable meals and now I am at a place that I hate. Because I can not look into a mirror and feel pride in my appearance. But the more I look, the more I hate; the more I eat.

And I don’t know how to stop.

I still have no energy so I know that too much exercise will destroy me. But I cannot stop eating because I don’t know what will be left of me if I do. Shouldn’t I still love my body even though it is larger now?

Society has drummed it into us that skinny is pretty and I have always thought back against that stereotype. I think larger girls are beautiful. I admire them so much. Curves are wonderful and brilliant and I would not change that for the world. And I used to love my own. But I seem to have lost that feeling. It's almost as though societies views on larger women has been drilled back into my brain again.

I am once again wishing more than ever that I could be a different person, that I could live in a different skin. And it is depressing me more than anything because I want to love my body. I know there is nothing wrong with my size. I know I am loved. I know I have more qualities to my personality than just who I am in the mirror but for right now, that just doesn't seem to be enough for me.

I just… I’m at a loss and I thought the best thing to do would be to share with you my thoughts and feelings so maybe you could help me bring the love back?

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Growing Up Tall

For my whole life, I’ve always been taller than average. In all my school pictures I am in the middle at the top row, beaming away that I still held the status of being the tallest in my class, even taller than the boys. My height was inevitable, given my 5’11 dad and 5’10 mum. As a child I was proud of it – I could reach things other kids couldn’t, adults treated me with more respect than my peers because they thought I was older and I could wear clothes meant for the older kids. And then, the inevitable years of insecurities started.

I would say I only started becoming self-conscious about my height once I got to Secondary School and puberty hit. Being tall and lanky had never really been an issue for me, until all my friends stopped growing at 5’4 and getting curves. I on the other hand, continued to grow until I was about 16 and hit the dreaded height I had never wanted to hit: 6 foot. Those five years when all I wanted to be was ‘normal’ and ‘fit in’ were not helped when I literally stood out from the crowd just by existing. All of the guys at school who I thought I was interested in would show so much interest in my shorter friends and basically ignore me until they needed advice. As a teenager, this lack of male attention really affected me and made me think I wasn’t wanted because I was so tall.

It came to a point where I started to hate my body – it felt so out of proportion and I always felt so unfeminine. Yes, I’m aware in order to be a model you have to be tall, but unless you fit into a specific body type (which I do not), and it had never appealed to me anyway. I think another reason why I disliked my body so much was that I just never saw tall girls in the media I was consuming. All the girls I was reading about in YA novels and falling in love and kicking butt were so often described as ‘small’ or ‘petite’ or their height just wasn’t specified so I assumed them to be average. Over the past few years I’ve seen a couple – Taylor Swift rocks being a tall girl and I recently read Holly Bourne’s How Hard Can Love Be? Which features a 5’11 female protagonist, and she put into words all the issues I had with my body as a teen.

It really saddens me now to think how much my insecurities affected me. I started slouching a lot at school so I didn’t seem so tall when I was surrounded by my shorter friends. I’ve never been much into fashion, but I looked up all the ways in which to make myself look shorter and bought my clothes accordingly in order to somewhat disguise my height. I would refuse to wear heels for fear of looking like a giant (now I just don’t wear heels because I value my comfort above everything else). Even right now, I’m still slouching because I’ve been doing it for so many years, and it’s a habit I’m trying to break desperately.

As I’ve gotten older and left school, I’ve really tried to embrace my height. A combination of learning to love my body and myself, discovering feminism and not letting what men think affect my self-confidence has led to this. I’ve come to appreciate so many of the awesome things about being tall – being able to reach things others can’t and actually being able to see at concerts. My legs, which I used to hate for being so long and not thin enough, are awesome and strong and allow me to stand up or 10+ hours at work and hardly feel any aches or pain.

I know that being tall for most people seems like a pretty awesome thing, but I’ve always had these insecurities about it that not many people other than the few other tall girls I’ve met understand. Learning to love my height and my body is an ongoing process I’m still working on. There are some days I just want to slouch and curl up to be as small as I possibly can be. But most of the time I try to step out of my door standing as straight and tall as I possibly can, and embrace who I am.

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I am worthy, I am beautiful, I am talented - and so are you.

I jumped around so many times trying to work out the best topic to talk about today before realising that the reason I didn't want to talk about the thing I originally decided to talk about is because I was downplaying the topic. In my mind it wasn't a worthy enough topic to talk about, which, ironically is more or less what the topic was. So I've decided to stick with my original topic and today I am here to talk to you about how I am incapable of hearing compliments and believing them.

I know we did a post similar to this as a group where our loved ones described us and we responded, you can find that here - but today I just wanted to talk about my experiences with this personally.

Recently it's becomming a more prominent part of my life as I have amazing friends in my life who compliment me on a daily basis. Whether it's saying how beautiful I am, how wonderful, amazing, creative or incredible I am. The words are said to me with heartfelt expressions that I should be able to accept. But often, I hear those words and wonder how could I possibly live up to that expectation? After all, I'm a failure. I'm barely keeping my head above water. I keep forgetting everything. I am a clutz. I'm ugly. I am just doing what I've always done. These are the thoughts that swirl around in my head. They tell me that I don't deserve compliments.

This is why when I get heartfelt compliments, I do one of two things. Sometimes I grin widely and get cocky. "Well, you know, that is because I AM awesome." - Or I get quiet and mumble thank you while trying not to cry. The problem of course, is that I don't think these things about myself even though I know, deep down, I should.

So when someone comes along and says something awful to me, instead of defending myself, I just nod and agree. As an example of this, somone has once told me that organising blog tours isn't difficult, it's just contacting bloggers and making a schedule right? To which I just nodded and agreed without defending the hard work and hours that I put into each and every tour I do. And it is a lot of work. It's finding bloggers, getting the schedules to fit, chasing content, collating information about the book for a media kit, e-mailing all the bloggers with all the information they need, tweeting and facebooking, chasing bloggers who haven't posted, collating more data, creating a graphic or two if that's necessary. It is hard work. It is stressful. It requires a lot of energy and passion. But instead of saying all of that, I just agreed. And I am certain the next time someone says it, I will still just agree.

And I wish that wasn't the way. I wish I had some sense of confidence in myself, and my abilities to defend my work, my personalitiy, my achievements.

Because I wish that of my friends too. I watch them deflect my compliments and it hurts so I can only imagine how it must feel when I do the same thing. I want them to be able to see how much they mean to me, how wonderful and truly brilliant I think they are and for them to truly understand that about themselves and to see it as truth. And if I want that for them, how could I not want that for myself?

I think the problem is that if you accept a compliment head on, you can seem conceited or arrogant. "Oh, YOU think you're amazing and wonderful do you?" and no one really wants to go too far. But I think confidence in yourself and your abilities is different from arrogance but somehow I just need to learn the balance. I need to be able to say to myself that I AM worthy, that I AM beautiful, that I AM talented.

And so I am going to try and say this to myself every day until it sticks. And if you too have issues believing in your self-worth, I would love it if you too did the same thing.

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Not Counting the Calories

A few weeks ago, Laura wrote about how she had begun counting calories as a means of losing weight. I was really interested in this piece as calorie counting has often been employed by me so that I can try and lose weight or at least maintain a healthy weight. However, since the beginning of May, I have neither weighed myself nor actively counted calories.

“I am an eater of numbers. I prefer packaged foods, foods with a bar code, because they make the math simpler in counting calories and that gives me a sense of peace. It’s just an illusion of control, really, but that illusion is everything.” – Melissa Broder

As someone who has very polarised views, as well as being wholehearted and putting my all into everything I commit to, I could probably rightly claim to have an addictive personality. This clearly has its downsides. If I’m trying not to worry about what I’m eating, I might eat too much and put on weight in a short period of time. The biggest problems for me come If I’m intent on losing weight, however. 

I will weigh myself daily and count every calorie that enters my mouth. I become obsessive. I have been in tears if the final meal of the day puts me seven calories over my recommended daily allowance. I will avoid any packaging that shows food that contains a large portion of a particular food group. I will spend ages in front of a supermarket chiller, trying to find the lowest calorie sandwich. If, after all this deliberating, I have still put on weight, I will reduce my intake the next day. My meals, in those moments, have become about numbers instead of nourishment.

I’ve been overweight and in that period of time, I really didn’t like the way I looked. I was desperate to look like I thought I was supposed to, forgetting that at 5 foot 10, I’m unlikely to ever be a size 6. I was appalled at myself and yet, even then, I knew that losing weight wouldn’t change the way I saw myself. Alas, now within the healthy range again, I still dislike what I look like. I’m learning that weight doesn’t equate with happiness.

So what does this mean for me?

 I want to be healthy. This is so that, as Laura said, I reduce the risk of disease later in life and my body works well. I want to be eating a balanced meal, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t have the occasional cake or a tub of pick ‘n’ mix if I feel like it. I want to treat myself respectfully and this means both not overeating, but also not under-eating as well. Food is meant to nourish us and give us the energy to live our lives. I want to know that I have the capability to do what I want to do, without being hindered by myself. I want to be happy because who I am is enough, whether that person fits into a smaller pair of jeans or has a little bit of flesh overhanging.

The more I practise eating in a way that allows me to keep fit and still enjoy food, the easier I hope it will become. I think I will gradually continue to adjust to what works for me in terms of portion sizes and the food I eat, but I don’t want weighing or numerical values to be a part of that. Having my happiness decided on by something as changeable as a digit means my mood and my self-worth are likely to be all over the place and we all know that’s not helpful.

I'm excited to try and find a place where food isn't another addiction for me. I’ll let you know how I get on in the months ahead!

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How Loved Ones See Us

In general, people don’t see themselves very clearly. We put ourselves down, suffer with self-doubt, or just don’t think very highly of ourselves. But when this happens, our friends and family rally behind us, feeding us positivity and encouragement. This is because they can see us for who we truly are. They see us, whereas when we look at ourselves, it’s through the reflection of a distorted mirror, like at a funfair, that our negativity becomes.

For today’s group post, the friends and family of Jo, Jess, Faye and Ray will introduce you to the people they see, know and love, with our responses; compared to their description of us, how distorted is our view of ourselves? And how does it feel that these people they see are actually us?

Jo’s Best Friend Adam (who calls her Red due to her hair colour):

Red is a very close friend of mine. She's smart, funny and a lifelong reader. She loves the occasional drop or two of tequila. Always there if I need to rant a little, or a lot, and doesn't judge.
She's a cool geek and we can talk about everything from Doctor Who, to classic literature. She puts herself down a lot. But I suppose we all do. I've always thought she has no reason to, though. She's kind and loyal and I don't hold the fact that she's English against her [Jo: He’s Irish *eye roll*].
Mainly though, she's my friend. I trust her with anything. And I can't imagine life now without her in it.

Jo’s Reaction:

So I read what Adam wrote and mostly smiled. The tequila, the cool geek, the English comment. Things we've joked about quite often in our six year friendship. I was surprised to read I put myself down a lot. I actually thought I was doing pretty well in how I talk about and view myself. Perhaps I put myself down more than I actually realise, unconciously, without even thinking. Perhaps it's becoming habitual, that I don't even consider it putting myself down, and rather just something I do - or something that's not considered at all. That's really, really sad. I intend to be more aware of how I talk about myself, the words I use, and my thinking behind them. It might be hard, but I really think I need to do better.

But... that very last line made me pretty emotional. And I guess here is where I see Adam's point about me putting myself down, because, well, I've always considered that in our friendship, I benefit more than he does. I've had a tough time over the previous couple of years, and to be honest, I don't know how I would have got through them without leaning on Adam. I've leaned on him a lot. I've had a lot to cry and rant about, and a lot that scared me. It left me feeling our friendship was unbalanced, that Adam wasn't getting as much from me as I was from him. I put down my ability to be a friend, and although I knew Adam valued our friendship, I couldn't help worrying that maybe our friendship would peter out when he got tired of me leaning on him and having to hold me up. So reading that last line... it made me super happy, but there was this huge sense of relief. 'He does want to be my friend!' I thought. It sounds pathetic typing that (there I go again, eh?), but it's what I thought. I had no real reason to feel our friendship was rocky, but that last line reassured me of how solid our friendship is. But even without how I worried about our friendship, that last line is pretty amazing, huh? 

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Jess’ Best Friend Ray:

How do I even begin to describe Jess? Eight years ago we were two Twilight fangirls who started mutually stalking each other on various bookish threads and now here we are – best friends, soul twins, Threadsisters (ask me about that reference), two peas in a very weird pod who can’t imagine life anymore without the other. I could reel off an enormous list of superlatives that still wouldn’t cover who she is to me. Kind, generous, whip-smart, passionate like you wouldn’t believe, supportive, loyal like only a Hufflepuff can be, STRONG AS FUCK- I’m not messing she is cuddly and wonderful on the outside but ruffle this Hufflepuff’s feathers then you’re in some serious shit and you’ll know it.

Jess pours so much of herself into her work online and sometimes when doubt creeps in and makes her question whether all that time and effort is worth it, I want to snatch those thoughts away so they won’t bother her because she works incredibly hard and *so* many people love and appreciate her for what she does. She hauls me back up when I’m feeling crap and I do everything in my power to do the same for her. Jess will also boss me around like a long-serving spouse in such a way that I can’t ever get mad at her. Which she totally knows and is proud of because she is living that Hermione Granger life like a BOSS.

Jess – you know me better than I know myself half the time and I am endlessly awed by your magnificence. You are magic.

Jess’s Reaction:

Wow, reading this was very emotional and by the time I reached the end I had tears trickling down my cheeks. I’m going to have to get this printed out and framed to put in my bedroom so that I can look at it on days when I’m feeling sad or doubting myself. I think that what I love most about what Ray has shared is that as well as all of the good things she sees and loves about me, she also loves the not so great traits just as much (I am bossy as HELL) because they make me me, her best friend. It’s so nice to know that I have someone in my life who sees me so clearly and who loves all of me not just the good parts.

-----------------------------------   Faye’s Best Friend Michelle: 

I met Faye through twitter when I started my book blog at the end of 2014 and we have become good friends ever since. I feel like I have known Faye for years and years. All my life. This is a credit to her kind, caring and welcoming nature. I see Faye as loyal and loving to her friends and family. She is always there to listen and to give you a hug when you need it in real life or a virtual hug. Faye listens and gives good honest advice when needed. To me Faye’s smile and laugh brighten up any room and her snuggles make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I also know Faye in a professional capacity. She is organised and enthusiastic about everything she is involved with and her ideas are always bright and imaginative. I also see that sometimes Faye can lack confidence in the things she does, but everything she does is amazing so I am going to take this opportunity to say Faye, you are a brave and wonderful human being, believe this and carry on being you! I love you very much!

Faye’s Reaction: 

First of all, I have to say that this paragraph about me made me cry. Because I would never have said any of those things about myself. I know that I care deeply about others and that I’m loyal, it almost physically hurts when someone I love is hurting and there’s nothing I can do to help. But I would also say I’m hard to get along with, shut off from the world, and can be a very infuriating person. I also feel like I go over the top with enthusiasm and that my laugh and hyperness is annoying and I’m so self-conscious of how awful my laugh sounds. But I do admit, I love big bear hugs. She definitely has it right on about my professional self, I definitely lack confidence, and even as I read those compliments I am still sitting here doubting they’re true but appreciating that she sees me that way. Maybe one day I’ll believe that it’s true.

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Ray’s Boyfriend Mark:

Rachel is a person of two halves.

The first, a backseat driver. Happy to stay in bed late; put things off as long as possible; avoid responsibility whenever possible; and downplay her own achievements.

The second, a practical superwoman. She reads at the speed of light; is incredibly intelligent; absorbs knowledge like a basking lizard; and picks up new skills first try, aiming to master them instantly. She is incredibly empathetic to those in need around her, always ready to lend an ear and shouldering the burdens of others. She can be incredibly active; happy to go on long walks, camping, swimming, climbing (potentially) and generally open to wacky and wonderful activities such as indoor sky-diving.

Rachel's biggest flaw is that she has a tendency to leave her superwoman costume in the closet, happy to take the path of least resistance. With a little dusting of the costume she could achieve pretty much anything she could ever want. A little more confidence and faith in her abilities and she could have her own army of fans.

Ray’s Reaction: 

Hoo boy, there was a few emotions leaking from my eyes just then. Wow. I would be the first person to agree with everything in that first paragraph, there is no denying how much I love my sleep and if my tweets from the last year were used as evidence I’d be convicted of extreme procrastination in a heartbeat.
The second paragraph is what got me misty-eyed, I have never entertained the notion of me as some kind of superhero so having that said about me is incredibly moving although I have to work pretty damn hard to stifle that voice that seeks to deny every wonderful thing mentioned.
I’d like to try wearing that superwoman costume more often, I might just need a reminder every now and then that I still have it.

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I think all four of us learnt something about ourselves through this experience. How about you take the leap and ask how your loved one see you, too? If this is something you'd like to do, but feel nervous or don't know how to approach it, take a look at Danielle LaPorte's Ask-a-Friend Survey, and maybe send the questions on to someone who loves you. I hope you learn to see yourself in a better light, just like we did.

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No and No and No and that's OK

I seem to have to answer no to a lot of the random questions people ask. Strangers like hairdressers, people when you first meet, family I don't see often. Usually my answer to polite small talk questions is no.
"Do you work?" "No."  "So you're looking for a job?" "No."

"You married?" "Nope." "Partner?" "No."

"Any kids?" "No it's just me."

"Going on holiday this year?" "No I don't think so."

"Do you drive?" "I'm not allowed due to my disability."


"So did you see Eastenders last night?" "Nah I don't watch it."

I swear the only polite small talk questions I can answer well are the boring British weather related ones. And those "no" answers can shut down conversation.  I ask about the other person but it can feel a little one sided and maybe uncomfortable for them.

 Sometimes the questions are put in a different way and I can answer them - "What do you do?" is easier than "do you work?" because I can talk about my writing and my volunteering.  Sometimes I answer differently - "no, I'm not going on holiday but I've been having a day out a month" means we might talk about where I was and what I was doing.  "I don't have kids but I have a nephew."

But the fact of the matter is that those questions are the ones that society expects me to be able to say yes to most of.  As a woman in my 30s it's expected that I'll have a job or be looking for one, drive some form of car as opposed to a powerchair, take holidays, be in a relationship and either have kids, be planning for them soon or be definite that I don't want them.


Society doesn't really know what to do with me.  I'm very disabled, I don't have kids but don't rule it out, I don't work and couldn't manage to do so, I haven't taken a holiday since 2007 and I travel everywhere by train or not at all.  I'm very happily single and don't really want to be in a relationship.  I don't even watch Eastenders!


It almost feels sometimes that those negative answers define me more then who I am.

 My friends and family accept and love me for that and I wouldn't change myself.  That doesn't mean it's always easy or comfortable polite small talk and quick encounters don't always give time to share who I am and make the positive impression I'd like.  I worry that those strangers see my disability and not the girl in the chair.

As I've gotten older I've gotten much happier about that situation.  It is what it is and I am what I am.  If people only want to ask those questions, judge me by those nos and not take the time to get to know me they aren't worth my worrying about (although I can't always help it).

I'm someone whose always going to have to answer no to the questions society expects. And that's OK.

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Make-up as I go along

Last Friday looking fine

Something you might not know if you don’t see my face in real life (Instagram pics are not exactly true representations of my appearance) is that I hardly ever wear make-up. In a month I might only put on make-up once or twice and that will inevitably be for some kind of occasion like last Friday when Jess and I went to a book launch in Nottingham. I was actually wearing foundation, eyeshadow and mascara that day which for me is quite a lot, I only bought the foundation a month or so ago on a whim because it seemed like it might look less weird on my skin than foundations I’ve tried previously (fair warning, the last time I owned foundation was probably around 2004 when that Dream Matte mousse stuff was all the rage so I’ve got rather limited experience).

I have fairly dry skin (probably need to drink more water that hasn’t had a teabag in it), so when I tried foundation when I was younger it looked super flaky and awful so I just stopped wearing it. I wasn’t all that taken with the idea of coating my face in a layer of foundation and powder when I was in high school and if it meant I had to get up 30mins to an hour earlier in order to apply it all I was like “nah”. If you don’t know – I am *big* fan of sleep and my bed, it would take a much bigger incentive than having a superficially flawless complexion to get me waking up at 6am or some shit like that.

First time wielding the liquid liner

Inherent laziness is a massive contributing factor to my bare-faced ways but there’s also the simple truth that I don’t really know what I’m doing. I never had someone showing me how to apply make-up, I literally only tried liquid eyeliner just before last Christmas and considering how naff the eyeliner I had was I thought I did quite well. My mother hasn’t worn daily make-up for more years than I can even remember so I never had the whole “stealing Mum’s lipstick and smearing it on my face” experience. The only thing I figured out to do was plonk eyeshadow on my eyelid and run a mascara wand through my lashes. I was also rather fond of taking a black kohl pencil to the lower waterline and I’ll be honest it worked for me so why do more?

While I was in high school I did wear eyeshadow & mascara most days but after I moved up into Sixth form I drifted away from wearing make-up and I’ve never really got back into it. I still prefer that extra time asleep and rely on some moisturiser to save my face from looking truly awful when I go to work. I don’t have great skin, my cheeks have a fair bit of redness to them all the time and my jaw and chin are a goddamn mess and are not showing signs of clearing up any time soon. I’m aware I could mask all that with foundation and concealer if I really wanted to but I just don’t like the feeling of a full face of make-up.

My god that eyeshadow O_O

The only time I’ve had someone else apply make-up for me (other than that time I was in a theatre production which we’re not talking about) was for my Year 11 Prom and boy, did I hate it. I was deeply uncomfortable that entire night, not just because my face felt like it was caked in make-up. My hair, which had been curled at the hairdresser’s had dropped by the time I got home, I was wearing a stick-on bra thing because the dress was backless and these ridiculous tummy-tuck knickers that stopped on an awkward part of my hips and were so fucking visible under my satiny dress. I wanted to strip it all off and hide.

I’m now in a weird kind of limbo where I’d *like* to wear make-up to even out my crappy complexion but at the same time I don’t care enough to spend time and money applying it every day. For years the idea of buying products to essentially throw it away one day at a time just didn’t make economic sense to me and now I’m so ingrained in this mentality that it’s hard to cast it aside for the sake of feeling better about my appearance. It’s not even that I have outside pressure to look more aesthetically pleasing, no one in my life is telling me “oh you’d look so much prettier if you wore more make-up” but they will compliment me when I do wear it.

From following a lot of very cool women on social media I see some of the most bitchin’ make-up styles which frankly makes me super envious. I’m not brave enough to try attempting massive eyeliner wings, pastel lips or filled-in eyebrows without some kind of friend nearby to help me fix it when it invariably goes to shit. I also am in serious need of someone to properly assess my skin and say definitively what kind of products I ought to be using and what sort of make-up styles are just gonna be a no-no on my face.

That’s where Jess is gonna come in. Yes *that* Jess – Safe Space creator extraordinaire and my bestest friend nugget in this whole world (if you didn’t know, well now you know). We’ve talked about her helping me experiment with make-up and work out what suits me over the next few months. I have even given permission for her to do my make-up at some point, so look out for some hella awesome insta-pics in the future.

It’s a weird journey I’m on with make-up that keeps changing and evolving so maybe in a year or so I’ll feel more comfortable applying and wearing make-up or maybe I won’t. Who knows? We’ll have to see. I'll probably be back with another post about it if I have a break-through.

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Making Friends When Socially Anxious

If I was to count the number of friends I have, and treat it seriously, I would not get past one. Of course, I have work colleagues I get one with, people from the YA community who I love chatting to, and friends of the family who I think of warmly. But when it comes to real friends - the kind that are there for you no matter what; who you can talk to all the time about absolutely anything; who know you inside out and back to front, all your flaws, and love you anyway; who you can confide in and be silly with and go to for assurance when you're having a wobble - of those kind of friends, I have one. My best friend. And he lives in Belfast, while I live in London.

This hasn't been a problem for me. I've not felt lonely or like something is lacking from my life. I have a very close family, and we spend a lot of time together, and they've come to be friends, too. But at the end of last year, I came to realise that I don't really have a great social life. With a lack of more friends, perhaps I'm missing out on...something. Fun, sure - nights out, lunch dates, catching up over coffee - but also something more. People help you grow, right? They challenge you and educate you and give you a different perspect. My best mate does a fantastic job at this, but maybe I could do with a few more people in my life? And experience more things because of those people?

I decided that I was going to make an effort to try and make more friends this year. For those of you who don't know, #DrinkYA is one of many social events for those in that YA communinity - readers, bloggers, authors, publishing people - to get together and just hang out, chat, and have a drink, organised by the brilliant Jim. I went to my first #DrinkYA event in January, hoping to meet new people, have fun talking about books, and hopefully make some friends in the process.

I have always been quite shy. As a child, I was painfully shy; I remember once hiding in the bathroom when family were visiting my Nan, because I didn't know them well, and I got very nervous and didn't want to talk to them. It's got better as I've got older, university and work have helped, but I still find talking to people I don't know difficult. It's not something that comes easy to me, and I have to work at it. "Don't use small talk. Say something interesting, Stop feeling so nervous. Compliment them, maybe. Look them in the eye. Listen to what they're actually saying." To some I might seem stand-offish and rude, but I'm not, I'm just shy.

But I didn't realise just how socially anxious I was until #DrinkYA. (I'm not talking about Social Anxiety Disorder here, but social anxiety. The latter can lead into the former, but it's not a mental illness.) I went to the event feeling a little nervous, but generally pretty excited. Until I got there and realised in a group of around 30 people, there were only two I knew. It was overwhelming, and I became so uncomfortable. From my intro post, you might think I was a strong person who is happy in her skin and with who she is, and doesn't really care what other people think. And for the most part, I am. But at #DrinkYA, I crumbled.

Jim did introduce me to a number of people, and everyone was lovely. But I struggled with finding things to say. I let them lead the conversation and followed them, asking questions, trying to say interesting things, but I was like a rabbit in the headlights. I felt like I was being humoured, like they were taking pity on me, but weren't really interested. It's hard to describe how I felt. There were all these people, and they were going to judge me and find me lacking, and I just wanted to escape. So I wouldn't have to talk, so I wouldn't have to be judged. It was also hard because everyone else seemed to know each other from other social or bookish events, which I can't always attend because of work, and I was there on the sidelines. So not only was I struggling to talk to people I didn't know, I also felt like an outsider. I even went to the toilet at one point, just to get away from everyone. For a little bit of peace, a little bit of quiet. With my head in my hands, feeling like an idiot. Eventually, I pasted on a smile and went back up, but it was just as bad. As I said, everyone was lovely - I wasn't being judged, I wasn't being pitied, these people were there to hang out and chat just like me. But that's how my social anxiety made me feel, and it was unbearable. I lasted two hours before leaving, making my way home on the bus, feeling like a failure. How was I supposed to make friends, when I can't even handle meeting new people?

A few days after, I had a talk with myself. I wasn't a failure. So big groups are obviously not for me, I can't handle being around so many people I don't know. But smaller groups? I can do that. I organised a get-together with a few people over coffee, and although that was a little awkward at times, I was fine. An old friend from way back got in touch asking to meet up this year, and we had a drink together one night, getting to know each other again and reliving old times. It was a great night! And I went to a gallery with a blogger from the US who is studying here for a few months. Fewer people, but a step in the right direction.

I still have just the one friend, but we're only in the third month of the year. There's time. And I'm hoping that seeing more people at events and organising get-togethers will help me get there. There are several people I know that I would so love to be friends with. People who are so smart, who are just so cool and inspiring, who just seem like so much fun. But it's not really the done thing to go up to people and say, "Hey, I think you're awesome. Please be my friend?" Needy and creepy, much? But I'm sure I'll get there.

And if you see me at an event in the future, and I'm kind of quiet or on my own or not saying very much, please don't feel badly of me. I'm not being rude, I don't think I'm better than you, nor am I not interested. I'm just shy, and I'm probably feeling nervous about talking to you, and maybe struggling for something to say. If you know me online, and want to, please do come over and say hi. You've no idea how much that would mean to me when I'm struggling, how much it would help.



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I'm a Bit of a Girl...

When watching a quiz show on television a few weeks ago, a question about boxing was asked. The female contestant looked dumbfounded and was quick to respond with, “I’m a bit of a girl.” Sadly, her response didn’t surprise me. In part, because I’m absolutely certain I’ve used it myself, but also because it’s a statement that goes unchallenged in many circles. This time, however, was the first time that I noticed my shock about the implications of such a comment.

“I’m a bit of a girl” is always used as a derogatory statement. Instead of claiming our femaleness as fact and observing the strengths that we each have, the comment is used as a put-down. It becomes about what you can’t do (“You run like a girl,” or “You throw like a girl”) and prescribes a set of subjects that you shouldn’t be expected to know anything about, in the case of this quiz show. But do we ever hear men saying their equivalent? Whilst claiming our status as women is so often seen as a declaration of weakness, manhood tends to be seen as the personification of strength and capability. If you cry, “you’re a girl,” is thrown as an insult because the sensitivity that we see as a positive when caring for others becomes a put-down if seen in the opposite sex.

If someone had turned to Nicola Adams, current Olympic, Commonwealth and European Boxing Champion, and told her that her womanhood automatically rendered her incapable of success as a boxer, her life would be radically different today. Yet her sport is the same sport that the quiz contestant claimed automatic ignorance about. I’ve overheard many conversations about sports and about careers, with people claiming that they’re not “very lady-like.” But is history really the best measure of what a woman should be? Perhaps we should be looking at what a woman could be.

The vast number of options available, from being doctors to electricians, playing rugby or badminton, demonstrates the vast spectrum of talents seen amongst men, surely showing that gender has very little to do with what we’re gifted at or what we enjoy. Opportunities, no doubt, are far more scarce for women in certain fields, beginning at school when PE lessons are divided into “girl” or “boy” sports. Only 9% of engineeringprofessionals in the UK are female, helped by 80% of Physics A-level students being male. This is despite there being no reason, biologically, why women can’t pursue this career path.

What we stereotype as being the male domain is kept off-limits, with our statements of “I’m a bit of a girl” being used as an excuse. We can’t keep succumbing to an “I shouldn’t know that” mindset and then expect to be provided with more opportunities. To confine individuals to lives guided by their x and y chromosomes, disregards the human capacity for learning and for achievement, whilst society doesn’t benefit from 50% of its inhabitants. If we, the people who so often speak of female empowerment, put ourselves down with our femaleness, we can’t expect others to do any different. It’s time to stand up and claim our place as women as the fact that it is. It’s not weakness, it’s not less. It just is.

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You're Amazing. Just The Way You Are.

I can’t remember the last time I felt beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone told me I look beautiful. But I can remember the last time I felt ugly (about two minutes ago standing in front of the bathroom mirror naked). And I can remember the last time someone told me there was something wrong with my body.

In fact when I think back over my life so far, there are very, very few times in my life when I’ve felt beautiful. Even as a teenager I felt ugly and disgusting compared to everyone around me.  I vividly remember having to try and find a dress for our sixth form leaver’s ball… It was a chance for all the girls to dress up in floating gowns and for the boys to don a suit. However the dress searching resulted in me cowering in the corner of my then boyfriend’s bedroom, hiding from the mirror in a flood of tears, crying out that I felt ugly and that I’d look so awful compared to everyone else there. Luckily he was gentlemanly enough to hug me and tell me that I was beautiful but even on the night of the ball itself I felt ashamed and just wanted to cover myself in a huge blanket so no one could see me. I had honestly never felt so ashamed of how I looked in my life.

I guess my body loathing started at secondary school where I imagine it probably starts for most people. I was called ugly; I was teased about my bushy, frizzy hair and thick eyebrows. I felt incredibly self-aware when I was getting changed for P.E that I didn’t have big boobs encased in lacy bras and I certainly didn’t have a thong on (it was cotton knickers all the way for me.) I felt ashamed that I had a thin trail of hair down my stomach because everyone else had such smooth, hairless tummies. I was made to feel bad by ‘friends’ for not wearing make-up. And, one of these ‘friends’ once said, particularly loudly in front of my crush at the time, ‘don’t you think it’s gross when girls have hair on their tummies?’ To which I flamed like a tomato and as soon as I got home that evening shaved it all off. And don’t get me started on that time I realised I was supposed to shave my pubic hair. For some bizarre reason I thought it was natural and was supposed to be there but duhhhhh you have to shave it all off because…you just do?

So, really, I was sort of handed a whole barrage of insults on a plate that my mind quickly digested and started shouting at me every time I looked in the mirror.

‘You’re fat’

‘You’re ugly’

‘You’ll never be beautiful’

‘You’re too hairy for a woman’

‘No one will ever look at your body and think they’ve got lucky’

And for the last ten years I’ve been in a vicious cycle of self-loathing. Even now when I look in the mirror I feel my heart sink and my stomach turn over uncomfortably. Why do I look so vile? Why have I got such large thighs? Why do I have stretch marks and cellulite on my legs and hips? WHY AM I SO HAIRY? Why do my boobs look so bored of life? Why have I got a tummy that sticks out and rolls over when I sit down?

The simple answer is because I do. Because this is the body I have; the body I will always have.

Yes, my unhealthy relationship with food has certainly contributed to the fact I’m bigger than I want to be and weigh more than I want to (but that’s an entirely different topic.) And yes my lack of physical exercise every day definitely contributes to the flab and dullness of my body. But I just wish I could stop hating it.

In the past when I’ve come up with epic plans to lose weight, eat healthier and get back to a more comfortable and ‘happy’ size I’ve always ended up thinking ‘what’s the point?’ I’ll still have the same face, the same hairiness, the same stretch marks, the same everything… it might all just look a little bit smaller that’s all. I still won’t be beautiful.

For a long time my fear and hatred of myself was due to my perception of how other people would see my body, namely men. I felt that no man would like my body because it looks nothing like a woman apparently should look like. It’s not tanned, my boobs don’t touch my chin, it all wobbles, it’s hairy etc. And so many times I tried to drill it into my head that any man who didn’t appreciate my body wasn’t worthy of my time. Beauty is more than just looks…right? But why do I still feel compelled to see my body through other people’s eyes? Why is it when I look at photographs of myself I just see a dumpy potato and criticise everything I hate about it instead of looking at what I like about it? I used to take selfies quite often; it was a thing that made me feel better if I could just get the right filter and lighting. I haven’t dared take a photo of myself in at least half a year…I don’t even like looking at my face in the mirror. Let alone on a camera. All the photos I use for social media are old; some even from 2014…

I keep trying to ask myself WHY I feel such hatred towards my own body. Is it because I genuinely hate it? No, I don’t think so. Is it because society and those around me tell me I should hate it? Yes. My family tell me I’m a bit on the ‘big side’ and my mum loves to make a joke about the size of my thighs or bum. Society tells me I should look a certain way and be a certain size; because that’s what’s attractive and what men want.

I hate that I hate myself. I wish I could look in the mirror and think damnnnn gurl, you looking fine. But I don’t. Instead I say fuck. Look at my double chin, my spots, my horrible hair, my bushy eyebrows, oh god, you can see a fat roll under my jumper etc. etc. I verbally abuse myself on a daily basis. I tell myself I’m not beautiful. I stand in front of the mirror, sigh and say, you so ugly. And then walk away. That’s not normal or healthy.

I don’t have people constantly telling me I’m beautiful or gorgeous or they think I look lovely. And to be honest, even if they did tell me that I’d probably just think they were saying it to make me feel better rather than actually meaning it. See? Vicious. Circle.

I fear so much for the younger generations of women. If I ever have a daughter I will do all I can to make her feel like she’s beautiful every day of her life. That’s she’s perfect just the way she is and she doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to love herself. I wish every woman felt that way. I wish every young girl felt that way. I wish there wasn’t such a divide between what people think is normal and what is actually normal. Women come in all shapes and sizes. Some thin, some fat, some short, some tall and that’s OK. It’s OK to be the way you are. It’s OK to look in the mirror and like what you see. It’s OK to think you’re looking hawwwwt.

It’s OK to love yourself.

I wish I could go back in time and hug that sixteen year old me as she sat crying on her boyfriend’s bedroom floor. I wish I could tell her to wear whatever damn dress made her feel beautiful and screw what anyone else thought. I wish I could go back and speak to thirteen year old me and tell her that she doesn’t need to shave anything off and that cotton knickers kick ass and, most importantly, that real friends aren’t critical of your body. I wish I could go back to all the nights that I’ve cried in front of the mirror and just give myself a big hug.

I hope as I grow older I can learn to love my body…I want to look in the mirror one day and think ‘you are so beautiful.’

And I want that for every woman. I want every woman to look in the mirror every single day and realise just how gorgeous they are. We are all beautiful. Whatever our shape, whatever our size, whatever our height, our skin colour, our ethnicity, our religion, our age: We. Are. Beautiful. 

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What Makes Me, Me - Joy

When I started to consider what makes me, me, I realised something. Who I am is personal; it doesn’t rely on other people to tell me who I am. Who I am isn’t determined by what others see when they look at me. If you spend more than five minutes with me, you will possibly be one of those people who tells me I’m quiet, as if it’s a character trait I’ve not noticed before. If you see me on a particularly tough day, you might think I’m overly sensitive or introspective. You could call me all sorts of things: an introvert, a creative, a loner, a listener. You might look at the diagnoses attributed to me and call me a service user, a patient, unwell. But still, that isn’t me.

I have spent more than three quarters of my life fighting against who I am. I thought that If I could deny who I was and what I experienced growing up, people were more likely to see me in a positive light. If I could pretend I wasn’t me and hide away from the world, maybe people wouldn’t uncover the part of me that I’m so ashamed of. If I could just be an extrovert, then I would be like everyone else and they would like me. But all that fighting and striving left me with was isolation, depression and even more shame.

My childhood saw years of sexual abuse and school bullying. My innate shyness grew into a refusal to speak in order to protect a little of myself. In doing so, I stopped creating a “me.” To have likes and dislikes, hopes and fears, would be to allow me to develop and grow. Having an opinion would mean that people could turn against me in disagreement. Staying silently absent, I thought, would mean abusers wouldn’t notice me. However, in doing so, I became a 20-something adult without the ability to hold a conversation and without a self that I was willing to acknowledge, let alone let other people see.

If you had told me, two years ago, that I would be writing to unknown people about what makes me, me, I wouldn’t have believed you. But things change. I still feel a lot of shame, I still want to hide more often than I want to be around people, and using my voice takes a day’s energy. But declaring who I am and deciding who I wish to be is a part of reclaiming my life. Ernest Hemingway once said: “The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places.” That is where I now choose to stand. I am not what has happened to me. I’m not a victim, a survivor or a sufferer. I’m me, not because of what happened to me, but in spite of what has happened to me. Of course, life changes us, as Hemingway says, but it can make us better and stronger.

What remains at the core of me is tenacity. I am me because I refuse to give up. I screw up, I frequently question what I’m doing or what I’m aiming for, but I keep going. I am me because I am the only person in this world with my history and my future. No-one else is me. I may be quiet, I may be sensitive and introspective, but that is how I present, not who I am. I am me because my future is what I choose to make it. I am me because I am the author of my own life. I may not be able to control what happens to me, but I can choose how my story ends. 

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What Makes Me, Me - Rachel

When Jess asked me to write this post it set off a pretty strange train of thought. What *are* the qualities or traits that could be reeled off and unequivocally make people think “Oh yea that’s Rachel all over!”? 

Can I be summed up in a neat list?

So without further ado here is a somewhat abridged list of my most Rachel-esque traits.

1. I’m 75% Tea – I don’t have the hard data to support this theory but considering how I tend to drink about 5-8 cups of caffeinated tea every day I’d say it’s a sound bet. I dare not contemplate what would happen if I ever decided to cut myself off from tea as it is the only substance that jump-starts my brain in a morning – seriously I am barely functional without it. I’m told by family members that I was drinking tea at the age of two so there’s that. This tea consumption also brings with it an obsession with mugs.

2. I have a slew of odd body-focused habits. Hair twirling – whatever length my hair is I’m going to be twirling it round and round my fingers, if it’s long enough I can actually tie knots it one-handed, which is pretty impressive to kids I’ve found. What effect this has on my hair & scalp I’m not sure but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was damaging. I’m also a bugger for picking at my skin, spots, scabs, round my nails, *peels dead skin off distressingly dry palms*, you name it. I have loads of little scars from where I’ve picked off a scab multiple times or squeezed a spot a bit too viciously. I know I shouldn’t do it but without wearing mittens 24/7 it’s hard to stop myself.

3. I’m a voraciously speedy reader. I love books and can devour them at a rate that is pretty shocking to people who don’t read much. For me to look at a book, see how many pages it has and say “oh that’s 3 hours reading” seems rather like witchcraft – particularly to my other half who regularly jokes that I can read books through osmosis. The only downside to how fast I read is that sometimes I have forgotten the main character’s name by the time I get to the end *awkward*.

4. Out of all the words that spew forth from my face at least a third of them are swearwords. Obviously I won’t be effing & blinding in front of kids & grannies but as soon as I step inside my house all bets are off and the fucks coming pouring out. It’s not that I’m perpetually angry (only frequently so) I just rather enjoy the cathartic feeling of reeling off strings of harsh Anglo-Saxon fricatives and plosives.

5. I am Queen of Procrastination. That is not even an exaggeration. If there is an important task or assignment that I should be doing for a specific deadline and I’m not feeling it 100%, I *will* throw all my energy into doing something else. Anything else. I taught myself to crochet in order to put off doing a French assignment in 2014. For all of my literature essays over the last four months I have left the actual writing of the assignment until the day before or more horrifyingly – the deadline day itself. Even now I should be doing reading for my next OU assignment yet I’m planning out all the room renovations I want to do in my house to the point that I’ve been sketching plans and making a Pinterest board & discussing paint colours with the OH. There is no known limit to the lengths I will go to in order to put off the things I should be doing.

6. My memory is paradoxical mess. I can spout gallons of random facts and trivia on a whole host of subjects. I can answer crossword questions that none of my family even had a clue about purely from having read or heard something, somewhere at some odd point in the past. I can be a watching a film or TV show and see an actor I recognise, then instantly reel off the tiny cameo in an episode of Stargate SG1 that I knew them from (that happens a lot when watching Supernatural since they film in Vancouver). I’m like a walking IMDB info kiosk. I can remember technical details from not just my current job but from one I left in 2012 and even earlier. BUT if you asked me what I did last night, or what plans I have next week or what you just said to me three seconds ago while I was looking a tad vacant, I can 85% guarantee that I will have no clue. I can’t remember vast swathes of my childhood & teens save for a few odd incidents (usually mortifying ones), the only reason I know anything about what I was like when I was younger is because of photos that spark memories or because I’ve been told stories by my family. My diligent use of my phone camera means I have at least a fairly comprehensive log of the three and half years I’ve been with my OH. I can’t say the same for my previous relationship. So if you ever hear me say that my memory is shit I mean my memory for my own personal history. Trivia & random facts I seem to remember even years later but yesterday is a blur (although that might be because I got rather tipsy around midday).

7. Lastly I feel I ought to make a serious comment on how most of the traits on this list are trivialised & humorous spins on aspects of my personality. Basically, I constantly use humour & sarcasm to mask the deeper, more insecure motivations behind the odd shit I do. --Point 1- I do sometimes think that if I didn’t drink tea first thing in the morning that I literally would not be able to function properly until about lunchtime – does that make caffeine-dependent? 

--Point 2 - All of my picking, scratching, plucking, hair twirling habits are exacerbated when I’m stressed or anxious as my skin breaks out more so I’m effectively attacking my own body, often to the point of making myself bleed slightly. I’m no qualified medical professional but that smacks a bit of self-harm however mild it might be. 

--Point 3 - My obsession with reading, and in particular my love for fantasy books ties into a wish of avoiding thinking about my own real-life issues by immersing myself in fantastical worlds utterly disconnected from my experiences. 

--Point 4 - As for my swearing habit, maybe it’s harder to stutter on four letter words if I’m feeling nervous compared to making reasoned arguments *shrugs*. 

--Point 5 - My procrastination is a serious problem that is both fuelled by insecurity & a fear of fucking up my life more than I already have. My brain tries to avoid failing by not even trying until just before a deadline when my hatred of getting bad marks or disappointing people kicks in and I scramble to finish whatever I need to do in a blur of caffeine & stress. To the general frustration of all my family, this approach to my studies miraculously hasn’t completely blown up in my face *yet*. 

--Point 6 – I don’t quite know why I can’t hold onto memories of things I’ve done or things that have been said to me during a day but believe me it results in some awkward conversations when I have to ask someone to repeat what they’ve said or remind what time they told me to present myself for a family occasion. This also goes for things I mean to tell other people – sometimes I *think* I’ve told my OH about when I’m going to see friends or if we’re going to visit my parents but then when I mention it a day or two before I get a blank look. Some of that could be his memory being as dodgy as mine but I can’t help but wonder if my brain is just chucking out these details willy-nilly, which is a bit scary.

As you now might be able to tell, summing up what makes me the person I currently am is a far trickier task than a first look might indicate. I have a lot of work to do unravelling thoughts and feelings that I’ve buried under layers of nonchalance and jokes so I can finally be honest with myself and others about whatever messes my brain doesn’t want to own up to. This entire list doesn’t even begin to consider how my experiences (limited though they are) have affected me as person, that’s a whole other mine that I need to attack with a shovel.

This post has proved to be *much* harder than I anticipated and when I came to edit this I had to fight a sudden surge of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. I considered not posting this at all and did start another more serious piece but that was even harder and I did have rather emotional hour or two mentally debating whether or not I deserved to be part of this blog. My OH pointed out that there was no small amount of irony in my worrying myself into tears because I didn’t feel like my problems were serious enough to blog about and that I didn’t have anything to say that people would be interested in. CLEARLY I have some self-worth issues that need looking into in the near future.

While I may not have any diagnosed mental health issues that doesn’t mean that I don’t have some shit to sort out in my head and in my life. But this is my safe space to do that. I hope you don’t mind the deconstruction, it’ll get a bit dusty around here for a while.

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