On generosity

Around Christmas seems a good time to talk a bit about generosity. I like to think that, successfully or not, I am someone who always tries to be generous and patient with others. I am a great bestower of benefit of the doubt. I hand out second and third chances like I have an endless supply. And I will always, without fail, try to understand someone else’s behaviour rather than judge them for it.

In the most basic of ways, I also like to be generous with those I love and care about. Hunting out Christmas and birthday presents, for example, presents a challenge that I relish - trying to come up with gifts that are thoughtful, meaningful, and will make someone smile. Hell, recently I spent way too much time researching how to cobble together a plastic figurine out of disparate parts, just to create a physical embodiment of a really strange in-joke. Almost glued my fingers together in the process of making it, too. It went down well though, so all’s well that ends well.

What I have realised, however, is that whilst I’m endlessly searching for ways to be generous to others, I don’t really allow myself the same kindness. I am, and have always been, my own harshest critic - my own worst enemy. My curious and emotional brain will forever replay memories or experiences and find ways to fixate on the littlest things that I perceive to have gone “wrong”. It won’t linger with the same loving attention to detail over anything I might have done well.

A couple of recent experiences encapsulated this over the Christmas period. In a silly, superficial way, there was the Christmas dessert fandango. (Yes, I just wanted to use the word “fandango” there). We had an unusual and unconventional Christmas in the Cave household this year - still lovely, still family-filled, but with slight deviations from tradition. One of these deviations included a scrapping of Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, and mince pies from the menu, and a passing of the baton to me to create a fitting end to our unconventional feast. Somewhat naively, I opted to bake a tart I’d never made before (aaah, rookie error…). Whilst my family were unwaveringly kind, complimented the flavour and even - in my Dad’s case - went back for seconds, I couldn’t focus on the positives. All I could see was the slightly under baked pastry…the grainy texture from the almonds…the slightly split filling. And I could not find a way not to beat myself up about it, try as I might. Don’t get me wrong, no tears were shed over the tart - but it niggled away at me in a way it really shouldn’t have.

On a less superficial note, this past month has not been without its emotional ups and downs for me either. It finally became apparent that, after a 2 year long relationship filled with “will we, won’t we” off again-on again tension with my significant person, he will never actually love me the way I love him (I am aware that this makes me sound like a sad sack, and I’ve dealt with that already, don’t worry). On coming to terms with this, I tortured myself with the question “why aren’t I good enough?” I honestly couldn’t stop thinking it - even though it's a question that has no good or satisfactory answer. It didn’t even occur to me that my default position could - and probably should - have been “Well I am good enough. If he can’t see that, I should stop worrying about why and just move on”. My go-to stance is never generosity towards myself.

I’m sure I’m not unusual here. I don’t know why it’s easier to offer flexibility and kindness to others than it is to yourself. Perhaps it’s an ego thing - we feel we ought to hold ourselves to a higher standard. Or perhaps it’s the complete opposite - patting ourselves on the back, or pointing out our strengths, makes us feel uncomfortable.

There isn’t an easy solution to this. I sincerely doubt anyone can just flip a switch and start bestowing generosity upon themselves. But maybe, when I’m thinking about changes I want to make in the new year, I’ll pause for a minute and remember to add this to the list. Over time, and with a bit of practice, maybe I’ll learn to forgive myself for the things I had no control over, to ease up on myself for the mistakes I’ve made, and to take stock of the good things I’ve managed to achieve. Maybe we could all do with a little bit more of that in our lives.

On Yorkshire

Though I’m a Londoner at heart, a part of me will always belong to Yorkshire. I spent four years ensconced in the comforting embrace of York, and it came at such a formative time in my life that I think it shaped me more than it would have if I moved there now.

I didn’t necessarily fit easily into life in the north. There was some…how can I put this…reverse snobbery, I suppose? I faced quite a few knowing nods and snide asides about my southern status, made all the worse of course by the fact that I was “a Londoner” (so obviously a pretentious snob). This probably wasn't helped by the fact that I speak in what is arguably a bit of a posh voice. None of the comments were uttered with malicious intent, but I did spend my first few weeks up north feeling a bit defensive about my non-Yorkshire roots.

However, all of the above came much more from the fact that I was dealing with northern students – all slightly nervous, insecure teenagers like myself, who had been let loose in the wild for the first time and were trying to work out what it was to be independent and “an adult”.  Once we’d all gotten to grips with that, and noticed that our differences were far outweighed by our similarities, we rubbed along together quite nicely.

If I had to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me love Yorkshire so much, I don’t think I could do it easily. There’s a whole host of reasons that combine to create a pretty potent, gut-based feeling that turns me into a silly mess when I pass through York on a train (cue embarrassing tears), or makes me do an excited double-take when I hear a Yorkshire burr out and about on the streets of London.

A lot of it has to do with nostalgia and personal significance, of course. I did a lot of my growing up in Yorkshire. I learnt to be on my own there. I had my first real relationship (and my first real heartbreak). I made friends who were, for the first time, completely unrelated to who my family knew, or who I went to school with. All of those things are important turning points in a young woman’s life, so York – for me – has a rosy tint to it that has nothing to do with its geography or character.

However, I also quickly learnt that there was something about the nature of the region that suited me well. York itself was the perfect size and pace for me – not too big, not too small – and had so much history seeping out of its pores that you could feel it like a physical presence. The people, too, were on the whole very different to those I’d grown up around in London. They were less self-involved. Friendlier. Sometimes (read: often) a lot more blunt and forthright…but I loved that. In a city like London, everyone is rushing from one thing to the next, trying to dodge tourists, trying not to catch the eye of a stranger who might try to talk to them. In York – and, as it turned out, in other cities, towns and villages in Yorkshire that I explored – people acknowledged each other and didn’t seem to be in their own bubbles so much.

There’s an honesty about the Yorkshire attitude that I like. And there’s a picturesque Englishness, a sense of culture and history, about the place. I’m not saying that you can’t find these things in London, but as a capital city my hometown is a beautiful melting pot of cultures, experiences and people. I love that – I’m happy to be surrounded by that – but a part of me will always pine for the sense of identity and homeliness that I feel every time I go back to Yorkshire. For me, it will always be my second home.

On a few acknowledgements

I appreciate that I've been fairly quiet of late. Many of you will know why already, but for those who don't...my Dad has been ill - in and out of hospital for a few weeks now, ill - and it's made quite a few things take a back seat for a while. Before I get back into the routine of writing properly, I feel I need to share a few acknowledgements and words of gratitude to those who have been an unerring source of support over the past few weeks.

First and foremost, to my parents. It is not easy, having your life turned upside down. It is not easy to be upbeat, or to be strong, but that is just what my wonderful Mum and Dad have been. Dad - positive, optimistic tower of a man that he is - has gone about the past few weeks with dignity, strength and good spirit. His strength, and his determination to continue looking after those around him when many people would only be able to focus on themselves, has reminded me of just why I'm so proud to be his daughter. My mother, also, has proven to be the most immensely strong tiger of a woman (stolen my Dad's turn of phrase there). She has faced this unexpected and unfair twist of fate with a determination to see it through and be an unwavering pillar of support for both my Dad and for me, and I could never thank her enough for that.

To my friends, I also owe a debt of gratitude. I always suspected that I was particularly lucky in the friendship group I have built up around myself, but the past few weeks have proved it. I couldn't possibly name check all of the people who have been kind and how, as there have been so many and it would take pages and pages, but I hope they know that everything - from the smallest message to the biggest gesture - has been hugely appreciated, and made me feel very lucky to have them all. Whether quietly or loudly, they have all provided the support and the protective cocoon that I needed.

To my big little brother - words fail me. Though he's suddenly found himself further away, he made sure it didn't feel like that when I needed him. Distracting me when I needed it, listening to me when I needed it, and providing excellent big little brother hugs (which cannot be bottled or replicated)...I couldn't have asked for a better brother, and never has he felt more like family.

And finally, to my person. In spite of all of the mess of us - in spite of the complicated tangle we wove for ourselves, and the personal struggles and mountains he's having to scale on his own - as soon as I needed him, he was there. He dropped everything, without question or complaint. And even if he doesn't know what that means - I do. And for now, that's enough.

I hope this hasn't been too sentimental or too saccharine. I don't want to dwell too much on the past, or the unkindness of the hand my family has been dealt - I just want to acknowledge the wonderful people who have restored a little of my faith in the world, and helped me to keep going, keep positive, and find strength in myself that I didn't know I had.

So thank you. Really.

On old friends

This past weekend, I was walking down the platform at King’s Cross on my way to Spitalfields market, and found myself walking towards a very familiar face: one I hadn’t seen in a couple of years, but instantly recognisable nonetheless.

Adam was at my sixth form college (let’s not think too hard about how long ago that actually was), and was one of those people who instantly welcomed me in – slightly awkward teenage outsider that I was at the time – and became a fast, firm friend. Since then, we’ve kept in touch very sporadically (a lot of the onus for that falls on me): we went to different universities, had new friendship circles, and completely non-maliciously drifted apart until we barely saw each other any more.

None of that, however, detracted from the genuine pleasure I felt when I recognised him walking towards me the other day. A lovely (speedy) reunion took place, complete with hugs and giggles and slightly hopeless attempts to catch up on ALL THE NEWS over the course of a couple of minutes, before he had to jump on his next train. We made noises about meeting up soon for a proper catch up, and I must stay true to that and not fail to follow through.

My point is this: there is a certain kind of joy that comes from old friends, which can’t be replicated or bottled. It’s like a strange sort of magic, guaranteed to lift the spirits, and it doesn’t necessarily happen with everyone – just with those particularly special people who you’ve somehow managed to lose touch with, but certainly not intentionally.

Our lives are neither fleeting nor straightforward. Friendships come in different shapes and sizes as we grow up, and I think it’s actually quite rare to have lifelong friends. For the most part, we all experience people coming into our lives and taking on an important role for a particular stretch, and then more often than not life takes us in different directions and we lose touch. This doesn’t lessen the impact of those friendships, or mean they were of any less worth than those that lasted longer. As we grow and change, the kind of relationships we have – and the kind of things we look for in other people – naturally changes with us.

Maybe that’s why seeing an old friend is such a pleasure: you’re not just reminded of how much you loved that person, you’re also reminded of an old version of yourself. If you’re lucky, it’s a version of yourself that you can look back on fondly, even if they’re pretty different from present-day you. And, whether you and your old friend have grown in similar ways, or whether there’s still an echo of the old you in there, you may just find you can slip easily back into that same old friendly chemistry. If – as in my case – that’s a comfortable and welcoming fit, there’s really nothing nicer.

What it comes down to for me is this – life is about people. Life is about connections. Personally, I’ve always found that to be more important than places or work or ambition. The experiences I’ve had with the people around me have shaped me into the Jess that I am now, so I will never overlook the importance of those people when our paths happen to cross again.

On happiness

My mother has a saying that I rather admire: it’s only when you stop asking yourself whether or not you’re happy, that you realise you’re actually happy.

In the world we live in, there seems to be a lot of pressure to be happy, and to think very hard and very often about whether or not you are. Whether that comes from the proliferation of self-help books, reality television programmes where people search for THE BEST partner or THE BEST job, glossy magazines, or just good-natured but irritating friends – the question “yes, but are you happy though?”, and the sad frown and tilt of the head that go with it, are ever present.

My question is this: if you’re constantly worrying about whether or not you’ve reached the mecca of happiness, can you really ever get there? I think my Mum has a point. By the very nature of the thing, happiness can’t go hand in hand with nervous worrying. And yet the reality is that it’s much harder than you’d think to stop anxiously checking in with yourself. Am I happy? Am I doing everything I should be doing? Am I surrounding myself with the right people? Am I in the right job for me? If I get all of those elements right, will I be able to relax and believe I’m happy?

Getting those questions out of your head can be nigh on impossible. Or that’s my experience of it, anyway. Maybe other people are able to stroll through life, blissfully unquestioning - blissfully comfortable in who they are and how they feel about their lot. But I find it hard to imagine what that’s like.

Of course, feeling more comfortable with who you are, and caring less about what other people think of you, must go some way to helping with this (I’ve touched on that before, which those of you who weren’t put off by the word “Hanson” will know). And yet it can’t be everything. Because learning to ignore the gripes and demands of other people’s agendas doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve learnt to ignore the gripes and demands of your own.

We tend to hold ourselves to a very high standard. Perhaps it comes from the dawning realisation that you only live once (can’t believe I just used “YOLO”…oh dear), and a slight desperation to make some kind of positive impact on the world. Now that can be as grand or as small as you please, but it does mean that there’s this permanent niggling at the edges of one’s subconscious – the feeling that you should be making the most of every moment you have.

I’m sure that’s true to a certain extent: that we should try not to waste the time we have on anything that we feel isn’t what we want, or doesn’t feel right. However, there’s a balancing act that has to be done to avoid tipping over into a persistent state of paranoia, surely? Because who says you have to constantly be doing grand and amazing things in order to be making the most of life – in order to be happy?

I don’t think I have an answer to this yet, unfortunately. Whilst I’m conscious that I shouldn’t be constantly worrying about whether or not I’m making the most of my time, and as a result whether or not that means I’m “happy”, I find it hard to train myself out of that mindset. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to find the key – I’ll relax, stop asking whether I’m happy, and actually be happy. Don’t worry: if I figure out the trick to doing that, I’ll share the secret with you guys too. Sharing is caring, after all.

On the Internet

Ever since the Internet popped into existence, humanity has had a whole new world (pardon the Disney lyric) of opportunity open up to us – but also a new complex and thorny maze to navigate.

Now, I love the Internet. I love the way it enables you to connect with people you never would have encountered before. I love the platform it provides for creators of all shapes and forms to share their work with the world. I love the easy access to knowledge I would have struggled to gain before. And whilst I am not quite a child of the Internet in the way that mid-nineties babies are (growing up with WiFi and buttons on their phones that instantly plunge them into the online world), I don’t really remember a time without it – even when it meant waiting patiently for the dial-up connection to go through, and asking Jeeves instead of Google.

Much as I love the Internet, however, I will be the first to admit that it has turned us into a generation of snoopy stalkers. It’s so easy to dig up information now. Do it often enough, and you can become scarily good at it. I – in fact – have become scarily good at it. That’s not a popular thing to admit: that you have partaken in online snooping, much less that you’re actually quite a dab hand at it. I understand why, but this is a safe space and I’m all about honesty. So I hold my hand up as a skilled e-snooper.

Before you rush to judge me, bear in mind that a lot of the skills I have developed, I have actually developed because they serve me well professionally. I’m very good at sourcing footage for mood films, whether that’s “can you find me a shot of some people riding on public transport in Tokyo?” or “we need some footage of a woman looking sad whilst staring wistfully out to sea”. (Yes, my job can be quite niche). It’s also contributed to me being a helpful friend – a few months back, for example, a friend was searching for a particular weekly comic strip that was published in a national paper when he was young. He couldn’t remember the name of the strip, or the artist: he just had a vague recollection of the subject matter. Cue a quick Google, and a few minutes later I could give him full details of the strip and the artist in question.

I try not to abuse these skills too much, but it can be tempting: in the age of online dating, in particular. To give you an example, before I went on my one and only Tinder date experience (ask me for the story one day, if I haven’t told you already: it’s a good’un), I was feeling – I think understandably – quite nervous about meeting someone who could quite possibly have been a mad axe murderer. Mercifully though, I had a first name, a picture, and a profession to go on. It didn’t take long to get a bit more information and validate that this guy was in fact who he said he was, and – paranoid individual that I am – I made sure I gave my flatmate his surname and the lowdown on him before I went out. You know – just in case he did actually murder me with an axe…

Things like Jessie Cave (yes, the other one) and her series of Love Sick doodles reassure me that I’m not wrong to think my behaviour is quite common. But I don’t know whether I should take comfort from this. There’s a fine line between using e-snooping for work, or to safeguard against Tinder crazies…and sliding into the worrying quicksand of becoming a full-blown creeper. Whilst I’ve managed to maintain a safe distance from that behaviour (hopefully to the relief of those I know and love), the fact that it would be so easy to use my powers for evil makes me a bit concerned about the rest of our Internet-enabled society. Can we really trust others to draw the line where we do? Or are we destined to become a world of paranoid, nosey obsessives?

…I feel like it might be time to look at my privacy settings.

On shared living

I asked Jeff, one of the lovely people at my aforementioned favourite coffee place, what I should write about in this blog post. He gave me a couple of suggestions – one of which I may just hang on to for future times of need – but the first thing to come to his mind was “nightmare flatmates”. Now, before I offend anyone, I should quickly point out that I’m very lucky – I live with a couple of wonderful women, Natalie Squared, with whom I share a harmonious existence in our little corner of London.

In fact, ever since I moved back to London after university, I’ve been pretty fortunate with the people I’ve lived with. They’ve always been friends: they’ve either started off as such and continued on apace…or they’ve started off as relative strangers, and ended up being close friends. So far, so boring, I hear you cry – at least as far as “nightmare flatmates” are concerned. However, you can always rely on university to provide you with…interesting…flatmate scenarios, and my experience there was no different.

I am convinced that the flatmates I ended up with in my first year of university were sort of my own fault. I like to think I’m normally pretty resistant to the “only child” stereotype – I don’t think many people would accuse me of being spoilt or selfish. However, when it came time to move away from the homestead at the tender age of 18, I panicked a little bit. Unlike most of my friends who were staying in London or heading further south, I was packing my bags and travelling to the far flung north – York, to be precise.

This sudden alone-ness compounded my nervousness about the impending change. I grabbed at any chance of home comforts that I could find, and in the case of York…that meant opting for housing that included an en-suite bathroom. (“Aaah,” I hear you say, “there’s the only child in her – has to have her own bathroom, does she?”) In retrospect, this was a mistake. Whilst I did essentially have an “en-suite”, it took the form of a pod rather than a bathroom – one where you could sit on the toilet, wash your feet in the shower and your face in the sink at the same time. This was hardly luxury.

It also meant that my halls were full of the kind of people who weren’t so up for throwing themselves into socialising and communal living. We shared a kitchen, sure…but I’m convinced that something comes from sharing a bathroom that you don’t get when you can all sequester away in your rooms with your en-suite pods.

Here, then, is a quick headcount of the more “colourful” of my flatmates from first year: one Latvian computer science student who we didn’t see after the first term because he got addicted to World of Warcraft and wouldn’t leave his room; one karate-obsessed guy who allegedly had a teenage fiancée waiting for him in Egypt; one small-minded social work student who told me she thought being gay was “deviant”; and one very dedicated member of the CU who plastered our kitchen walls with posters that read “Why help a starving child in Africa? Because God wills it”. Aaah, lovely.

Though there were some more normal folks on my floor as well, I think it’s fair to say none of us really formed the kind of communal bond that I saw in other groups of flatmates in my college. And it’s a shame, because as a slightly scared, slightly shy girl from London on her own up north, I would’ve relished the ready-made social circle to fall into.

I can’t think of another time in life where you are so readily thrust into living with a group of people you don’t know, and quite possibly have nothing in common with. I lived happily enough with my parents as I grew up, and I have managed to live happily with housemates as a young professional in London – somehow choosing genuine, friendly people who have made my life better and not worse.

But perhaps this isn’t a good thing. Living with “nightmare flatmates” gives you a lot of skills that you’ll draw on in later life. If I hadn’t had to deal with small-minded social worker girl, I wouldn’t have learnt to be patient with people who had grown up in less liberal families than mine. If I hadn’t lived next door to karate-mad engaged guy, I wouldn’t have learnt various techniques for politely telling a noisy neighbour to lessen the number of midnight thuds and thumps (karate practice, I was assured).

So although I am probably luckier than most in the relatively low number of “nightmare flatmate” incidents I’ve had to suffer through, I hope those less fortunate will at least consider this – you’ve probably taken away many valuable life skills from having to deal with that particular nightmare. And, sod it – at least it’s given you a good story or two to tell, eh?

On Hanson

Don't worry, this post isn't really about Hanson. Well...it kind of is, but then it also isn't. Hanson just happen to be a prime example of something I want to talk about a little bit.

For anyone not in the know – and if you’re one of my nearest and dearest, how could you possibly not be in the know – Hanson are a group of three mid-Western brothers turned musicians, made most famous in the nineties by their annoyingly catchy (and nonsensical) hit “Mmmbop”. As a child of the nineties, I was a big fan back in their heyday – but I’m actually a far bigger fan now (yes, they’re still going strong). AND I AM PROUD.

You’re probably sighing right now. Shaking your head. I can practically feel it coming across the internet at me. And that – THAT – is exactly what I want to talk about. Because at some point over the last few years, I can’t remember when exactly…I decided to stop caring about the fact that most people thought it was a bit pathetic for a woman in her mid-to-late twenties to like a band made famous for a song containing the infamous lyric “In an mmmbop they’re not there / Until you lose your hair / Oh, but you don’t care”.

Yes, they’re a bit cheesy. Yes, they’re fairly ridiculous, and have about a million children between them now. But you know what? None of that matters. Ultimately, I’ve decided that all that really matters is that Hanson – cheesy, nostalgic, slightly cringe-worthy Hanson – make me happy. I can sing along loudly and with great abandon to their music, and it perks me up without fail. (Unless it’s an Isaac song, but let’s not talk about that).

I think we waste too much time worrying about what other people will judge us for. Sure, on more important life decisions, it’s wise to listen to the counsel of friends and family. They know you well, so may be able to shed new light on a situation that – without the benefit of being on the outside, looking in – you wouldn’t have spotted yourself. However, even in those situations I think it’s important to listen to those words of advice and then make the final call yourself. Consider the opinions of others, but rely first and foremost on your own gut and your own moral compass to guide you.

Because the reality is – what’s right for someone else isn’t necessarily right for you. We all have different tastes, different opinions, different priorities. And if someone is going to hold you accountable to their own set of standards without considering that you are not in fact them – well what kind of ridiculous behaviour is that, really? I know it sounds a little grandiose to apply this argument to something as small as people making fun of a cheesy 90s band that I listen to…but as I said, they’re just a smaller example of a wider point. The point that we need to stop caring about what people think about us when it’s based on something as superficial as taste in music, the way we dress, or the kind of films we watch. These things are a part of you – sure – but they are the part that you should embrace and enjoy, not worry about whether or not they’re “saying something” about the kind of person you are.

If everyone I met thought I was an awful person, I’d care – of course I would. But if a couple of people want to judge me based on the music I listen to, I think that’s a poorer reflection on them than it is on me. That’s all. 

On my favourite coffee place

I'd like to take a break in our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a love letter to my favourite coffee shop. Wait wait WAIT don't go - I promise it's not as weird as it sounds!

Here's the thing. I have lived in my flat for the past two years now, and am blessed (/cursed, if you're reviewing my bank balance) with extremely close proximity to aaaaaaall the nice food and drink places I can handle: they're literally just downstairs. In amongst all of those glorious establishments lives one of my favourite places - my coffee shop of choice.

I actually didn't pay a huge amount of attention to it in the first year or so that I lived here. I went in a few times, but didn't take in my surroundings much, and mostly just focused on the caffeine and cake that I was shoving in my face. However, over the past few months - and I can't really explain why - I started making a point of getting to know the people there. I paused for a chat that didn't just consist of "please", "thank you" and "have a nice day". I introduced myself, learnt to put names to faces, and generally tried to ingratiate myself a bit - and not just with the aim of getting free coffee. Now, they're a well-established part of my day. In fact, I'm drafting this from within their very walls.

Here's what I like about the place: the people. Sure, the coffee is fricking incredible, and jolts me out of my sleepy daze in the morning enough to propel me through at least 20 minutes' worth of my walk to work (that's saying something at 8am). They also do a mean ham & cheese croissant, which will probably send me to an early grave what with the quantity that I consume each week, but at least I'll go smiling. But - and this is a big but (stop giggling) - it is the fact that the people are all so flipping lovely that keeps me coming back every morning.

I am truly an advocate of being a regular, and having a roster of trusted, welcoming places that are habitual and homely. I have my comic shop (which is also full of excellent people), and now I have my coffee place. And it's not the shop or the products that draw me in, it's the connection you form with the people you see every day. 

Luckily for me, the folks downstairs are friendly, charming, and - on occasion - even a little bit nerdy, which suits me to a tee. Being able to start my day with a grin and a chat - recent random topics have included: inner gremlins; pig racing; the word for a big birdcage like the one in Aladdin (“menagerie” is apparently what he was searching for…not “boulangerie”); the joy that can come only from a trip to Lakeland plastics; and a truly excellent (and lethal) sounding recipe for punch - makes my day infinitely better. It's been particularly helpful when I've woken up in the doldrums, ready to trudge my way through the day in a depressed fashion. They give me a lift, and not just because they’re supplying me with A-grade caffeine.

So all I can say is this: thanks guys, you’re pretty stellar people. I hope you don’t get sick of me any time soon, because – like a persistent hangover the day after a friend’s wedding – I’m going to be hard to shake.

On reminders

“Everything reminds me of you.”

When a big part of your life has revolved around the same person for – well, for what feels like as long as you can remember, really – being without them isn’t just hard for all the obvious reasons. It’s also bafflingly difficult because you have to re-educate yourself on how to get through everything in your life without constantly associating it with that person.

Everything reminds you of me, hmm? Well snap, buddy.

Even the most innocuous of things can transport you to a familiar and painful place. Innocently uttered phrases…particular film references…smells…songs…of course you'll associate everything with them when they were that important to you. And every time something twigs a memory, it becomes a conscious effort to turn your brain away from the first association – the unhelpful association. Because every time that happens, it’s like a little gremlin prodding at the ache in your chest. “Haha, thought you were OK, did you? Well let’s see how you feel about THIS then!”

…fucking gremlins.

Your brain and your memory become your worst enemies, constantly veering their ugly heads to remind you that you should be feeling terrible. Which I suppose is ironic, as they’ll end up being your friends in the long run – when you can remember things fondly, and sensibly reflect on the past without it being like a kick in the proverbial balls.

The process of getting through this seems to be a two-parter: first, learning to replace the gut reaction, the immediate association, with something else. With someone else. Or nothing at all, I suppose – but essentially anything but that person and that connection that you once had. Second, for the things that you just can’t avoid associating with that person (for instance, there’s still a particular aftershave that instantly transports me back to my first serious relationship – Proust would be proud), you have to learn to entertain that association in a way that doesn’t hurt. Notice it (because you can’t not), and then move on.

I am reassured by the certainty that this process will become easier, and in the future I will be able to go about life unhindered by reminders – or let them come, and smile fondly before getting on with my day. It may suck at the moment (believe me: it truly, truly does), but logic and reason tell me that it won’t be that way forever. Soon enough, I will be a functioning person again. I will not feel sad when someone mentions things that we spoke about, or places that we went to, or jokes that we shared.

For now though, I can but replay the words that were sent my way: everything reminds me of you, too.

On editing

This is a confession: I’ve got you all fooled. Not for the first time, a friend recently commented that something I’d written was very “articulate”. I think I give off the impression – in writing certainly, but also sometimes in conversation – that I am an eloquent and articulate person. Anyone who has known me for any reasonable stretch of time, however, must surely know that this isn’t the case.

In person, the reality is that I will always suffer from “slow reaction time” syndrome. You know that feeling when you’re having a conversation with someone, it gets a bit heated, and you just can’t find the words to properly best the other person – even though you know you could? And then, long after the fact - when you’re at work, or having dinner, or doing something completely mundane - the perfect comeback occurs to you? Words that would properly encapsulate the witty, intelligent person that you are? Yes – that. I suffer from that.

As a result, I am anything but articulate in person. I stumble over words, I phrase things the wrong way and get myself into hot water when I don’t mean to…I’m a little bit of a mess, verbally. So why have I managed to convince various people I know otherwise? The answer is quite simple, really: I edit.

There’s a reason I love to write as much as I do – a reason why a lot of my meaningful conversations are carried out over email, text or WhatsApp. It’s because it’s so much easier to edit there. I can take my time to write things out, review them, change my mind and rephrase until I’m comfortable that I have clearly and effectively expressed what I want to say. It’s normal to draft and redraft emails, I think. Perhaps less so with instant messages…but hey. Abnormality suits me.

I can sometimes get away with this in person as well as in writing. Sounds strange? Wait a second, hear me out. If I’ve ever struck you as being particularly good at communicating my thoughts or emotions in person – probably during a “big conversation” – it’s because I’ve edited and rehearsed the hell out of that conversation in my head. This happens with friends on occasion, but is far more frequent when it comes to relationships. I’m not saying I’m not emotionally intelligent – I think I probably am – but being able to succinctly and clearly translate my feelings into words isn’t something that comes quickly (or even that naturally) to me.

Look in the notes app on my phone, and you will find numerous one liners, paragraphs and diatribes that I have jotted down whilst rehearsing conversations in my head. I’ll go back to these time and again, tweaking them here and there until I’m really happy with them. This process cements them so thoroughly in my head that I have them ready to draw on in the heat of the moment. And whilst the conversation will never be exactly as I’ve rehearsed it (as I haven’t written lines for the other person), it helps me to feel more in control of the situation, and more comfortable that I’m not saying completely the wrong thing.

So there you have it. If I’ve ever convinced you that I’ve got it all together – that I’m calm and articulate and can think quickly on my feet – maybe take some comfort from the fact that it couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m just an obsessive compulsive editor, who probably thinks too much.

On coping mechanisms

An upfront apology: what follows is a bit of a meandering mess. But it's the weekend, and I don't quite have the patience to self-edit today.

People are ridiculously complicated creatures. Try to untangle what makes us tick, and you could drive yourself crazy. And never are we more complicated, or more messy, than when we are trying to process something - when all sorts of unexpected or unusual emotions move in and squat in our subconscious, making us behave like strangers.

For example, when we lose someone (and, full disclosure, I have recently had to part company with someone I loved very much), our brains do very odd things to help us process what has happened. With the benefit of reflection or hindsight, I find those reactions - often erratic and irrational - utterly fascinating. They seem to be different from person to person, and follow no logical pattern that I can fathom.

Some people shut down completely, withdrawing into themselves and taking the burden of their grief onto their shoulders alone. Others lash out, interpreting sadness as anger - perhaps finding that emotion easier to express. Still more will put on a brave face, and throw themselves into distraction to push the feelings down and ignore them. I imagine a lot of people would pick d) all of the above.

Because feelings of loss, in whatever form it comes and they come, are big and scary and overwhelming, we all understandably develop coping mechanisms to get through. And I am left wondering what an individual's coping mechanisms say about that person.

In the past week, I have: sought comfort from close friends and people who love me; distracted myself with trips to the theatre, a country fair, and my favourite coffee shop; thrown myself into work as much as possible; written and discarded several overly personal blog posts before sitting down to write this one; and, today (because it felt necessary), consumed almost an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream before crawling inside my duvet cover with my laptop and listening to Amy Winehouse songs. That I have crammed all of that into less than a week is unusual behaviour for me, to say the least.

I guess my brain can't quite understand what I've done to it, and seems to be directing me to try anything I can think of to return it to normal. I genuinely have no idea whether my coping mechanisms are any stranger than anyone else's. It does, however, strike me that this messiness is the perfect evidence for the human condition. And by that, I mean the thing that sits somewhere above biology and how we're physically put together to make us all unique - all a bit crazy - and all a sodding mess.

As an atheist who doesn't really buy into an afterlife or a spirit, as such, I can't unscramble in my head what I think this human condition is - how it happens, and why we're all so different. But although it makes us complicated, and difficult, and perplexing...I also think it makes us kind of wonderful. Thank God we're more than just our biology, even if it does make me question my sanity when I'm hiding in a duvet-sheet-nest and experiencing one hell of a sugar crash.

On building walls

It is a very human thing, I think, to build walls. And it is a very difficult thing to acknowledge that we are building them, and make a decision to bring them down.

For many years now, I have walled up my creativity. It sounds odd, I know - but nevertheless I have come to realise that it's the truth. It's why I stopped writing this bloody thing. It's why my laptop is full of beginnings, middles, and ends of stories - but nothing complete, nothing whole. It's why I've picked up and put down art and illustration throughout my life, never quite making a go of it.

Why have I done this? It seems counter-intuitive to deny myself something that does, on balance, make me happy. Something that I think - with enough practice and flexing of the right muscles - I could be good at. It's not like I don't have ideas, either. I am positively brimming with ideas. Seriously, you should see how many beginnings of blog posts I have on here as drafts. How many notebooks filled with doodles, and sketches, and first steps that were never followed by a second. But here's the thing: it's far easier to create a barricade around that part of myself (with excuses like "I don't have time", or "I feel too drained after work", or "I don't have the willpower to keep up with it") than it would be to try, and to fail. God forbid I throw myself into something and not have it work out.

It sounds so self-defeating when I put it into words that I get angry at myself.

I suspect we're all guilty of this in one way or another. Other people build walls to save face, or to seem stronger, or to keep messy emotions inside. I've always been better at letting emotions roam free, but I can understand the impulse. Whether it's because you think people won't understand the more complicated parts of you, or that they'll think you're a bit crazy, or think less of you for showing "weakness"...I understand that fear.

It's hard, I think, to recognise that you are your own worst enemy. That the barrier you're fighting against in order to get where you want to be - to be happy - is a barrier of your own creation. And it would be too simplistic to say that recognising that fact is the answer. That tearing the walls down will bring you happiness, or even that you'll feel strong enough to tear them down in the first place. But it does feel like a first step (for me, at least). It feels like this might be the stick I need to whip myself into shape with. To not be self-defeating. To pour myself into things, even when it would be easier - less messy - to just sit down and watch Netflix instead.

I am making this promise to myself, and I am doing it out loud so that I can't put my head in the sand and pretend that I haven't: I am going to try. If I try and I fail, then so be it. I think I'll be less sad about that than I would about letting that wall get the better of me.