A New Way Of Living

Earlier this week I read a spectacular blog post by a friend of mine called Zara. (You can read it here). In the post she talks about how important books and words are for her and how they’ve impacted her life, especially as she has recently been diagnosed with Autism. And the post made me look at my own life and how books have helped me.

I’ve always been a lover of books. For as long as I could remember I had my nose stuck in books. From Roald Dahl to Jacqueline Wilson to Karen McCombie to R.L. Stine to Lucy Daniels to J.K. Rowling to Cecelia Ahern to Jodi Picoult to Linwood Barclay. One book after another after another. Diving from one story to the next. I feel lost without the comfort of my books.

When I was a young child until my teens, I read every single night before bed. Devouring the words on the pages as quickly as I could and escaping into fictional worlds that were different and more exotic than my own. Eventually I started reading at other times of the day too. At breaks in school and at work, on the bus, whenever I got a few minutes spare. I would rather dive into a story then sit and think about my life.

And today I do the same thing. But I also don’t. It’s a difficult balance now. There are times when I want to read, so I decide to take the bus or the train rather than drive or walk and then open my phone and end up playing a game or scrolling through twitter because it’s easier than opening my book and exiting the world.

For once in my life, I sometimes find myself rooting my mind in reality. And it has caused a great deal of confusion. Because I am also struggling with life too. So I should want to just escape from it all, surely? And yet I don’t. No matter how much I itch to read, something always seems to stop me.

Once upon a time I would have classed this as a “reading slump”. But now I am trying to embrace it because maybe it means that there is something in the real world that I want to enjoy. Maybe not escaping into a book could actually, somehow be a good thing.

I guess only time will tell. But I am certainly going to try to turn this negative into a positive. Life is already too hard without feeling guilty for not reading a book.

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Old versus the Present

Let me set a scene for you:

It’s raining. Drizzling. My favourite. I’m walking home from town. It’s getting dark. I’ve got my hood up, headphones in my ears, music pumping around my head. I start to hum the tune of the songs, moving into singing whilst walking. I’ve got a definite spring in my step, walking tall and proud. I can’t feel the spotlight of the headlights of cars stuck in traffic on the road beside me, the people inside.

Old me would have been embarrassed that I had let some words slip out of my mouth whilst walking around in public. I would have been acting very British about it all; not enjoying rain at all, hating the miserable drizzle with a passion, pissed off my hair was getting damp and that people were staring at me, because it was unusual to see someone out in the dark, walking of all things.

Current me, this version of me; was enjoying the dampness of the air, the rain on my glasses, how good the music sounded in my ears, how much I had missed enjoying music. I was revelling in the fact that I was actually outside and feeling good about myself. I had even forgotten about my ostomy bag because it wasn’t tugging uncomfortably against my skin. I was enjoying myself, my life, in that moment.

Because, really, that’s all we get. Moments.

I have decided that I am going to enjoy the moments I get given because without warning they can be taken away from you. Either by yourself or something outside of your control. And all you can do is go along with them and roll with the punches. Find some laughs and enjoy those things you hold dear to you.

I am aware that this sounds very much like something you would say once you’d had a near death experience and I was by no means near dying when I was last in hospital in the summer but it is a reminder that bad things can happen and sadly you have to just survive them. It is instinct to fight for your life. I will fight for my life right now. I am happy and healthy. I am enjoying that, for the first time in forever! It has the potential, the possibility, to not last too long.

I say that not because I am expecting things to go wrong or to turn bad, but the past has left me a certain amount of scepticism around having had my fair share of crappy setbacks. 2016 has been one long battle with setbacks – one after a-bloody-nother – and finally we are seeing some clearing through the shitty trees. So, I continue forward, out of the forest of despair and pain, into the fields of hope and enjoyment.

New Louise, who is she huh?

Well, why don’t we find out? Let’s see if that diseased colon was really just holding her back. Let’s see what I can now do.

I’m ready.

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Recovery is Hard

Since we last spoke, I have finished counselling. I am officially in recovery for my mental illnesses and it’s nothing like I thought it would be.

For the first couple of weeks after finishing therapy I was unstoppable, I was going out almost every day doing things that I haven’t done in years, I was on top of the world and having the time of my life. My social life was busier, I looked better, I felt better and I was making everyone around me so proud with my progress which gave me such a buzz and made me determined to push myself further.

For the past two weeks I’ve been going through a really hard time with some family stuff that I won’t go into here out of respect for my family’s privacy. Day by day I’ve been struggling and have felt myself deflate slowly like a balloon.

So right here, I’m going to admit something I haven’t told anyone.

I am in recovery and I am not okay.

I always imagined that when I reached that massive, far off, recovery milestone that things would be easier, that bad days would be a thing of the past and that I’d be able to function just like everyone else. But for me, that isn’t the case. I’m still ill.

Recovery is so much harder than I ever could have imagined. I still have days where it’s a struggle to get out of bed and I still have triggers that I’m not yet ready to face. The only difference is that before it felt okay to have these problems, whereas now there is so much expectation on me to be okay and instead of having my counsellor to guide me out of the darkness I have to try and find the way myself.

Now that I am in recovery I am feeling a lot of pressure to stay in recovery. I’m finding it harder than before to admit to the people around me when I’m struggling, but harder still is admitting it to myself because I am so scared of relapsing.

Recovery is not what I expected and right now I am going through the process of figuring out what it means to me. Here’s what I have so far:

• Being in recovery does NOT mean that I am cured
• It’s okay to have bad days
• Recovery is at my own pace, not anyone else’s
• Being in recovery means that I’m doing better than I was before
• Recovery is the process of returning back to a normal life. It doesn’t happen all at once

I’m learning that recovery is personal to each individual and that everyone’s journey is different. I’m still making great progress and when life throws bricks at me, I keep on getting right back up. That is what being in recovery means to me.

If you enjoyed this post, you can find more on: 

 Bloglovin' | Twitter | Jess Hearts Books

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Why I Stopped Therapy

A few months ago, I hit a point in my life where I realised that while the anti-depressants were helping my anxiety, it was making it known to me that I had other issues to deal with. Suddenly I was more aware of routines I was doing that I hadn't even realised were happening. Such as washing my hands before and after going to the toilet. And also having to wash them with two pumps of soap, water and then two more pumps of soap and water to make sure they were clean. 

That was just one of the things I noticed myself doing and thus I self-referred myself for online therapy. I've done CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) in person before and it did help at the beginning by the last few sessions I was lying to the therapist because it was easier than feeling like a failure because I couldn't do something.

I thought this time would be different.

I'm not sure why but I just thought that it would be. Because I needed so badly to get better. And therapy just felt like the last straw for me. If this didn't work, I wasn't sure what else was left.

Obviously if you read the title of this post then you know that therapy didn't work but it also did. In a way that I definitely wasn't expecting.

I started therapy about three weeks after referring myself which was amazing. I was officially diagnosed with OCD and that part of therapy was, well, very theraputic. I suddenly understood so much of my life. Those teenage years that I thought I was just being, well, an angsty teenager? I was actually just struggling with undiagnosed OCD. So many little things in my life that I didn't even know were habits made so much more sense to me. Fears that I have about odd things, it all just sort of connected in my brain and I have to admit, it made me feel so much better. I suddenly had a reason for things.

Of course, just being diagnosed is not the end of the journey.

And thus my therapist and I started to tackle my OCD, tried to stop routines and habits using CBT techniques to re-train my brain. To let it know that everything will be okay.

It wasn't easy. But I also didn't expect it to be easy.

I was making really good progress and I was proud of myself. And then we hit a road block. I gave myself a behaviour to overcome that I essentially found too difficult to do. And I knew I could tell the therapist that I had done it and it was fine but I didn't want to lie again.

So instead I was truthful. Explaining that I had been too tired and busy to psyche myself up enough to break the behaviour down.

The response?

That maybe therapy isn't the right thing for me right now. That if I was too busy, maybe I should take a step back and re-refer myself when I felt more able to complete the tasks.

Queue my panic. My worry. My sadness. I was not cureable. I was going to be stuck struggling through day to day life forever. I was not worth the time to fix. I was just wasting everybody's time, including my own.

Recurring thoughts. Round and round. Spiralling out of control. I really struggled after hearing that. I had needed therapy to work. I had wanted to be truthful and get everything out in the open and I was told that I just wasn't trying hard enough so essentially didn't care enough about my own recovery. And that is where my brain took me and things got worse.

Until they didn't.

Until I realised that, at the end of the day, I am in control of my mental health. It does not control me. And I do not need a therapist to make me believe that I am a lost cause. I also do not need a therapist to help me.

Because I have incredible friends and incredible strength. I know what my routines are, I know what I need to do to break them down and so I am now doing that. I no longer wash my hands before every single meal. I don't even wash my hands before eating finger food. I know that sometimes I still feel I need to but just the fact I don't every time is a major step for me.

I also don't wash my hands as much as I did.

I have cooked in my microwave again.

I have eaten off of plates that haven't just been cleaned.

They are small steps. Small things. And things that other people may not even think about. But to me, they are milestones. They are things that I have overcome. Challenges that I have completed without therapy. Because I am strong enough. 

And so are you.

(Therapy did not work for me. But that does not mean it will not work for you. So please always try it. Without therapy I would not have the tools to help me continue fighting alone.)

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This Sad, Mad World

I have the highly unenviable task of needing to write a post today. This fucking day. I didn't want to write something upbeat and positive yesterday in case all our worst nightmares came true. And they did.

I have no words beyond expression of sorrow and anger on behalf of the people in the US who are going to feel the repercussions of this day for far longer than the next four years. For the People of Colour, the people of the LGBT+ community and other marginalised groups who did far more to try and prevent this awful outcome than the privileged white people who failed to comprehend the scale of the threat, I am so sorry. You didn't deserve this.

I'll be standing with you in the months to come.

Some wise people on my twitter feed have been posting & retweeting a lot of very insightful things today. I want their words to be heard instead of mine.

Heidi Heilig
Justina Ireland
S. Jae Jones
Kaye M. (@GildedSpine)
Maureen Johnson
Victoria Schwab

and many others that I'm sure you've seen. Keep sharing the tweets and posts that inspire you and raise up the voices of those who should be heard.

If you need to step away to process this whole shitstorm then I recommend you check out this thread by L.D. Lapinski which has some excellent suggestions for getting yourself and your mental health through this period. I know a *lot* of people have taken solace from it today.

That's all I've got today. I'm fervently wishing for a return of Hope, I'm betting I'm not the only one.

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Being An Introverted Friend In A Digital World

Understanding that I was an introvert happened to me in my teens. I don't remember how or when it happened in all honesty but I believe it was probably something that I stumbled upon online. And then my brain just went, yes. Everything suddenly made sense to me. That was why I wasn't like everyone else.

For any who are still confused or not really familiar with the term, an introvert is someone who gets drained of energy by other people. Extroverts need other people to give them energy.

It does not mean I am anti-social. It does not mean that I hate socialising. It does not mean that there is something wrong with me. It simply means that I cannot spend too much time around people. It means that I need alone time to feel alive.

Introverts do not have to be shy people - though I am also shy. They can also be the person at the party. The one that everyone knows and loves and sees. It just means that they may not be at a party every single night. It probably also means they leave before the party ends because they can't deal any more.

With all of that being said, I want to talk a little bit about how being an introvert affects my friendships with people. But mostly I want to focus today on how it affects my friendships in this online world as an adult.

As a teenager with no constant internet access, I was a texting fiend. As soon as I could, I got unlimited texting so that I didn't have to keep topping up my phone with non-existent money. And I would text my friends constantly. To this day, I recall being told many, many times to put the phone down and interact with the people in the room. Texting was the way that I stayed connected with the people around me.

Then the internet really happened. And things started to change. It was a slow change but I very rarely text now. First MSN arrived so texting moved to instant messaging. And then I was contacting people across the world from me. Then I moved across the world so texting was too expensive so instant messaging was the only way to talk but no one was ever online at the same time as me so that soon slipped away too.

Moving onto university brought twitter into my life and texting was replaced by DMs and replies but it was never exactly the same. And, in all honesty, has never been the same since. Even with the introduction of Whatsapp, I still do not text as much as I used to.

And the reason for this is firstly time; I no longer feel I have the time to just sit and text someone. I have too much else going on to just chat. Which seems, awful, but is true.

Secondly, I get constant updates of people's lives on twitter and facebook and blogs and after all of that, despite it not actually being around people, I have to admit that I often feel really drained. Especially when there are lots of opinions flying around too. And I often close the app and move my phone completely away from me because I need some alone time.

Thirdly, I struggle to think of things to talk about. My life, as far as I'm concerned, is boring. It's mediocre at best and very little really changes. And so texting to me is difficult because when asked, how are you?, I respond, fine and then the conversation always trails off and it just seems pointless to even try. If something interesting happens then I obviously text or tweet or DM people, but otherwise, I just don't know why someone would want to know about what is going on in my life.

So I don't really text.

Which is fine.

Except that I also feel like I'm missing out. It sounds stupid, especially after reading the above. But I feel like by not texting people or DMing them constantly, I get forgotten about. I'm the last to know things. Or I just don't know them at all. And it stupidly makes me sad. And curious; do I have to be in constant communication with someone for them to remember that I exist?

And it is with that thought that I am going to end this post. Maybe you know the answer? Maybe you don't. Maybe you feel the same way. But honestly, I would much rather meet up for a coffee or dinner and catch up on everything than constantly communicate with someone. What about you?

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Where is Home?

Until very recently, I had always been very firm about where my home was. I had always lived in a little corner of North West London, and had only moved once in my life about 5 miles down the road. Then in the space of a month, my parents uprooted to the South Coast, and I moved again back up to the Midlands. It was a bit hectic and rather confusing, and I’m still trying to process it all.

I’ve been at University here for about 6 weeks now, and I seem to be coping relatively well so far. Things are busy, but I quite like them being busy and I’ve made a group of friends and enjoying my course. There is one thing that has been bothering me since I’ve moved here though, and that’s that I’m not really sure where home even is anymore.

For most of my friends here, it’s simple; they’ve always lived in the same area and still do, and that’s home. It’s a little more complicated on my side. For me, I think, London will always be my home. It’s my favourite city in the world, it’s where I grew up and where so many life-changing events happened to me. It’s where all of my friends are in the holidays and everything is familiar. I don’t have to think about how the tube works or the times of the buses, how late everything is open or where I need to go to get something. It’s a diverse and open-minded city with things going on all the time that I can just escape into and find something new. I’ve been to visit a few times since I’ve been at University, and every time I step off at St. Pancras station, I feel so happy and relaxed.

I did spend three weeks in that town on the south coast, and whilst I know all my stuff and some of my family is there, I just can’t call it home. The house is unfamiliar and not mine, it takes a half hour walk to get to any form of civilisation and I have nobody there besides my dad and some of my stepfamily. Part of this struggle, I think, is that I haven’t been able to go back since I moved to University, for a number of reasons. The first is that, I just find it easier to settle into a place if I don’t leave it for a while. Second is money and time; a train from the midlands to the south coast is not direct, nor cheap and I can’t really afford the train tickets nor the 5 hour journey to get there. There have been many weekends here my friends have headed off home and it’s been making me think about where that is a lot.

Last weekend I spent my first nights away from my University town, in the centre of London with a friend. I was worried that it was going to make me homesick and not want to go back, that I was going to go back to University and hate every minute I wasn’t back in London.

But, as I boarded the train due north and sat in my seat, I had an odd, comforting thought that I couldn’t wait to get back to my pokey student room and see my friends and get back to the town. I was filled with relief that my excursion back to my home city hadn’t made me incredibly sad, and in fact had made me realise how attached I had become to this little city in a few short weeks. It’s definitely no London, and I have to say I do miss being able to attend all the book events I used to when I lived in London. But for now, this little city in the middle of the country really isn’t such a bad place to call my new temporary home.

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Phantom Phobias

Living in the UK, Halloween has never really been a big deal to me. I was quite a sheltered child, and I didn’t have a lot of friends when I was little. So trick or treating was never really something that excited me, or something I ever considered doing? I never liked to play dress up as a kid either. I didn’t have a huge imagination; the most I ever got to pretending was picking out a life from the Argos catalogue or playing schools with my siblings. 

And then Halloween just got annoying for me; kids ringing the doorbell all night, my dog barking, eggs being thrown about…. I never associated it with fun.

via GIPHY

At some point in my life, I developed a phobia of people in costumes. It got to the point where once I was leaving the supermarket and someone was standing by the door (collecting for charity i think?) in a bear costume, and I physically could not walk out the door.

It’s become less of a problem in recently years. Maybe because I acknowledge it more and just avoid those situations? Generally those people are in the street, and if I don’t look and just keep walking, I’m mostly fine. It reared its head at YALC this year though. For those of you who don’t know, YALC is the YA Literature Convention and it takes place at London Film and Comic Con. Where, of course, people love to dress up as their favourite film or comic characters. In costume. In the whole building. 

And I was already tense at the thought, but I told myself it would be fine. I was just walking along the corridor with a friend and some people in costume were standing nearby having a conversation, and i just turned away and kept walking, and then one of them came up behind me and BREATHED IN MY HAIR. 

Before we even approach how creepy this is anyway (just because he’s wearing a mask he is suddenly allowed to invade my personal space?) but there was no reason for him to do so. I hadn’t made eye contact, it wasn’t someone I knew, or anything. Cue massive panic attack in the floor of the arena.

via GIPHY

So for me, Halloween is a time of stress. Yay, people in costume everywhere. Yay for living in London where there are literally people, everywhere. I guess kids bother me to a lesser degree, but its still an issue. 

My ideal Halloween involves locking myself indoors and not having to deal with any surprises. Luckily I live in a flat, where the chance of getting trick or treaters are pretty slim, so I don’t even have to deal with the guilt of that. But if you do encounter me at Halloween, don’t be surprised if I run away. And, for the love of god, do not sneak up on me with your mask.

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Taking my Stoma to the Spa

I love a good spa day.

Swimming, a steam, hot tub, a treatment and being pampered in a robe and fluffy slippers. My idea of heaven.

Over the years I've found being in a relaxing environment such as a spa very much help me with my mental health and give me some much-needed reflective time alone. I tend to ask for them as gifts for Christmas or birthdays so, that every year I get at least two days of rest and relaxation. This year I received one but had to reschedule it three times due to Crohn's flare ups, surgeries and hospital admissions. Finally, during the end of my recovery from this surgery, I went.

Let me tell you, my body is different now that I have an ostomy bag stuck to my belly. I also have a wonderfully pink 5 ½ inch midline scar and a couple laparoscopic ones on my left side too. But I wanted to be brave and ‘show off’ my battle wounds. I brought a new bikini – a somewhat impossible task given it was September – and took the plunge.

This is me:

I am not perfect. I don't think that my body is where I would like it to be, but look at that scar! It's not all of it, nor is all my bag on show but those two things remind me I am still here. That I have fought my disease and came out the other side.

My writing and my words might make it seem like I am confident and slightly eager to flash my recent surgical scars but I am a shy individual; hardly every comfortable in her own skin. With my weight gains and losses over the years as I battled this invisible illness I have; I’ve loved and hated my body. This disease has given me the typical mooning of my face, the swelling of my belly, shrinking thighs and loss of my buttocks; I’ve grown accustom to these over the years, but the scars from someone cutting into me – surgical intervention - still shock me. If I am truly honest, not wanting those scars was a big factor in why I always tried all the medications. Why I always put up with the side effects from them too.

I don’t want surgery or my ileostomy to change what I do or how I am.

I walked into that changing room, took my clothes off and put a bikini on. Acted like my scars and bag were not there. If people stared, let them. I wasn’t looking for their acceptance. I was looking for my own.

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All About That Positivity

It came to my attention at the beginning of this week that it was #asexualityawareness week. Now, with that and with my promise that I would now be a more vocal voice for the asexual community, I thought today was a perfect opportunity to talk to you about the positives of being asexual and of being out about it.

Because we can sometimes get dragged down by the negatives of things. The difficulties we face fitting in, the terror of coming out, the struggles we continue to face when we meet new people, etc. And today, I just want to push all of that aside. I want to stand up and say, yeah, that stuff happens but also, there are good things about this sexuality, it's not all doom and gloom!

So yeah, here's just a little list of the things that I have found really positive about asexuality and about being honest about my sexuality.

• Our label is Ace. 

I mean. Seriously. How cool is that? I get to just stand up and shout "I'm ACE" to the world. If, you know, I felt like it.

• The Community.

Okay, in all honesty I've still not dived fully into the community yet because, busy, but from what I've seen so far, everyone is so incredibly amazing. There's support if you need it. Advice if you need it. Love if you need it. No one judging. Everyone understanding. It is literally a wonderful thing.

• LGBT Community.

So, I do still a little bit like an outsider in this community, a participant who often gets missed BUT I also love it so much. I love the camaraderie and the support and the love and just, they all get it. They understand the coming out issues. The struggles of not being heteronormative. And they will be there for you as much as they can be.

• #AsexualityAwareness Week

This may seem odd in here but honestly, this is so incredible. When I was a teenager I didn't even know asexuality existed and now there's an awareness week for it. I mean, how wonderful is that? Someone may be struggling to understand themselves, struggling to fit in and then they might stumble across something online this week and it might just click for them and that is just incredible to think about.

• Helping Others.

Okay, I am not going to go out on a limb here and say that my coming out post on here did help people but I do know that some people have come to me to say they understand themselves a little better now. I know that I've been thanked for my words and supported by a lot of people. So while I know I may not be making a huge difference in the world, if by being out and proud of being Ace helps make a huge difference to one person's world, then I'll take it. We all need to support each other.

• Educating Others.

I'm not a teacher and while I used to want to be a teacher, I no longer feel I could do the job. However coming out as ace to some of my friends was an interesting experience because despite having trans, bi and gay friends, they had never heard of asexuality. So it meant that I could educate my friends on what my sexuality is. What it means for me and how it differs from person to person. Meaning that my friends now have a further understanding of the world that they didn't have before and that is pretty spectacular.

• No More Pretending.

When I was growing up, I had to try hard to fit in. I had to talk about boys in a way that I never truly felt and I was worried that people would work out that something was wrong with me so I even went so far as to date boys too. Needless to say it never worked out. But now that I'm out in the open about everything, I no longer have to say things like: "I would get into his bed so fast, the world would collapse." - And yes, I have said things like this before now.

• I am who I am.

I know who I am. It's such a weird concept and it's hard to describe to people who have never truly had that clarifying feeling about their lives but now that I understand more about asexuality, now that I know what it is and that I relate to it, I feel so much more confident in myself. I feel at peace with my body. I no longer have to try and get it to feel something deep inside when looking at other people because I am fully comfortable in the understanding that I never will. I can appreciate physically attractive people on a base level and then continue on with my life without ever thinking of them again.

That's all I can think of right now. I am sure there are more but mostly I am just happy to be "out of the closet" (even if I hate that expression) because I feel so much more comfortable but I also know that there are reasons to not share your asexualness with people. So I want to finish by saying that please do not feel pressure to tell the world about your sexuality. You need to do what is right for you. But I also want you to know that no matter who you are or where you are, I will always be here for you.

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My Sexuality.

I’ve known that I was a little different to other girls in regards to romance and sex from a fairly early age. I remember having sleepovers at 13 and we’d all go round in a circle and confess who our crush was. And when it came to me, I always drew a blank. I had no answer, and my friends thought I was being coy and no fun. But the truth was that I just didn’t like any of the boys at our school.

As a teen, I put this down to having a lot going on in my life and not having the time to focus on sex and boys. I mean, my mum was sick with cancer and a lot of my free time was taken up with that, which was a perfectly viable explanation for my lack of hormones and attraction towards guys right?

Over my school years I was asked out by a few guys, all of which I turned down. Partly because I was point blank terrified of commitment, but also because I wasn’t attracted to them. When people asked me about celebrity crushes, I grabbed for names and said the obvious ones like Zac Efron and Sam Claflin (although I’ll admit, both of these crushes were pretty genuine). When we talked about ‘girl crushes’ though, I became so animated. I had about 5 actresses and musicians ready to go in my head, and I remember having these ‘girl crushes’ as far back as the age of 12.

Turns out, they were just the regular kind of crush.

I didn’t realise I was bisexual until I was about 18. When I tell people this, they’re pretty shocked and often respond with ‘Surely you knew sooner?’ and maybe subconsciously I did. But heteronormativity is rampant in our society, and whilst I supported LGBTQ+ rights from a young age, I never let myself think that I was maybe a member of the community too.

As soon as I realised this, everything in my life made so much more sense. All that jealousy about when some of my friends got boyfriends, all the actresses I looked up to and adored, all the female characters I loved and were obsessed with. As soon as I realised I was attracted to girls, there was no way of denying it.

It’s taken me two and a half years to become fully comfortable with the label and myself. There have been many times I’ve questioned it, and I’ve spent a lot of time, especially in recent months, questioning whether I am in fact bisexual or gay, but I have and do sometimes experience attraction to men – just not nearly as much as I do with women.

I still struggle telling people in real life sometimes. There are a number of times in the past four weeks at University I could’ve just told people, but instead I sat back instead, stumbling over the words. I told myself before coming to University that I wanted to be totally open about my sexuality, but when it comes to the crunch I panic. It almost makes me angry that I even have to tell people, that people just assume I’m straight unless I explicitly state otherwise.

My journey with my sexuality has been long and one that is still ongoing. But I know that even compared to last year I am so much more comfortable and happy with who I am, and hopefully that can continue into the future.

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What I Wish I Could Have Told You

As I mentioned way back at the beginning of this year, I’ve been having some difficulties with my physical health for a while now. Over the summer I was put through physio which was actually really helpful and every day that passed made me feel stronger and less weak but underneath it all, I still felt overwhelmingly tired and there were days when my muscles literally felt dead and my joints just screamed at me. As far as I’m concerned, these things were not normal.

So I booked another doctors appointment because I would really like to get to the bottom of everything now. Unfortunately my regular doctor wasn’t available at a convenient time for me so I had to book with a different doctor. This was the first thing that went wrong.

Now I am not in the dark about my weight. I am 100% aware that I am in the “obese” category of BMI calculators. I am also very much aware that I have put on a lot of weight recently - which is often what happens when an active person is physically unable to exercise regularly but you know… whatever.

But I am also 100% sure that my weight is not my overall health problem at the moment. I am very certain that my weight is exasperating the situation. That if I lost the pounds, I may not be in as much pain but I am also certain that I would still be in pain as I am positive that there is an underlying problem going on.

Of course, my belief of this in my own body is hard to portray to a doctor in 10mins. So in a way I am not surprised that she blamed all of my issues on my weight but at the same time, I am devastated. It felt like all of my concerns about my own well being were being dismissed. That I was just wasting her time and my time when all I needed to do was lose some weight and stop complaining. I felt like I was taking up too much space - which I feel enough without the help of a doctor basically saying it to my face.

But the real problem was that the second she mentioned my weight. The minute she told me that I was in pain because there was extra strain on my muscles and that I was tired because when you become short of breath after exercise you generally are tired, the fight went out of me. I became submissive and passive, agreeing with her instead of arguing that I knew that and this wasn’t that.

At one point I tried to tell her how active I used to be and she just gave me this look that took my breath away and nearly made me cry right in front of her; she didn’t believe me.

So today, I want to say those things that I should have said in that room. Because I need to explain to someone that I am not okay and it is not just because of my weight.

• I have always been overweight. I have always been active and energetic and I actually kind of love doing exercise. The fact I wasn’t in pain before now makes me believe I’m not feeling this just because of my weight.
• I am napping in the middle of the day. Maybe not a huge thing for most but I have never been able to nap. I could never get so tired that I needed to nap.
• I am always tired. I have been tired from the age of 16 onwards but I still managed to do things. The tiredness I have now is different. It is exhaustion at it’s highest point. There are days when I simply cannot wake up and get out of bed.
• I went from running 10k to barely being able to walk 5 mins without being in excruciating pain.
• I am getting frequent migraines which never happened before. I have noticed that my trigger is over-doing it. If I’ve pushed myself too hard, my body repays me with a migraine.
• I miss being active so much. It is metaphorically killing me not to be able to go for a run or a gym session or a swim easily.
• Before this, I very rarely went to the doctors because I hate them and I just dealt with whatever was thrown at me. I don’t make a fuss of things. I am now because I know deep down that something is really wrong.

Maybe next time I will be able to make the doctor understand. But for now it is back to waiting and hurting and dealing. For now, it is just getting on with life, one day at a time.

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Hitting the Wall (of Denial and Regret)

I think like most people, I am guilty of living in some denial and regret in certain aspects of my life.

When it comes to a chronic illness, it's just that CHRONIC. It doesn't go away, it can't be cured only treated and those treatments change and sometimes fail. It takes time to become comfortable with what you have, what is wrong with you and how you go about living with it.

I've always embraced my illness. I figured the sooner I accept it, the better I will feel right? I was half right. Whilst I did accept my illness and how it was going to always be in my life, I didn't always like the fact that it was always going to be in my life.  It's difficult to come to terms with that; the long term, chronic part of IBD. Not that any physical aspect of my illness is particular pleasant but it's the people I've met; the resilience, bravery and positive humour they show that keeps me going; it's what I strive to emulate.

So you get use to denying how you feel. You tell your doctors you're happy to go ahead with new treatments when previous ones fail: because your body is immunosuppressed or it's just plain useless or has it in for you. You don't tell them that you're angry that this condition picked you – because it's not genetic, I didn't give myself this illness, ITS NOT MY FREAKING FAULT! – or that you're tired of them trying new treatment after new treatment. You hope and pray every time you do start a new treatment or drug that this is the one that works. That it is the one that gives you some relief from the pain and / or symptoms you're experiencing. You hope you don't live to regret your decision to take harsher and more potent medications.

I don't support this living in denial or the regret of what could have been, I try to live in the moment and remain positive. I did this more than ever during my most recent hospital admission where they ended up taking my colon and giving me a ileostomy. But even with that, I have to talk myself into believe I made the right choices and I am happy with how my life is being lived. For the most part, I convince myself of this. I accept my reality and move on, do all those things a ‘a normal and healthy’ person can do.  But even I have my limits. And my triggers.

One is my actual supply of ostomy appliances. Their smell fresh from the box reminds me of all that I have lost and what I need to do for the rest of my life – change my appliance every other day and empty it 5-6 times a day. It doesn't hold me back but it makes me stop and think, I remember living with a colon for so long it's still very odd to not have it. And once my body is healed from this surgery, will my mind be healed? I doubt it. It is so very strong my doubt; I deny myself the feeling that this is not okay and that I'm only 28 for Christ sake! This is new and scary and I don't know how long that feeling will last. So I push myself to be okay with it all, not deal with the fact that I am scared because I've faked being okay with this to every one: I don't want to let them down, let their opinion of me change, of not being so brave and courageous. I don't want to be a failure to them.

 I will occasionally have moments where it is too much. And learning how to deal with them is an uphill struggle, a steep learning curve. But that is okay. I need to hear it's okay.

But.. I wouldn't want to live without my denial or regret. I think those two emotions keep me fresh. Let me explain; if I didn't feel a small twinge of regret and what if and wondering why I was still in agony, I  would never have sought medical attention in August and my diseased colon would have killed me. There is no one set way to solve the problems that arise with IBD and every patient is different, even though we do follow certain patterns. If I didn't suffer with some sort of denial; I wouldn't be human. I would be a robot.

Sometimes you just need to be reassured that feeling those ‘negative’ emotions is okay. It's a part of life, a part of being a human and it's part of this recovery. It keeps you soft in world where it is so easy to be hard and cold.

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Safe Space Talks University

University is a big change for a lot of people. At eighteen it is potentially your first time of being truly independent, the first time responsibility is placed on your shoulders. It is also full of other people in similar boats and people in different boats. It can be a scary and exciting thing all at the same time. So today a few of us Safe Spacers are here to tell you about our experiences with university.

Faye: Before I went to university I actually spent a year on my own in Canada so going to uni did not feel like a big step to me, not really. For once I would at least be in the same country as my mum. But University was an entirely different kettle of fish than Canada had been. In Canada I had a job and could more or less keep to myself. University was people all the time. It was social. It was drinking. It was loud. It was an adjustment. In my first year I experimented. I went out drinking with friends, flirted, danced, experienced. I did a little more of it in second year and by third I realised it just wasn’t me. I didn’t like partying. I didn’t like drinking. I didn’t feel comfortable in clubs and bars. So I stopped going. And I wish I had done that in first year. Because university doesn’t have to be all drinking and play, it can be about just being you and learning. And somewhere you should find someone who feels exactly the same way. So if you’re worried because you don’t particularly want to party, don’t let that stop you. Go to uni and just don’t party. It’ll be fine, I promise.

Ray: My university experience is actually still on-going even though I originally began my studies in 2009. It didn’t start well; I had to go through Clearing & ended up at Aberystwyth University way out in the wilds of Wales. Don’t get me wrong it’s a gorgeous place but it was 3 hours by train from home & I wasn’t exactly great at making friends. My course wasn’t what I’d hoped & I never even had a meeting with my personal tutor. I got pretty isolated and spent most of my time in my room on the internet (oh hang on…) so by the time I got into my second year my enjoyment for the course had plummeted and since I’d have to do a year abroad for my 3rd year I decided dropping out before I tanked my grades was the best option.

Fast forward to 2012 when I signed up to the Open University just before the fees hiked up to try and finish my degree the way I wanted, doing the modules which interested me. I recently started what should be my final module so if all goes to plan (and I don’t bugger everything up), I should have a Open Degree with Honours by next July. If I’m really lucky it’ll be a 2:1.

It’s been a slog, I’m atrocious at time management, particularly when I have all the free time in the world. Somehow I get more done when I’m working full time at a school, studying both for the OU & a TA diploma and trying to write a book - riddle me that would you kindly? If you are unfortunate enough to follow me on twitter then you might have seen the epic lengths I go to in procrastinating my assignments - I’m not exaggerating when I say that maybe 5 out the 7 essays I did for my module last year were almost entirely written either on the deadline day or the day before. I can’t imagine how I would’ve coped at a traditional Uni with a dissertation.

I wonder sometimes if I should have bothered with Uni at all. I went more because I felt I was expected to go, because I was “smart” and academically “gifted” although that basically means fuck all after the age of 12. For the most part I never got into the “student lifestyle” and it’s not something I ever really cared about. I cared more about the education aspect which is hilarious because I’ve since realised that I hate learning stuff only to be assessed on it and I’m a terrible student. Just let me read books on stuff, don’t ask me to write essays about it & certainly not essays in french. Don’t go to university because others expect it of you, go because it’s what you truly want to do.

Louise: Leaving home at eighteen was a daunting but exciting time for me. It was the first taste of proper freedom and I was going to relish it, I remember thinking on A Level results day. I was going to be moving 130 miles away to Norwich to study; I couldn't have picked a further away place to do my course if I tried. It also included studying abroad for a year, something that pulled me in event further when I applied.

But once I'd arrived in halls and realised just how far I was away from home and my creature comforts, the more daunted and scared I became. This wasn't normal was it, to feel overwhelmed by being alone for the first time, ever? 

That first semester was hard for me; I was studying something completely new to me, I began to regret my degree choice and wanted to drop out. I found it difficult to make friends with people on my course because I felt I knew nothing compared to them. My housemates were constantly out clubbing and I preferred films and good food – still do. I never confided how I felt to anyone, even when I returned home at Christmas, I didn't want to be seen as a failure. I'm glad I didn't because university life did get easier for me.

It was only when I came to realise that I could really find out who I was whilst being on my own here in a new city, learning new things, meeting new people, having new experiences. And I did just that, explore. I found out what I truly am capable of. My year abroad only strengthen that. Those years – from the tender age of eighteen all the way to a ripe twenty-two year old – shaped me. And even though many people would say that I have wasted my time and money on a degree I don't even use, I don't regret it for one second. My life would be infinitely different without my time at university mixed in there.

Lily: My University experience is a bit of a tumultuous one that is very much still ongoing, as I’m a few weeks into my second attempt at first year. I went to University at 18 in Sussex near Brighton, fresh out of school. My first few weeks were fun but nothing outstanding, and I was finding it hard to socialise with anyone in my flat and all my other friends lived elsewhere. About 5 weeks in my mental health took a turn for the worst and I knew I needed to get out. It wasn’t the responsibility or looking after myself that was the problem - I’d basically been doing that since I was 14. But the pressure of academic work was getting with me and I was feeling increasingly isolated. So I took the decision to leave University indefinitely and go out and work. Six months in, whilst working in the United States, I realised I did want to go back and study, but not quite yet. I had submitted an application to UCAS in January to appease my Dad and so I accepted a place at a University in the Midlands, but deferred for a year to give myself some time.

Three weeks ago and nearing the big 21st birthday I moved into halls again, ready for a fresh start. So far it has been good - I get on well with some of my flatmates, and have quite a few other friends in my building, the work has been relatively interesting and I’ve been keeping busy. I won’t lie when I say I’m a little worried about hitting that 5 week mark again, but this time already feels different. I have friends in my flat, I know how to handle my mental health, and I just keep telling myself, if I managed 3 months across the Atlantic by myself, I can surely manage 12 weeks a 3 hour drive away from home right?!

In all seriousness though, University is about balance. Sometimes you just don’t feel like or don’t have the time to go on that bar crawl. Sometimes you need to take a break from that deadline and go and eat some chocolate cake. Listening to yourself and what you need, and talking to others is so important.

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What Is Love? (Baby Don't Hurt Me)

I haven’t really got the right work/life balance yet.

So I apologise for my tardiness and shall strive to become slightly less rubbish at getting posts up on time.

Anyway, aside from my inability to juggle everything effectively there’s one thing that has been on my mind lately. And that’s love.

I went to see Bridget Jones on Friday evening with a few friends and I found myself crying at the end of the film; not through sadness but genuine, heart-pounding, stomach-spinning happiness. If you haven’t seen the film yet then I don’t want to spoil it but it doesn’t give anything away if I mention that Bridget gets her Happy Ever After.

Since then I’ve been thinking about the whole notion of love and happy-ever-afters and getting myself thoroughly stressed out by the whole thing.

I don’t believe that there’s one person out there for us all; I think it’s naïve to believe we can only ever find one other person on the entire planet who is meant for us. But I also believe that true love isn’t easy to come by. In my twenty three years I’ve been lucky enough to be in love twice. People often say ‘how can you love more than one person?’ ‘what is love anyway?’ ‘how do you know you’ve ever been in love?’

Tricky questions but the beauty of love is that it’s completely subjective to the person who is feeling it. The love I’ve had for two of my partners wasn’t the same. I loved them fiercely but in different ways because they were different people. During both relationships I was content and confident enough to know that I would happily spend the rest of my life with them by my side. (It wasn’t to be, I’m great at getting dumped but still the sentiment remains that when you know, you know.)

Sometimes love isn’t meant to last, sometimes it’s fleeting and beautiful and you have to make the most of it. But I’ve got to an age where I want to find something long term and settle down and find my forever person who I can grow old with. People scoff when I say I feel like I’m running out of time to find someone. ‘You’re only 23’ ‘you’re so young’ etc but age doesn’t matter. When you feel like you’re ready to settle down, you’re ready, whatever age you are.

When my relationship broke up earlier this year I was left in a sort of blind panic about my future. I, stupidly, was convinced that I’d found my forever person already and that I’d never have to worry about first dates again or worry about finding someone who could deal with my weirdness. And suddenly to find myself single with the prospect of having to one day get back into the dating game made me feel completely nauseous. 

I’m slowly feeling less terrified about the whole thing but I still don’t feel like I’m ready to let someone into my life again in that way. And that’s the inner turmoil in my head right now. I want to settle down and find someone but at the same time I’m scared of letting someone into my life again in case they too walk out.

And watching Bridget Jones made me think that everything happens for a reason; what’s meant to be will be. Perhaps I have to stop worrying and stressing about my love life, perhaps the moment I least expect it is the moment I’ll find my future husband. *crosses fingers* Or perhaps I just need to remind myself I’m 23 and I have plenty of time to settle down.

There’s so much pressure from other people my age who are getting married and having kids and it scares me knowing that my own parents were already married by my age. It feels like there’s a timer ticking down to the moment when it’s too late for me to find my happy ever after but I mean, if Bridget Jones can find her happy ending then I can, right?!

There’s so much emphasis on love and relationships in the modern world and you can’t go a day without seeing something that makes your heart sink a little when you realise you don’t have anyone to cuddle up to at night or talk to about your day or snuggle and watch a film with. I love being single and the freedom that comes with it but there are always moments in my day that I wish I could share with someone, or text them about and it’s always nice to know you have someone waiting with a hug for you at the end of the day.

NOW I’M JUST BEING DEPRESSING.

Soz.

But I'm not the only twenty-something panicking about never settling down and being destined for the life of a crazy cat lady, right?! 

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