Edinburgh

19th August

Days off Snow: 106

Days till Snow: 78

I went on holiday. For the first time in 6 years I went on holiday. Admittedly it was on the doctors orders that I went.

Ally is a friend I found in Canada, he was sleeping with my best friend while I was seeing his best friend. We found ourselves in a little bit of a gang. Like those Richard Curtis sitcoms you see. We sort of acted like each others crutches through the ups and downs of the last couple of months of the season. With Ally taking a year out of uni due to depression and me suffering with the downs that the last part of the season brings. Any way he’s now living back home back in Edinburgh so I thought I better go and visit.

Being away has made me realise how sick I actually am. I took to city site seeing in the same way that I take everything. Do everything at once, fill your head with so much that I no longer have to deal with myself, dragging poor Ally along with me. The world famous Edinburgh fringe was one while I was up there so I made it my mission to see as many free shows as possible. A lot of them where very good, a lot of them where very not. We where out of the house from lunch time until the early hours of the morning. Hardly eating and drinking a lot (or at least for me).

I did have a really really good time. Walking into Ally’s childhood home reminded me of walking into my Grandparents home, right down to the knives that have been used so much that they are almost half moon shaped. I was overwhelmed by their intense kindness and how they treated me almost as their own. At no point did either of his parents ask what I’m doing now or why I’m not a uni. A welcome change from the normal grilling I get from the grown ups down here.

Apart from the occasional tears in a show and a fairly drunk home walk with Ally I felt that I kept it together through the trip. Not really letting on how stressful I found the whole ordeal. At least until I found myself having a full break down in Edinburgh airport, much to the disgust of the disgustingly middle-class English family sitting next to me.

I don’t know what it was, or why I found it so hard. But I am not well, regardless of whatever name the mental health professionals give it. While I’ve found the last three weeks of therapy intensely interesting and difficult I’ve struggled to grasp that this is actually happening to me. A middle class north Londoner who had an idyllic childhood and no trauma to speak of. And it’s something that I’m probably going to have to deal with for the rest of my life.

I worry that I will never be able to have permanent relationships, I worry that no one will ever love me, I worry that it’ll effect my career. I worry that I’ll never be successful.

Everyone I’ve spoken to so far about it has always told me about the positive side of bipolar, how many successful people there are around who suffer from it. It was even described by my GP as almost having a super power. I didn’t really realise how devastating it could also be, I just assumed that was something that happened on TV.

Ally has an adopted brother, technically he’s Ally’s cousin. His brith mum suffered from an extreme version of Bipolar, making herself unsuitable to raise a child. Allys Grandmother was also a sufferer, leaving his mother alone to raise her two sisters.

Although I’m still undiagnosed, reading between the lines of the psychologist it seems like I could be on the bipolar spectrum. I have a Psychiatrists appointment on the 2nd, to see if he can shed light on the situation. I’m scared. I don’t even know if I can go back to Canada unmedicated and without a support system out there. It was pretty bad last time, it could be worse this time.

It wasn’t a F*cking Holiday!

7th August

Days off snow: 94

Days till snow: 90

If I got a quid for every time some tells me: “you’ve just spent 6 month on holiday” I would be able to go on holiday for 6 months.

So for all of you who don’t believe that teaching skiing is a real job, or that my career is just one big laugh I thought I would map out a typical day on the hill in the middle of February. Also if there’s anyone considering doing just one season or joining the industry, hopefully this will give you an idea of the realities of it all

5:50am – Roommates alarm goes off, she gets up, showers and gets ready for the day. You’re in a shared room with kitchenette and bathroom, regardless of wether its your day off or not, you have to wake up together.

6:30am- Alarm goes off. Get up into a poorly heated room, try and work out the temperature. Normally mid February is between -20 and -30. Put on thermals, leggings, compression shorts, two pairs of trackies and ski trousers on the bottom and two thermal tops, two t-shirts, two jumpers on the top.

6:45am – eat breakfast number 1, bagel and butter, put tea in a thermos.

6:50am- pack bag: extra layers (down vest and down jacket), clean dry socks to change into up the hill so the sweat from feet don’t freeze in boots, lunch (usually last nights dinner, mainly carbs and cheese), goggles, neck warmer, hat, two pairs of gloves, wallet, headphones, lift pass, water bottle.

7:00am – brush teeth, put (the wrong shoes on, head downstairs to get bus.

7:10am – Bus arrives, providing there wasn’t heavy snow or that it dropped below -35 degrees over night.

7:45am – Bus arrives up the hill at boot-up, sort of a staff room for staff on the hill. Put on an extra layer. change into clean dry socks, put boots on (cry because fuck race boots), grab helmet, goggles, gloves, skis and poles. Laugh at all the hungover people.

8:00am – ski down to main chalet/building, check in a snow school desk. Either help out with admin behind the desk or head down to the office to help with scheduling instructors for the day. Occasionally help the transport guys with parking (standing out in the cold for 3 hours) to make up hours for the week.

8:30am -Breakfast no.2 anything from banana bread to hash browns, depends on what’s available and cheap in the canteen.

8:45am – first line up, roll call taken. any messages from snow school director given. 9am lessons given out.

9:00am – 1st lesson. If no lesson free hour to go skiing or session (an hours training taken by a senior member of the snow school) Lifts open.

10:00 am – 2nd lesson. Majority of lessons start now. If you get a kids camp, like an all day snow school, you’d start teaching now. It would be very rare not to get a 10am lesson

11:00am – 3rd lesson line up or check in for kids camp. If you’re teaching a beginner kids camp (a common lesson for a 1st year instructor) you would have walked up the carpet around 20 times and your kids would be stopping in a plough between 20% and 50% of the time.

12:00pm – Lunch, if you’re on a kids camp you get a full hours lunch but you have to supervise the kids over lunch. 8 six year olds in a busy canteen is chaos.

12:30 pm – If not on kids camp, 4th lesson line up or events work (putting up fences, snow packing, other manual labor work to make up hours)

1:00 pm- End of kids camp lunch, try and make sure all the kids have eaten something, have the equipment they came in with and have been to the toilet. Try and get all the kids in skis before 1:15.

1:16 pm – a kid will need the toilet, usually half way up the lift.

1:30 pm – Kids camp check in, any children joining the group for the afternoon will join now and undoubtably slow the rest of the group down. The morning gang with be stopping 50% -100% of the time in snowplough and will usually be able to turn at least left or right, depending on dominate side. Afternoon kids won’t be able to put skis on.

2:30pm – last line up. If you’re lucky enough not to have a 2:30 lesson or be on kids camp you can go skiing or home or whatever you fancy.

3:30pm – kids camp finishes. One parent will always be late and you’ll miss the 3:45 bus.

3:50pm – kids parents finally show up oblivious of time, you rush to get last lift so that you don’t have to walk up to boot up.

4:03pm – get to boot up. Take boots off, wait for blood to return to toes, delayer, lay everything out on dryers and strategically in lockers to so that it doesn’t freeze over night and drys out. Always forget sweaty socks from the morning.

4:15pm – walk down from boot up, get soggy toes from poor footwear choice.

4:20pm – Hang around in chalet with other members of staff, be mildly annoyed that you missed last call on the bar. Try and hitch-hike but realise that you missed most of the crowds.

5:00pm – bus supposed to arrive. Water freezes while waiting for bus as sun starts setting.

5:10 pm- bus actually arrives

5:20 pm – bus finally leaves

6:00 pm – bus arrives back accommodation. Promise yourself to cook, actually buy shitty oven pizza from convince store that costs more than three pints.

6:15 pm – get home and curse that roommate got in the shower first.

6:30 pm – sit down on bed and stare into space, usually with backpack still on a fully kitted up from day on the hill.

6:45 pm – slowly de-layer until down to last layer of thermals. Ignore texts to as if you’re going out tonight.

7:00 pm – Roomate out of shower, asks (announces) if you can hold pre’s

7;01pm – Agree, and agree to cook everyone pancakes

7:10 pm – send mass group text round asking if anyone has any eggs/milk/flour

7:11 pm- finally get in shower, first time you’ve felt warm all day.

7:30pm – get dressed into something moderately clean and start cooking for the boys that turn up everyday because they know you’ll feed them.

8:00pm – all of Austraila arrives with loads of captain Morgan’s

11:00pm – get kicked out of accommodation for making too much noise, walk into town in -20

12:30am – The worst night club in the world

2:30 am – lights on, Mr Brightside comes on.

2:45am – Walk home with the person you promised yourself you wouldn’t fuck this time.

3:00 am – drunk sex

4:00 am – be sick

5:00 am – roommate turns up

5:50 am – Roommate gets up, kick boy out. Hate yourself for drinking too much, curse that you’re too old for it all, do it all again with the addition of 3 litres of coke and go to bed at 7:30.

Snow

1st August

I wake up every day and wish I was happy. Its safe to say that this time round the Citalopram isn’t quite as effective as it was the first. At least that’s another a solution to a problem that doesn’t quite work.

Not that I help myself particularly. I’ve spoken before about how I don’t go on holiday, this year is no different. I find myself home alone for the next two weeks. I haven’t been on holiday with my parents since I was 17. Lugging myself round Europe in a camper van with them is a little bit claustrophobic. Normally by this time of year I’ve got a summer fling to distract myself with. I’m normally taking full advantage of my free house and memory foam mattress. This year though is very different, although I’ve tried my best to break my summer of celibacy it’s not exactly working. It doesn’t help that Netflix has released some crackers recently and I’m more invested in binge watching than making small talk with a boring geography graduate.

Even the dogs managed to go on holiday this year, leaving me truly alone. I didn’t realise how lonely it’ll be. Tomorrow is my day off, somehow I doubt that I’ll speak to anyone. This isn’t the first time I’ve lived on my own. For the last bit of the winter I lived by myself. I really enjoyed it. My own space, my own food, my own terms. But I also had people all around me. People I enjoyed spending time with just two doors down. Theres a big difference between being in a house on your own and a flat in a block of friends by yourself.

I’m finding it really hard to make friends this summer. My old school friends are all in semi-permeant relationships. I struggle with most of my colleagues, they’re not bad people and can be fairly amusing to work with but I doubt I’ll make the effort to stay in touch. There are various old work colleagues and childhood friends that suggest trips to the pub or coffee. I can’t really face it. I don’t want to have to explain my life choices to them anymore. There was one school friend (never worked a day in his life) who told me I could work as his secretary after he finishes his masters and starts his million pound job (that doesn’t exist). I nearly hit him.

I’m really missing snow.

All the netflix shows that I’m more committed to than human relationships show characters in friendship groups. People need people. I find it so hard. I spend my whole day talking to fake boring people the last thing I want to do is go and sell myself to more fake boring people, therefore making myself fake and boring.

For me, snow is friends, and although next season will be new people and I’ll be even further away from that influx of 18/19 year olds on their first season. It’ll be nice to have people around with common ground. There will be old faces as well, I’m sure.

Authenticity.

20 July

Days off Snow: 77

Days Til Snow: 107

I hate being around faux people. I don’t understand the point of it.

Its been a heavy weekend, putting in 12 hour shifts at the shop and then getting in to a car to help and old friend out with cooking for staff at a festival.

When I was 14 I got a job washing dishes in a pub, two years later I was cooking. While everyone else my age was pretending to be 18 on their siblings ID at Reading Festival, I was working split shifts churning out high quality pub food. I still look back on that summer very fondly. I loved cooking and I loved being in the kitchen. Being surrounded by hard working people dedicated to their craft, I’ve never been in a situation like it. No matter how hard I work, my superiors where working harder.

A lot has changed since then, coffee shops cater to a different group of people. But I sell sub standard food, pretending to be home made and fresh, to the middle classes where image is everything. Its such a contradiction to the festival I was working at. I was working with an old colleague from the pub, a couple of times it felt like being 16 again. Everyone we where serving where people working at the festival, from the people who cleaned the toilets up to the headlining artists. The amazing thing was that there was no pretentiousness. Everyone who was there was grateful to be fed. They chatted with us, laughed at our jokes included us in conversation and thanked us for the food.

In the coffee shop I feel very much that I am there to serve. Theres a constant stream of questions and complaints. “My Coffees cold?”, “Why don’t you have coconut milk?”, “Clean my table.” Its soul destroying. Of course there are my favourite customers, one I can have a giggle with. But I am always there to serve.

I miss cooking. I didn’t realise until I went back to it. I wouldn’t want to go back to the intense lifestyle of being a professional chef. But I hate trying to sell shit food to people, pretending to pass it off as my own when all I did was defrost it in an oven.

Skiing can be a bit like this as well. In the instructor world its all about how well you can ski. Theres constant competition. I’m probably the worst for it. I refuse to be out-skied by cocky boys. There are also punters on the slopes with all their gear, very conscious of the image they’re putting out. It’s not fun. There was a point last season where I’d fallen out with skiing so much I considered giving it up all together.

I started skiing with snowboarders and park skiers. It was fun to be a bit of a jerry. I can just about land a 180 and even then its not pretty. But everyone in the park is just happy to have you there. You can watch someone nail a gnarly 540 cork, but he’ll get psyched over you not killing yourself on a dodgy box slide. Kids are the same, they just want to have fun. They don’t care about you being too far forward in your boots or wether you’re turning with the upper body, they want to know if they can ski through the trees and sing them stupid songs on the chair lift.

It really is true, that the best skier is the skier having fun.

Obsession to Depression

June 14th

Days off snow: 70

Days til Snow: 114

So I went. I did it. Or rather my dad did. My fathers compulsion to fix things meant I found myself on the sweaty sweaty tube being shipped off to a prestigious Harley Street clinic.

I went through the NHS for my first round of therapy. It was a group session in a dusty corner of a local surgery. Everyone was older than me apart from this one kid that was more in love with the idea of having depression than rather suffering from a real stress disorder. There where two CBT therapist, one had a strong spanish accent and while I think she was capable I struggled to keep up with how fast she spoke. The other one was younger and I’m pretty sure I’d matched him on tinder at some point in my long and partially successful tinder career. He refused to make eye contact and seemed nervous all the time. We where given work books to work through. I found it all a little bit patronising and useless. Although I am grateful that my GP got me a place on the course and that things like that are available to me.

CBT fundamentally works by changing the way you think and how your brain is wired. When you learn, you learn by build paths and connections in your brain. The idea behind CBT is that you build paths in your brain to trick you into positive thinking. CBT also gives you coping strategies when you find yourself down and anxious.

As far as I’m aware its a well respected part of psychology for people suffering from stress disorders with no previous history of mental health problems. It was explained to me that it would be extremely effective if you where having panic attacks before exams or struggling with grief. Which I suppose I was when I first went through it. But now its been nearly three years and it has only got worse.

So, anyway, Harley street is beautiful. By the way, If you ever find yourself in Marylebone (good luck Americans/Canadians pronouncing that) go and have a wander around. It’s a lot nicer than Kensington/Mayfair. The clinic was a lot smaller than I imagined. It was just a small office in the bottom of a townhouse. It was obviously very expensive and I kept getting really distracted by the feet walking outside just above the psychologist lady. I was originally put off by her, she reminded me of the mothers of girls I went to school with who’d always look down on me for my scruffy appearance.

She asked me questions that where difficult to answer, and I talked for almost an hour. I tried to make her laugh and she did every now and again. For the last 10 minutes she explained what she thought what was going on, while it wasn’t a full diagnosis, I’ve got to go to another session.

Basically, since I’ve been a teenager, I’ve lived in boom-bust cycles, where I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits in order to achieve. I then knacker myself out, forget that I’m human, working to the absolute limit and then I crash. The bigger the achievement the bigger the crash. It was basically a combination of perfectionism and low self-esteem. Striving to be the absolute best, feeling that it isn’t the best and then putting yourself in a pit, feeling like you aren’t achieving and sending yourself off on another mission to achieve. It’s ultimately not sustainable. As the achievements increase my pits get lower.

The question is why am I like this, do I have low self-esteem and obsessions with success because I am on the autistic spectrum. It would explain my lack of permanent friendships, but then again I don’t find it hard to read social queues and am an effective communicator (I’d like to think anyway).

Or is it something different, the boom bust cycles are something that is associated with Bi-polar. It would explain a lot in someways. When I told my mum she wasn’t in the slightest suprised. Theres definitely been periods in my life where, looking back, I’ve felt manic. Maybe not full on mania, even the psychologist said it would be a lower level of bi-polar, such as bi-polar 2,3 or 4. It would also explain why I find it difficult to relate to other people who suffer from clinical depression. I can feel myself going manic now, I’ve become obsessed with my appearance, consider the 40 hours of work a week on my feet not enough. I also want to get back on the horse, get another job, study a degree and nail next years season. The crash will be inevitable. Maybe it’s never been noticed before because the mania has been disguised as ambition. It would also explain why I can either sleep for 19 hours in a row or find myself learning about war journalism at 2am. The vibrance and the intelligence I credited to anxiety could be hypomania. The fact that citalopram hasn’t been working as well as it did last time could also be a sign of it.

Although I haven’t been formally diagnosed and there’s a whole other session to get through of kicking up dust to actually realise what’s going on. It’s nice to know. Its nice to know that the depression I experience isn’t forever and its not just me being a pathetic little rich girl.

I think about death all the time/ Do you think that’s morbid?

7th July

Days off snow: 63

I think about my own mortality a lot. I think about what life would be like without me, how it would effect my parents and brother, who would look after the horse, if I’d leave, leaving an impact. I also think about things like what songs I’d like played at my funeral or that I’d want to be buried rather than cremated. Not sure I’d go for that whole black thing either. I don’t know wether this is normal or not. I remember being a lot younger and being able to picture myself in the future. Now I struggle on ,good days to see past 6 months and on bad 24 hours.

I’ve never really admitted to anyone that I have suicidal thoughts. It worries me that I’d get sectioned. Sometimes I do have an overwhelming desire to die. At the beginning of winter I definitely got so low that I asked my accommodations officer to give me a roommate because I worried that if I was living by myself that I would kill myself. I’ve compared severe depression and anxiety to having terminal illness before.

My Grandmother died when I was 19. I’ve got a whole series of essays and letters that I wrote around this time if anybody is interested in the aftermaths of cancer. My dad works with in the field and we ended up watching a documentary about T-cells. Its a cutting edge genetic treatment for liquid tutor cancers that are notoriously difficult to treat, like Leakeumia. While the treatment is gruelling and difficult it does have positive effects for some, both long and short term. Some of the patients in the trials find themselves cancer free for over 2 years and other just a matter of months. How the less successful patients see their inevitable death is incredibly interesting. In some ways I can completely relate. I have the same thoughts. The only thing is I have a choice where as they don’t. Or I like to convince myself that I do. In reality I really don’t know.

I think the desire to die does come with some relief though. It limits your fear. Maybe that’s why I’m successful at skiing, although I do get scared. I think I’d rather go skiing a gnarly line than being hit by a bus. At least there will be a story behind it. In the documentary “Free Solo” Alex Honnold also expresses similar sorts of feelings. Especially with regards to people in his life. He considers his death just something that’ll happen in their life.

While the drugs regulate my mood I find myself in a slow but steady decline rather than a constant grey. I don’t really know what to do about it, I find the side effects worse than last time. Frequently having nightmares and finding myself constantly tired. I’m supposed to start therapy soon but I’m slightly skeptical about CBT and find myself too nervous to call up and book the appointment.

Summer Holidays

1st July

Days off snow: 57

I haven’t been on a summer holiday in 5 years. For someone who moves every 4/6months I don’t travel particularly well. Theres a lot of anxiety based around holidays. Mainly because, like pretty much everyone else, I hate my body. Beach holidays are for the beautiful people and that, I certainly am not.

I’m 5ft3 (161cm) and more torso than leg. Its not a great a start really. Not particularly well proportioned. My feet are pretty fucked from being in ski boots for three seasons. My toenails are yellow and black and there are some pretty gnarly bone spurs on my arches and heels from where the liners have packed down and its rubbed in the same place continuously. I don’t dare let anyone go through the horrors of giving me a pedicure. Kind of rules out anything open toed. Vans aren’t beach wear.

As for my legs. They’re short. I’ve had ex boyfriends with longer arms than my legs. Depending on the time of year depends on the thunderous-ness of my legs. I can put on muscle pretty easily on my legs apparently. At the height of the ski season my thighs look like a baby body builders bicep. While I appreciate their strength, its not exactly what you’d call beautiful and it means I get to wear fat people trousers. Despite having a relatively strong core (thank you horses and skiing) my mid section is pretty flabby. I seem to carry most of my weight on my hips and middle. Giving that classic tyre look. Bikinis have been a no no for as long as I can remember. I think I once braved one in California when I was 16, not worth going through that again. In fact as I’ve got older swimwear of any sort is something I’ve tried to avoid, as well as anything super short, cropped tops and anything that shows too much of my back.

I’ve only ever been called beautiful once, and that was by a one night stand. It would be easier to explain what drugs he wasn’t on that the drugs he was. Theres a weird subtle Asymmetry to my face that rules out being traditionally pretty. I was told when I was 17 that I would be pretty if there wasn’t something wrong with my face, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. I have a weird pre-chubby jaw line, that in my old age will almost definitely turn into a turkey neck. Theres already a wrinkle forming on my forehead and loads of welts and scars all over my face and body where I’ve picked at my skin.

Two days ago I was told that I must find it really easy at halloween, because my hair is so wild. While they are not wrong, my hair is pretty wild. It’s a still a relatively offensive thing to say. I’ve even had an assistant in a hairdresser comment on my hair, asking if I know what a brush is. Anyone with vaguely curly hair in -20 will tell you that brushing it dry is a recipe for even more frizz than normal, and breakage.

I admire body positivity. I really do. For everyone out there that wears what they want despite not being a conventional size or shape I take my hat off to you. You have confidence that I do not. Theres a lot of adverts with different shapes and sizes in bikinis. While its a good thing that there are steps being taken normalise real female bodies, I do have a minor issue with them advertising an unhealthy lifestyle.

I’m not going to lie. In winter when I get assigned a lesson and I see someone of a larger size walking down the stairs my heart sinks a little bit. I’m being a bit stereotypical here, some of them have been fit enough and strong enough to learn to ski, but by and large, they haven’t even been flexible enough to do their own ski boots up. I then spend the next half an hour heaving them up off the snow before them giving up 2 hours short of the paid lesson.

Even though I really dislike the appearance of my body, it is functionally fit. I suppose all I’m saying is, from the point of view of someone who teaches a sport, by all means have whatever body you want, but try and be healthy. From my experience, it gets harder and harder to get fit, the less healthy you get.

All this talk of getting old

26th June

Days off snow: 52

“All this talk of getting old It’s getting me down my love
like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown
This time, I’m coming down
now the drugs don’t work, they just make you worse
But I know I’ll see your face again“
The Verve, The Drugs don’t work, 1997

Omg I’m so deep. Quoting indie lyrics from the year I was born. I was sooo born in the wrong era. It’s sickening and self absorbed. It’s attention seeking narcism. There is honestly nothing worse than a selfie with a song lyric underneath. Only yesterday I was sneering at a Instagram story of a girl posting about how sad she was. Accompanied with black and white moody photos where she looked hopelessly glamorous.

Its the sort of fucking self perpetuating glamorisation of mental health in females that fucking sucks. As you can tell its something that I feel quite strongly about. Probably comes from the whole damsel in destress thing that we love to have going on. We really don’t help ourselves. Having a mental illness is an accessory now. It’s fashionable. I don’t think I have ever seen an accurate representation of how I feel on telly or in books. Apart from the BBC documentary with Alistair Campbell talking about depression. There was no fucking man making himself out as a hero in that.

I really don’t want to be that person. But I’m going to be. Its offensive when you say you anxiety when you’re just nervous. Its offensive when you say you have OCD because you like to have your apps in order. There are thousands of us out there dealing with our dodgy minds and its’ good that its talked about. But for the love of god be fucking honest about it.

I writing this mid, lets call it an anxiety attack, in all honesty I don’t know what to call this, apart from a mess and slightly manic. I’m crying and angry and stressed and I don’t know why. The drugs are supposed to stop this, but they’re not.

So it feels like I’m a cat in a bag, waiting to drown. Without being dramatic this has been going on for a long time now and it doesn’t seem to be getting a lot better. The drugs don’t work, they just make me worse. I’d really rather not kill myself but it seems almost like an inevitability.

Is this what it’s like to have a terminal illness.

I’m being dramatic. Thats not fair to all of you out there actually suffering. I’m just a silly little girl with a made up illness.

Fucking roll on winter.

Everything I know about love

Days off Snow: 49

Days on Citalopram: 4 weeks or something

Money:GBP 373.49

Tinder Matches: Who cares

I read “Everything I know about love” By Dolly Alderton on the plane back from Canada. It was extremely relatable, she’s a journalist in her early thirties that grew up in north London, not too far away from where I live now. The book is mainly based around romantic relationships she’s had since being a 14 year old on MSN to trying to navigate life as an adult who seemingly can’t commit to anyone. Again very relatable. In her late twenties the author decides that her approach to finding a boyfriend is not exactly healthy and decides to try a year of celibacy.

I’m someone who, for the last two years, has been a heavy tinder user. Not really in the search for any meaningful connections, but just so I feel a bit loved. Something too temporarily boost my hopelessly low self-esteem. I tend to use it exclusively at home and like having the fact that there are at least three boys at any one time I can text for a quick shag. Maybe because I’m young or maybe its my personality but I don’t think I’m particularly in touch with my emotions, being frequently told that I’m cold or intimidating. It’s always been pretty difficult to connect with boys other than just for sex. I rarely sleep with the same person more than three times.

Seasons are no different really, I tend not to use tinder because it’s easier to hook up on a night out. Theres no real escaping each other, there is an inevitability that you’ll probably end up going home with someone. But again there’s never really any real connection. Usually I tend to be drunk for season sex occasionally I’ll let slip that I’ve been struggling. I frequently refer to myself as nuts. Sometimes its the source of argument. This year, after a particularly drunk night out I went home with someone I’d been sleeping with fairly regularly, started a fight and ended up confessing I’d been having suicidal thoughts. It resulted in me storming out and waking up to a text the next morning confirming that he no longer wanted to be “friends with benefits”. I saw him again to apologise and he hit me with the “I was really good about it, not many boys would so good with your mental health”

I really hope that other women, or even other people in relationships get this sort of attitude when you confess your struggles. Even though I need the help of tequila to sometimes get there and I never want to you to do anything about it or feel like you’re burdened. Sometimes I just need the words out of my head. Don’t you dare make yourself out as a saint for passively sitting there and then cutting off a very very casual relationship.

Not to say all my drunk confessions have been like this. There was one occasion where I went home with a friend because my heating was broken (and -40 is very cold). We ended up having hilarious drunk sex and I admitted a suicide attempt. He then offered a joint (I declined) and after that whenever we saw each other at work he’d ask me how I was. There was no judgement or feeling of superiority. Just was nice to have a one night stand check that I wasn’t going to hang myself on a shower rail.

I’ve also ended up sober crying in someones arms after a particularly hard week, despite being so young (18) he dealt with it amazingly well. Things got weird between us later on, but I’m incredibly grateful for the maturity he showed rather than making himself out for being the hero in the situation.

I suppose tinder and seasonal relationships have been a big coping mechanism in trying to keep myself alive. It’s not particularly healthy and I feel immensely guilty for putting this on all sort of unsuspecting one night stands. Although I never want it to be anyone else responsibility other than mine, I really do appreciate all those boys who just took it.

I’m really sorry for emotionally unloading on all of you.

So, for this summer. In an attempt to get “better” I’ve decided to take a leaf out of Dolly Aldertons book (not literally) and give up boys and booze until winter starts again. Although my life feels incredibly one dimensional at the moment, just work and sleep. There isn’t the supportive friend group that Miss Alderton has. I think overall it’ll do me good in the long run.

Perfection is the Enemy of Good Enough

19th June

Days off Snow: 45

Days on Citalopram: who knows

Money: 13.83

Tinder matches: too many

I hate this false sense of perfection that everyone portrays. I can’t speak on behalf of boys (as I’ve never been one) but growing up as a girl it’s expected that we’re all flawless. No one ever talks about their flaws, they’re only mentioned in hush tones around a table at a dinner party in place of real conversation. Although flaws are something that is so inheritently human, they’re only ever portrayed in TV programs and films as villains.

Like most people my age I find myself with a mild Netflix addiction. Most of the time its just noise in the background to drown out the loneliness, I find it difficult to engage with half the crap churned out by Netflix. The stuff that actually engages me is the shows and films with truly dark and human traits. I don’t want to watch an overly shiny high school drama with shallow characters. I want to watch characters that mirror my own selfishness and narcissism.

“Fleabag” a comedy series on the BBC was written by Phoebe Waller-Bridge because she was bored of being constantly type cast as a boring, stupid, pretty girl while auditioning for shows as an actress. The protagonist is dark and twisted with all sorts of issues. She has fundamentally human traits and interacts with her siblings and parents in a way thats definitely relatable to me, and I’m sure hundreds of others. Theres no fantasy involved. Theres not escapism. I think thats what makes it side-spiltlingly funny. It’s the same with many other programs, such as “The Thick of It”, a political satire of the British parliament during the early 2000s. It’s so brilliant because it’s just loads slightly socially inept people trying to survive in a basically hopeless situation.

I recently did a Myers-Briggs personality test. Although I was quite skeptical, the result I felt was relatively accurate. Apparently I’m an INTJ, one of the rarest personality types, you can do your own research if you’re really that interested. But it explains a lot, why I find it difficult to get on with other girls, why I might appear arrogant (although I hope I don’t) and that I’m so in love with the idea of flaws. Maybe I believe that I can see through the bullshit. Maybe I can’t. I bang on about it a lot and I think maybe a lot of it is in my head, but I’m so frustrated with this obsession with perfection. A lot of it is social media driven. A lot of it is probably the human obsession with perfection.

It’s the whole reason I started this blog. I want to tell the truth. I remember feeling so disappointed when I arrived at uni. It wasn’t what was advertised to me at school. Seasons, although fun, aren’t what are advertised, nothing is whats advertised. There is so much bullshit in the pursuit for perfection.

Where I work at the moment there is a display fridge with food in. Part of my job is ensuring that it is kept stocked at all time, it looks appealing so people will consume more. Although I understand this, it results in so much wastage because we end up opening food, reducing their shelf-life in order to maintain the illusion of fresh. At the end of the day whatever we didn’t sell, gets thrown, which is a lot, because we never run down stock. Theres a same expectation that the staff always remain friendly and at the customers every whim. Again, it’s part of the industry but it neglects that staff are also people who are prone to emotions in the same way that the customers. There is no such thing as perfection.

My favourite ever thing is at the moment we have pastries and cakes in front of us on the till. Its perfect height for a small child or a big dog to steal. Nothing gives me more joy than to watch an unruly child squash a blueberry muffin in their hands, or a dog swipe a pastry. They’re just acting on instinct, I love how nuts everyone goes. The rest of the world could probably learn from them.