Indigo Sleeps

Indigo opened her eyes to luminous rays, beams which made her brow burrow; a light which could wake even the deepest of dreams. She squinted beyond the lace drapes which flitted before her window. It was her seventh birthday. Smiling in delight, a marvellous collection of balloons hung by the foot of her bed; circular shapes posing pink and gold: Seven Today, they read.

pink n gold balloons

Attempting to jump out of bed and sprint toward her mother’s room, Indigo was overcome with dizziness. She fell back into the mattress, with a thump! Tiny white stars teased her head playfully; she wondered if they’d escaped the balloons and waltzed their way through the air.

“Indigo! Indigo! Is my birthday girl awake?” her mother called, traipsing into the room and flunking herself on the mattress. Indigo looked up and smiled. “There she is…my big girl”. Holding her mother in a tight embrace, Indigo batted her feather-like eyelashes and smiled a gap-toothed smile. She raised a finger, tracing it ’round her mother’s heart-shaped forehead and asked: “Are we going to have a party, Mama?”

Her mother – a middle-aged woman named Catherine – laughed at the earnestness of daughter. Long auburn waves hung gracefully below her chest, propped up by a lavender eye-mask to expose her naked face. The joints of her thin body protruded beneath an off-white gown; sky high cheekbones with eyes glistening grey, she met her daughter’s gaze with love. “Isn’t every day a party for us, Indigo?”

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Sitting within a basin of bubbles, Indigo etched shapes on marble tiles with her fingers. She pressed her nose and mouth firmly against their cold hard surface, enjoying the contrast of hot and cold. Playing happily, she envisioned a large pink cake with fondant icing; parma violets edging the border. Indigo imagined standing at the tip of a diving board and plummeting into the dessert head first. She would grab clumps of cream using her tiny fists and feel the substance ooze between her fingers and toes. She sang loud with excitement, until flats and sharps began spiraling the walls, a white bubble foam folding in like whipped cream.

“Hello sleepy Indigo”, Catherine cooed. “You startled me. I think that bath water was too hot for you”. Indigo looked down at her feet and noticed she was fully dressed. Lemon buckled shoes with white lace socks and a matching pastel dress hugged her body immaculately. She blinked, unable to lift her head. “Come on, up you get”, her mother stated. “It’s quarter past nine and you’re yet to have breakfast”. 


Indigo slumped hazily at the dining table. Her head pounded, as if she’d taken that dive and met concrete. Catherine poured a tall glass of milk and plonked it by her side, eyeing her daughter wistfully. “Your grandmother is visiting today. You haven’t seen her since you were three years old”. 

Spooning several drops of pancake batter into a heated pan, Catherine proceeded to make pancakes.  “She’s a little bit eccentric, your Nonna. Don’t be alarmed if she says something…off”.

Knowing full well that her child wouldn’t understand the word eccentric, Catherine began crushing an array of tablets with a mortar and pestle. A pale blue cloud of smoke lifted above the bowl, as if awaiting a genie appearance. “Strawberries and cream, my sweet?”

Indigo stabbed her fork into a mattress of pancakes, noticing her mother’s cream was blue. “I want some of yours, Mama”. I want to taste the sky.

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Catherine sniffed, cutting into her own stack and squinting at her daughter’s untouched plate. She began to mentally browse the shopping aisle, regretting her mistake of not picking up some food dye.  

At that moment the front door chimed, interrupting her train of thought and leaving her chair empty. Indigo glanced down sourly at her own food and irreverently seized the moment. As if the scene had played before, she prodded her finger into thick, blue cream and shoved it in her mouth expertly. 

Catherine returned holding a crinkled gold package. “I bet it’s from him”, she muttered. Indigo’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a present. “It’s for me! It’s for me!” Her mother handed over the parcel reluctantly, a glow in her cheeks, dimming.

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Indigo tugged ferociously at the wrapping, firing shreds of rustled paper through the air and letting them fall with grace.

Catherine froze as she watched her child’s hysteria transform to contempt. The object, held between her daughter’s hands, would have been wonderful if not disheveled. “Fucking bastard”, she gritted, ripping the stuffed rabbit from her daughter’s clasp and throwing it down with the rubbish.

Indigo’s lower lip began to tremble, she could no longer hold her bottled woe and burst into a flood of tears. “NO!” she cried, rushing to aid the limbless toy. “He’s hurt enough already, don’t you see? I want him to stay in our home!”

Indigo’s father didn’t intend to show malice. Truth be told it was remarkable he’d even remembered her birthday – he’d been harboring demons for years. By the time she was two he was homeless; recognized in every crack den from Somerset to Sunderland. The rabbit had been found amidst rubbish and puddles, one eye and an ear intact. Its off-white body had clearly taken several hits; a tail attached by one thinning string.

Indigo whimpered pleadingly, clutching the toy between both hands: “bathe him, Mama?” Catherine blinked, her eyes wet. “Leave him with me”, she whispered. “I’ll sort him out tomorrow”.


By noon the house welcomed guests. Indigo’s grandmother arrived early, wearing a lilac fur jumper with oversized shades. She cackled at the sight of her grandchild, claiming that she looked like “a lemon meringue”. Indigo watched as her grandmother broke house rules, smoking from a thin cigarette holder and decorating the air with thick black smoke.

Retaliating to what she deemed a hurtful remark, Indigo announced a distaste for “smokey wands”. Her grandmother, formerly known as Nonna, lowered her shades and scowled. “Catherine, do something about your daughters mouth. It’s filthy“.

School friends and relatives chattered in hallways, as fairground music churned in the background. The birthday girl, relishing in the know that all were here for her, felt giddy with excitement. For some reason she just couldn’t keep balance: her body swayed like a drunk person at 4am; a crown of stars hovering like a halo.

Catherine had magically transformed their grandeur home into a palace for mini princesses. Gold satin ribbon spiraled each and every stairwell, while gathers of balloons left not a single corner empty. Nonna, recovering from her outdoor summers smoke, noticed an aloofness in her grandchild, wondering whether she was quite all there.



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Children lined the courtyard waiting to whack a piñata.

Indigo, dazzled by all the colours, hoped to burst the hanging object and meet a rain of candied-treasures. Some had already taken turns but were unlucky.

On the count of three now: ONE, TWO, THREE!” WHACK!

Indigo, clasping the baton, poked her tongue out and struck the piñata hard as she was able. Unexpectedly, the branch it attached to wavered and snapped, leaving the unbroken item on the floor.  lndigo, due to the uninhibited force, went dizzy.


She woke up in the living room with a collection of small round faces peering down at her. Initially, the faces looked identical, as if peering through a kaleidoscope. A few seconds passed and she realised they were indeed party guests, none of whom gave her the drive to sit up.

“Indigo, are you okay?” they echoed in sync,  forcing her to trip out once more in question.

Where’s Mama?

Swatting her way through the faces, Indigo wandered towards the kitchen.


“Something isn’t right with that girl”. Indigo popped her head ’round the kitchen door to eavesdrop on her grandmother. “Mother, she’s fine. You haven’t seen her for years and you’re already being judgmental”, Catherine replied. I’m just saying. Your daughter looks out of it – her eyes are like saucers. How many naps does she take a day? You ought to call a doctor”.

Indigo watched her mother’s face surrender to tears. Catherine tried to speak but her words came out in a contorted wail.

In the way only a child could determine, Indigo knew her grandmother was right. Nonna knew something was off just as she did, for she felt it in her body and she felt it in her head. There were times when her surroundings felt intense and distorted; almost imagined. She didn’t have the same energy as the other children, despite her will to be involved. 

“We have to cut the cake”, Catherine sniffled. “Please, this is Indigo’s day. Don’t spoil it for her”. Dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Catherine headed to the fridge and removed an oval shaped cake. She then preceded to an overhead cupboard, reaching for a bottle of blue and yellow pills. Nonna watched her daughter disapprovingly, as a handful of pills tumbled down her throat like pennies in a drainpipe.


Tall, towering candles sunk into softened sponge, as Catherine balanced the cake on upturned palms.

“Happy Birthday to youuuuu!” The children sang in unison, feasting on the cake with gluttonous eyes. Indigo, anxious with both fear and excitement, outstretched both arms for her prize. Catherine knelt beside her, propping the cake onto a wired table and kissing her child on the cheek.

Succumbing to her role in this hellbent circus, Nonna held up a camera and flashed.




Born Stefani Louisa Romano, Nonna fled Northern Italy in 1947, four months prior to Catherine’s birth. She arrived in East Sussex, England, cradling a packet of Marlboro and wearing a bloodstained dress-suit.

Short on money and contacts, Nonna sniffed out a widow named Daisy, who’d spent most of her life in solace. She quickly became indispensable, performing house chores from morning til night and listening to bitter old wives tales. It took Nonna just one month before she could move in. 

In a short space the pair became family; a plaster to the wound; a strategic but pivotal transaction. Together they prepared for the arrival of Catherine, but Nonna worried that the child would spoil their new dynamic.

And thus, she did the bare minimal. Feeds were given scarcely; play was limited, hugs: zero. Nonna wanted to ensure that Daisy’s needs were met right up until her death and why not? Catherine had her whole life ahead of her. Daisy was on borrowed time with an inheritance to leave behind. 

Daisy passed within the year. Nonna was now financially free but missed her late companion. Daisy had become her mother, savior and livelihood and now she had a baby. Grief consumed her, she’d transferred years of suppressed emotion to a complete stranger and as a result, ignored her child while opting for the bottle.




Nonna served slithers of a rich, indulgent birthday cake, chattering with guests as Catherine napped upstairs. Indigo, still following the stars, sauntered into the kitchen in search of hidden treasure. It was a sad and tragic fact she wanted to be just like her mother: poised, elegant, generous; high. Indigo closed the door behind her, allowing the outside sounds to become a muffled blur and made her way to the counter.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Nonna, who had come to return the empty cake tray, caught her seven year old grandchild holding a tube full of pills, powdered liquid rimming her mouth like poison. Smacking the tube from Indigo’s grip she began to shake her violently, her eyes overcast with fury.  

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“Mother, NO!” Catherine, now awake from the commotion, rescued her daughter from the frenzied grip. What the hell are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” fired Nonna, lifting the empty tube of pills and taunting her daughter in jest. 



Post-revelation, Nonna forced Indigo to purge whilst Catherine sent the children home. She pulled back her duvet and climbed into bed, head spinning from the days affliction. Still thinking about her little girl’s face, it was clear they’d been subjected to trauma. Tears fell from her eyes hitting the pillow like stones, an uncontrollable river of guilt.

Gazing at the high ceiling, she felt as though she’d woken from a deep, deep sleep: remorse would weigh her down forever. Still, she had to persevere. Her one true calling slept a few meters away: Mama’s little angel. She thought about all the nice things they would do the next morning – have brunch, play tennis. Her visions made her sorrow subside and finally, Catherine slept.


Catherine’s eyes opened beneath blackness, to the sound of pattering rain. Removing her sleeping mask she released a deep, deep sigh. It was a new day. Her thoughts immediately turned to Indigo – time to wake her darling. Climbing out of bed and drawing the curtains, she vowed not to be defeated by a desolate sky.

Inside Indigo’s room, Catherine pulled back the bedcover and smiled: “Wake up sleepy Indigo”.

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Tilting her head, Catherine felt amused by the depth of her daughter’s slumber. There was no sight quite more pleasing than little Indigo: one eye and an ear intact, tail, dangling from string; body, covered in off-white fur.


It was the only thing her father had left her. Well, she stole it to be precise. After early release from Broadmoor, Catherine gifted herself a oneway ticket to Modena; she left on her 18th birthday.

It didn’t take long for her to find him: Nonna had stashed his picture somewhere and spoke out their life whilst drunk. A violent, selfish and useless man, Catherine stalked her father for weeks. 

She let herself in during Sunday Mass and borrowed several items: a raincoat, eye-mask, teaspoon and pet rabbit. Back home, Catherine had gotten quite friendly with a taxidermist.


Beneath the warmth of a goose-feather duvet, Catherine held Indigo’s carcass, nuzzling its body with affection. “Sleepy, sleepy Indigo”, she whispered. “Is my birthday girl awake?”

White rabbit on green grass.



Dreaming with The Devil

I was 21 when my eyes opened to fragility of mind. My first ever blog post Blue touched on the chronic battle I faced with panic attacks, anxiety, numbness; insomnia. During that time, I experienced multiple bouts of “Sleep Paralysis”, an eerie state awakened by a “woke” mind and “dead” body.

The first time it happened, I was certain a ghost had slipped through the gap beneath my door, dragged itself in like that babe from The Ring (2003) and entered my body via the channel of my belly button.

Thank God for Google, is all I can say.


They say you shouldn’t type your symptoms in to Google in the event of extreme and inaccurate diagnosis, but that miraculous little search engine saved my fucking sanity. If it weren’t for Google, I would probably be strapped down in Bedlam right now, reciting lines from The Exorcist (1974).


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“Your Mother Sucks Cocks in Hell”.

Sleep Paralysis arrives and subsides in a matter of moments, once the body has finally caught up with the mind. Amid these first few seconds (or even minutes), your body is completely paralyzed while your mind screams “HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!” It’s super fun, said no-one ever.

sleep paralysis

During the REM (Rapid Eye Movement) stage of sleep, where our imaginative minds roll out our own movies, our muscles endure paralysis to stop us playing out the scenes. The paralysis itself, is said to be caused by Glycine and GABA, alarmingly not the names of two reindeer, but rather chemicals in the brain. 


Even now, with the knowledge that Sleep Paralysis is a non-harmful and temporary state, it never stops being frightening. I don’t think I’ve ever woken up and chosen not to move, to intentionally keep my eyes closed and body still as a form of relaxation. If I ever did? I probably wouldn’t even know the Sleep Paralysis was happening.

There are many superstitions around Sleep Paralysis, understandable, given that it literally feels like you’ve been gagged and bolted to a depths-of-hell mattress. Brazil, Kurdistan, Afghanistan; India are just few of the countries spewing folklore: that sleep paralysis is a “force of evil” trying to possess and harm the body.


The first time I told my grandmother about my encounter with SP, she said she knew what I was going through, cradled my neck and started counting rosary beads above my head. She could have just sung me a lullaby but yeah, apparently the condition might also be genetic.

For me, experiencing something like this was like living out a nightmare. The more afraid I became of feeling paralyzed, the more resistant I was to sleep and thus, the pattern of chronic insomnia began. I met Doctors who were cold and clinical, widening their eyes at me and writing up drug prescriptions.

It wasn’t for me. I was back on that search engine. I found forums where other people were undergoing Sleep Paralysis and I kid you fucking not, there was even the occasional weirdo who ENJOYED playing Medusa’s “turned to stone”. The more I read, the more I understood this complex, multi-faceted being was somehow at war with her very own mind.

The battle commenced. Lights out by 10pm. Curtains drawn. TV off. Phone silenced. I bullied myself back to sleep. No matter how apprehensive I felt, or how many times I woke with a racing heart and mannequins body, I concluded this chapter as a reoccurring nightmare I’d eventually wake from.


I’m fine, I promise

Six months on and I was in a completely different space. The symptoms had significantly decreased; I kept a glass of wisdom by my bedside. I categorized less. I removed myself from the “normal” box, because it never existed in the first place. I put the woke into woken up ya’ll and two years on, I was free.

…Until about a month ago, that is.

Tiresome, but it made sense. I’d been dealing with some heavy shit (as we all have / will some day) and whilst I was more or less able to “hold it together”, my body found an outlet to process the stress. I wasn’t worried – albeit disheartened – so I booked myself a holiday and drifted off in to a slumber of self care, sea and sand.

It was during this trip that I realised I’d been taking my sleeping patterns for granted. I had once lived through months and months of insomnia, SP and night terrors and had been lucky enough to recover. It was in this epiphany that I became deeply grateful for my run of the mill dreams, so I decided to start taking note of them.

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As a present to myself (and not for some sort of self-explorative dream-analysis), here is a 7 day REM-collection: dreams which have unveiled thanks to mind and body alignment:

1. The Drug Juice, 9/19

Anny and myself are with a big group of strangers, they’ve enticed us to party but have started being strange and controlling. I suspect they’re in a satanic cult but don’t want to offend. They offer us a drink filled with bristly hay and dried stems. I take a sip and now the plants are sprouting out of my mouth and jutting in to my gums. I can tell I’m being spiked. I manage to keep my mind alert by singing in my head, but my body is frozen. Once we come out of the trance Anny says “I think we’ve been drugged” and I agree. We see new faces come and go and plan an escape by wiggling our eyebrows at each other.

In the next part of my dream, I’m sitting ’round a table with my older brother and a family friend, Ted. My brother expresses his sadness around seeing our dad get older and how different he is to who he used to be. I agree with him and tell him I feel exactly the same, but that I’m happy we’re talking about it.  

2. She’s a Peng Ting, 9/19

Vera has decided to leave our place of work and it’s a nightmare. Thunder and lightning has struck and I am drenched from the rain. She passes me a ring and asks to keep it safe for her. I agree, but feel as though the world is ending.

Suddenly, it’s summer and I’m lounging by a pool with Anny. A guy I went on one date with appears and walks straight over to Anny. Ignoring me, he holds his phone up and takes a selfie with her yelling “WOAH! SHE’S A PENG TING!” I feel an overwhelming surge of jealousy and cannonball myself in to the pool, in a desperate bid for attention.

3. Do It For The Gram, 10/19

I’m out partying with friends, who are all having a much better time than me. I begin to sulk and start guzzling a large bottle of wine to catch up with them. Now drunk, my friends are screaming at me for following them around and filming them.

I make a lucky escape from the hecklers and am now at the top of a large, straight slide. I shoot down it alone, landing in Joanna’s front room. I’m left to babysit Amelia, who I decide to take for a meal but we end up in a theme park. She goes on these high swing chairs and seems to make a friend. As she gets off, she’s shouting at me for filming her. I lie and say I want her mum to see it, but immediately upload the film to Instagram. 

4. Sequined Mammals, 10/19

I’m in a lift with Adey, which is plummeting down at high speed without stopping. I’m not afraid in the least, and decide to do some yoga stretches. 

I end up on my bed and have an amazing idea for a magazine. I take a nap and have a dream within dream, where I see lots of bright animals who have all swapped skin. Elephants have bright sequined fish scales, birds are glistening leopard print and monkeys are covered in peacock feathers. I wake from the dreams dream and decide to call the magazine “The Other Side”. It seems like a genius idea.

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5. Man on the Loose, 10/19

My aunt Carla* (who keeps turning into my aunt Rosa*) has newly bought a house in Brighton. Something bad has happened and all the houses are sinking into the earth at a slant. Whilst on the phone, Carla looks across the harbor and says “Oh my god! That’s my house”, which continues to sink along with other buildings and modes of transport.

My phone rings and I’m given the news that my dad has run off to Pompeii. Everyone but me is delighted, and I’m panicking because he doesn’t have his medication or any money on him. 

I’m now on a fast train to Pompeii and navigate my way to the very last carriage. An old lady is laying in bed with tubes coming out of her. I smile and sit on her bed and she says: “A beautiful girl like you, single?” I reply “Well yes and I’m not that young anymore…I’m turning 30 soon!”. The lady laughs and suddenly a handsome man is in the room, who she gestures to with her eyebrows. The man looks disgusted with me. He leaves, wearing a white vest and baring muscle. The lady complains that nothing good is on TV, so I say “Don’t worry, I’ll find the channel you’re looking for”. I crouch down on the floor and as I’m changing the station, I realise that the lady is my late grandma. I gasp in delight and say “Nana!” She giggles in a very familiar way.


6. Play-dough Face, 10/19

I’m in a fancy, Rapunzel-like tower, with staircases spiraling for days. Art Nouveau decor is weaved in to the fabrics and it’s all a bit too fancy for my liking. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and find I’m wearing far too much makeup. I make a run for it, hoping to find somewhere to remove the caked mask, only to realise that my right-side dimple (which in real life, doesn’t exist), is paralysed. My face is doing this creepy half smiling thing, and so I jam my finger in to the dimple to level it back with the left. It clicks into place but then makes its way back up again, stuck in the creepy half smile. I panic, because not only have I remembered I’m on a date with a guy whilst wearing horrible makeup, but now my face is semi-paralysed and I can’t get it back to normal. 

The first thing I do when I awake from this dream is check the right side of my face.

7. I Love You BUT I’m Dreaming, ?/17

I dreamt this dream years ago, remembering it vividly because it’s up there with my favourites such as flying, yielding magical powers and floating into space.

I’m at a house-party, wearing a maroon ankle-length dress. I’m bored endless, and feel sort of agitated. People are coming and going, most of whom I find rather pretentious. I look across the crowd and see my mother standing there, looking about 27 years old. “MUMMY!” I scream like a child, and rush through the crowd of insignificant people. As I approach my mum, I realise that I am in fact dreaming. I put my hands on her shoulders and say: “Mummy! I know I’m dreaming, but I love you so much!” My mum laughs in a vivacious manner and embraces me: “I also know you’re dreaming, but I love you SO much darling”.

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Dreams are fascinating, because they take us into a world inside ourselves. While we sleep, we process memories, love, fear, jealousy, anger and also the unknown. We heal and restore within this paradoxical universe, where things shouldn’t make sense but do. I find a lot of resolution in dreams, often reconciling with lost friends, defying gravity and facing fears. 


Berlin 2010, 6 months post my Sleep Paralysis attacks

After my chronic Sleep Paralysis episode, I’m still not exactly a sound sleeper. I toss and turn throughout the night and tend to wake a couple times, usually because I’ve drank too much water. That said, I’m grateful more than anything for rest, because I know that each sleep is a way to recharge before we meet a new days worth of consciousness. 

After my Sleep Paralysis episode, I’m still not exactly the best sleeper. I toss and turn throughout the night and tend to wake a couple times, usually because I’ve drank too much water. That said, I’m grateful more than anything for rest. 

The Bully

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting in an old battered waiting chair. Beads of sweat have formed at the top of my brow, as I pick at my nails, nervously. A man in a trench coat opens the door and summons me in to his room…

“It’s not good news”, he says. “We’ve got your scan results back and the headache you’ve been experiencing is a tumor. It’ll probably rupture between now and 17.30 and you’ll die on your way to Ravenscourt Park. I can’t guarantee it, but you’ll likely roll down the side of a river bank and a seagull will find you floating across the Thames. Nobody will recognize you, because silver chemical compounds will have seeped in to your skin, leaving you with Argyria. You’ll be mistaken for The Tin Man and used down the West End as a life-sized prop, the taxidermist will label you his best creation yet”.


You’re fine Chelsea, come back. 

I look up and force a smile. My best friend Jo is sitting opposite me, flicking a rollup and fussing fondly over other peoples dogs. I’ve been day drinking with barely any water, so of course I ceased my minor headache as an opportunity for some well earned self-torture.

My therapist diagnosed me as having “Catastrophic Thinking”, a condition which pretty much means what it’s called: to think catastrophically. Her solution, in dealing with my, utterly exhausting, repetitive voice of gloom and doom, was to acknowledge every negative thought I have and say “Not today thought! Not today!” Well fuck me. With tools like that I may as well embrace the fact I am “batshit crazy” and save myself some money.

I once dreamt that Paul Walker was my boyfriend and in the dream, he was so smitten he kept following me everywhere. I couldn’t believe that such a talented, handsome, successful man would ever wish to (naked) spoon me. The next morning, in real life, he died. And I was sure that I had killed him. Paul Walker picked up on the vibes that YOU wanted to have his babies, and he got so unconsciously freaked out his time on earth was halted. 

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Fly High, Handsome

I hate being me.

I was encouraged (by my therapist, obviously) to write a diary listing each negative thought as it came up. Definitely the creepiest thing I’ve ever done and, rather than helping – it sent me in to a “law of attraction” panic. By acknowledging my thoughts out loud, I feared that every awful thought I had would suddenly come true: that I was summoning myself to a fate of disaster and tragedy. 

Readers if you’ve read this far, not only are you fucking amazingly brave, but you have consciously chosen to embark on Chelsea’s rollercoaster of neurosis. Here is just one days worth of my anxiety, noted down:

31st January 2019, (Mums Birthday)

9.15am, on the tube:

It’s going to be so awful when Dad dies. We’ll need to find and fly his body over. How am I supposed to console my little brothers when I’m broken? Who’s going to identify the body? Probably Gavin*. But then what if he has a breakdown?  He’ll end up being sanctioned and when we visit him, he’ll be in a weird vegetable state. He’ll have dilated pupils and saliva hanging from his mouth. Only then, will I wish he was alert enough to call me an idiot, and that my way of thinking is going to make me sick. 

9.36am, still on the tube:

What if my little brothers are getting bullied at school? How am I supposed to protect them if I can’t spend all my time with them? They wear tracksuits; Brian’s so tall now. What if he gets targeted simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? It must be so tiring being a young man and having to show bravado. Oh god, what if Brian finds it hard to express his emotions and turns to self harm? Maybe I should keep an eye out for his wrists, casually roll up his sleeves next time? Yes. I’ll do that. I’ll buy a set of those fake tattoos and ask if he wants a transfer sticker. He’ll love that! It’s a win win. Awesome. 

11.17am, washing my hands in the bathroom:

Ahh it’s Mums birthday today! I hope she’s having the BEST time and that everyone is spoiling her! Man, she really is the sweetest. Imagine I lost her? Who would I share all my highs and lows with? Nobody else really cares THAT much. If I lost the sound of excitement in her voice, her care; her empathy: I may as well be dead. I’ll have to learn what it means to face the world alone and fall in to a black hole of numbness. Joanna will probably look after me out of fear and obligation but then…what if I kill myself and ruin her life too?

18:57pm, walking along the train platform:

Fucking hell these crowds of people are annoying. I’ll just walk on the bobbly part of the platform to get near the end sooner. Oh god, what if I slip and fall in front of the train? Never mind delaying all these commuters going home, what the fuck will my mum do? My childhood friends will probably turn to the needle I mean, who needs weed when you have heroine, right? Maybe I should text some of them; make them promise to look after my mum if anything happens to me. Fuck, I’ll just wait here squashed between this couple snogging.  At least now I’m doing everyone a favor…

20:47pm, “zenning” on the yoga mat:

Ah man I love Warrior Pose. Wait a second, what the…? What the fuck is that weird pain in my side? Why am I always so bloated? Maybe I have appendicitis. Or worse, bowel cancer. Fuck it, I’m coming out of this pose to jab myself in the belly button. Feel any pain? Nope. What about there? Nope. I do feel a dull ache though. Huh, maybe it’s just my polycystic ovaries flaring up again. Ah well, Childs Pose it is. 

1.13am, awake in bed:

Don’t think about it, just try to sleep. In for four, out for seven…okay? Repeat.

Not pretty, is it? Day in, day out, constantly battling with the mind. Part of me is rational, the other half, totally irrational! I am constantly convincing myself that the worst is going to happen, removing myself from the present moment and into a place of panic. The fear of losing my loved ones; something bad happening to them (or myself) is constant – and exhausting.

When I started to jot my thoughts down, I felt ashamed; insane! I was like: there are actually people suffering out there, experiencing grief and pain and yet here I am, frolicking around in cuckoo land, skipping down the path of self-inflicted, torturous behaviour! 

So yeah! Just in case you haven’t heard enough from my grim, depressing, melancholy-mind-merry-go-round, here’s a breakdown of what I typically obsess/panic/cry over on a daily basis:

  1. Death: Whether it’s imagining my own death, or the many ways in which my loved ones might die – I’m constantly thinking about it. I think about my family, friends, coworkers and even my unborn babies dying. I think about how depressing life would be without them; which songs to play at their funeral and whether I should draft their eulogy.
  2. Health: I always diagnose myself with symptoms, which are usually quite sinister and extreme. Mostly I worry about cancer, but I also worry about conditions like multiple sclerosis, brain tumors, chronic fatigue and even bells palsy – which is the common cause of facial paralysis. Typically, I avoid the doctors, because I’m afraid to face “the true diagnosis”. When I do turn up, they usually fob off my symptoms without checking anyway, and I go back to my imagined place of eternal doom and panic.
  3. Appearance: Acknowledging the way I speak, think and feel about myself is ultimately the saddest because I wouldn’t dare treat another person in this wawhite van drivery! I scrutinize my chin, face shape, body, arms, neck, stomach, stretch marks and all the other things which defy bullshit conventional “beauty” standards. I convince myself that I’m masculine, irrespective of the fact that I basically live in “girl world”, have a period and get honked at by white-mini-van drivers on a daily!
  4. Happiness: When something good happens and I have something to look forward to, I don’t let myself feel excitement or joy. Instead, I hurtle straight in to panic and think about all the reasons why my happiness will be ruined. Holiday soon? Nahh babes your plane’s going to crash. New lover? He’ll run away once you hurt his feelings with your banter. Pay rise? The Tax Man’s going to own you fam. Oh wait…


I’m aware that this post may be a trigger for those who have faced severe illness and/or lost loved ones (as I have too, by the way). And in this sense, anxiety can not only be crippling, but also embarrassing and shameful. We don’t talk about or acknowledge our negative thoughts because that’s all we brush them off as: thoughts! Thoughts in need of replacing and rewiring; thoughts worth forgetting: niggling, nuisance, thoughts.

I had a conversation with a friends girlfriend recently, we discussed our anxiety and shared experience of panic attacks. She said something which made sense to me, which was that as primal beings, staying nervously alert whilst navigating through a (concrete) jungle, marked an instinctive will to survive. She said that, based on our animalistic roots, humans are constantly sniffing out danger.

And, the trouble is with being human, is that we can process our fear in to definitive words and thoughts, meaning that they can then manifest in to physical symptoms in the body.  It doesn’t matter how much we kid ourselves by posing as civilized members of society: our instinct is to protect ourselves (and our own) before finally reaching the finish line.


Mind blown.

This conversation, provided rationality toward my catastrophic thinking. Every time I now feel fear I go back to it, to remind myself that nerves are all part of being alive. I understand this type of fear comes from a place of wanting to live; to experience life, with those I love; in as little pain as possible. It’s really not that crazy when I look at it this way.

Anxiety disorders can affect anyone. Facts.

If you’ve cultivated the belief that anxiety sufferers are only introverted, withdrawn and depressed loners: bin your thoughts now. My case of anxiety never shows, but is felt. On the surface, I am an outgoing, fun-loving and confident young woman. I have a thriving work and social life, an abundance of meaningful relationships and I enjoy being alive completely.

it meee

They say that when you have negative thoughts, you should counteract them using gratitude. And it’s true, there is much to be thankful for. I chose to write this post as a means to process and release. To let anyone know, who feels similarly, that they are not alone. And to enlighten those – with little knowledge – what it’s like to have a “small scale” disorder.

In the end, we’re all in the same boat together, trying our best to enjoy the ride; moving  with the tide, in the hope that we will some day reach the shore, safely.


Wet for Dry Jan

It’s nearly Valentines Day and yet here I am, wishing my Boo-zy and Booze-free Readers a Happy New Year!

This is my first post of 2019 and we are hanging out without the hangover, riding those waves without the whiskey; reading that prose without the rosé. (Well, you might be, I’m not).

2019 has thrown her head back, gripped those sheets and squeezed out a new me. I’m wiser. More sensible. Crispy frickin’ clean. I’ve been given the chance to redeem myself; focus on cleansing my hidden chakra. That’s right readers, you can catch me in a downward dog at 5am, snorting up dried Aloe Vera crumbs through a Tibetan windpipe and chanting to the God of Neroli.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am seriously fucking with you. But I did complete Dry January without a single drop of gin, or any other spirit for that matter.

And, as this is a space to safely air my dirty laundry, I have a confession to make.

Remember Prose for my Brothers? I wrote that while drunk. Some halfwit made a subtle yet ignorant remark in front of me and I got so fucked off I ended up dowsing my liver in the good stuff until stars sprawled out before me. I woke up in the morning with smudgey-eyed mascara, 1 half eaten chicken nugget in my bed and a decent piece of writing. I’d obviously come home and ugly-cried into my laptop, which is both moronic and embarrassing, but at least I’d processed what I needed to thanks to Gordon’s pink edition.

Ghosted. Remember that tragedy? I was nursing the hangover from hell when I wrote that. I’d been drinking Negroni the night before (the coincidental Ghoster’s drink of choice), so when I woke up feeling like my skull had been plummeted with a Turkey carcass and shaken all about, it only felt right to write about him.

I drank more in 2018 than I probably did my whole life. After my job role changed, (and I suddenly gained access to the free bar), there wasn’t much stopping me. I was like Charlie in an adult Willy Wonka’s brewery; a golden ticket with “2 for 1” stamped across the front. My social life changed. Birthdays, dinners, casual work evenings; boozy-bingey weekend antics. It got to the point where I was drinking four times a week; hangovers were treated with KFC breakfasts and clammy duvet days. I got used to feeling tired, bloated and dehydrated allll the bloody (Mary) time.


Being with people, drunk, allowed me to feel free. Any remaining thoughts of seriousness turned to silliness, and as the night would spiral out and wind down, I would end up slurring to my friends, declaring my love for them and projecting my inner most feelings.

No fucking regrets there, either.

Towards the end of the year though. I did start to feel tired. Not the tired described above, but an on the brink of boredom tired. Bored of limiting myself to the same kind of social scenes. Bored of getting into a cab and suddenly feeling like everything was spinning, a sickness in my throat and stomach, doing everything in my power not to throw up.

I would stumble home, throw my belongings on the floor, guzzle 2 litres of water and wake up in the night desperately needing a piss. I would then just lay in bed, feeling incredibly sick and anxious, wondering if I’d ever get back to sleep again.

That’s not my idea of fun.

Now, before you make hasty assumptions and think “What a sellout, joining the Dry Jan conga line to simply go bat-shit crazy come February 1st”, you’re very mistaken. To clarify, I broke Dry Jan on February 2nd and more importantly, I needed to remember what life was like before I started drinking.

Screen Shot 2019-02-13 at 10.38.19 PM

Life before Drinking, Unhappy as Ever

I didn’t drink much during the Christmas period. I was turning down mulled wine offerings and steering clear of the Prosecco. Like I said, I was tired. Dry Jan was the perfect excuse to give myself a lengthy break. I needed it, mentally and physically, more than I’d anticipated.

During the first week of January, 3 of my closest friends came over for an evening of fun. I cooked dinner, made cocktails (mocktails for me), and pretty much watched my friends get smashed. It was fabulous. We danced, gossiped, debated; hugged, made silly voices over Snapchat filters, walked to the shop to buy wine (I was thrilled to find an alcohol-free blueberry cider), and stayed up until 4am. My friends didn’t care that I was sober, and I didn’t care that they were drunk. What I learnt? If you have a naturally annoying personality, you can adapt to annoying situations with ease.

I began to think of all the things I’d missed out on due to nursing hangovers. Afternoon walks, bike rides, coffee chats, morning yoga; DIY pamper sessions. I realised that being active is a wonderful way to release endorphins whilst keeping fit, something I’d thoroughly neglected, especially over weekends. I found myself cooking more, reading more; calling my friends rather than texting. I was reclaiming balance, which for me, is invaluable.




One thing I really struggled with being constantly sober, was dealing with the heaviness of life. Things in my personal life were truly weighing me down. I started to focus on all the things I couldn’t fix; things out of my control. Specific incidents were pulling me into emotional turmoil and for the first time, I didn’t have the crutch of alcohol to lean on. I couldn’t drink a bottle of wine to forget the pain and spend the rest of my weekend in bed. I had to face things. I had to accept that life is hard: nobody and nothing can save us, but ourselves.

I began to meditate, I returned to my roots of journaling and every thought and feeling was transferred on to paper.

I was experiencing life, sober.




During my last week of Dry January, I went out for a team dinner. A few of my coworkers said “You’re almost there now – you may as well have one”. But I declined. I drank virgin Pina coladas and watched my team dance and smash plates (in fairness, we were at a Greek restaurant).

After the meal, I desperately wanted to go home. I was tired and full, it had been a long day. Still, my coworkers went on to a bar and somehow convinced me to join them.

And then the unexpected happened.

Whilst the majority of my peers drank and let go, I sat in the corner with another coworker, and we spoke about our feelings. It was the type of conversation you would only have with a colleague when drunk. We talked of our lives, the highs and lows, and consciously lowered our guards.

This moment, for me, will forever be marked as mind-blowing. Why? Because for years I’d believed the enabling of profound, meaningful moments with “strangers” were based on the consumption of alcohol. Turns out humans who want to connect will find a way to do so, without any form of substance.

For me, that’s a really important thing to remember.

We don’t need alcohol to act our inner most desires; to dance, play, talk, kiss, fuck, laugh; cry – everything we wish to do is inside of us, sometimes we simply lack courage.

When I broke my Dry Jan on the 2nd Feb I did it right: with pink gin and vodka shots.I was surrounded by friends, some old, some new, and didn’t feel like I was lacking any sort of control.



During my cab journey home I sipped water from a plastic cup and watched West London’s glittering skyline from the back of an Uber. The buildings were still and beautiful. Grenfell stood tall, a harrowing reminder of families lost and displaced; a negligent government with no remorse for its citizens: more vacant than the 24 storey building itself.

And then there was me, rekindling with an intense drunken feeling. A feeling I’d missed so much.

I’m not a person who *needs* to drink (quite honestly, I don’t think anyone is), because I’m already mad as a hatter. In fact, I’ve been asked whether I’m drunk or high on so many sober days I’ve lost count now. Since dry-Jan I’ve been unintentionally drinking less. I went for brunch on Sunday and rather than ordering an Aperol Spritz, I ordered a latte. Why? Because that’s what I felt like drinking. When brunch was over my friend and I went for a drink elsewhere. I ordered a ginger-stemmed Kombucha (good gut health, apparently), and my friend ordered a lemonade. We weren’t thinking about alcohol, but simply continuing the conversation.


Waking up without a hangover is bliss, stealing a strangers spectacles and calling oneself Arthur for the night is also bliss. The physical benefits of not drinking alcohol are immense, but then, so is living on raw broccoli and cauliflower stems.

Whatever makes you happy, I guess.

People drink for different reasons and in Britain, it’s a big part of our culture. So long as we’re not drinking to cope with everyday life and neglecting/forgetting ourselves, I think that’s OK. Dry January helped me conclude that people should live as they choose: with less fear, less judgement and MORE CONVERSATIONS! If you do find yourself feeling low, reach out to a friend before the bottle. A red wine carafe is always better when shared, as is a cold jug of Vimto!



F*&k Me or Get Out

Hello-ho-ho Readers,

I guess the title for this post is pretty self-explanatory: another day, another terrible, terrible I-couldn’t-even-call-it-a-date.

For those thinking “oh no, not another male bashing post”, well, I’m sorry. I can’t help it that I have a vagina and put myself in situations with men who behave like morons. It’s not a reflection of all men on the planet, but it’s definitely still relevant.

If you want a post where I’m singing the praise of remarkable men, I’ll just bore you to death with tales of my older brother, who as a child danced with me to Beauty and the Beast, knowing full well he’d be forced to play Belle. Or, I could mention my good friend Arny, who when told 8 years ago that I “only” see him as a friend, accepted my feelings without pressuring, punishing or eliminating me from his life; embracing me as a person without ever crossing boundaries.

I could even write about my needed-now-more-than-ever male work allies, who’ve understood and acted on what it means to make a woman feel heard, respected and comfortable in the work place. These are the men who never speak over, dismiss or degrade their female peers by making lewd comments, sexist remarks and at worst, going as far as to cross physical boundaries and say “What? I’m only human!” Sorry to say, but spanning my twelve years of work experience I’ve only had a positive male-work experience within the last one and a half. Yikes.

So yes, I can acknowledge that wonderful men do exist, but unfortunately this post isn’t  “Chelsea’s Top 20 Favourite Men on Planet Earth”. This is “F*&k Me or Get Out”; I suggest you keep reading. 


After my whole “ghosted” experience, I felt less inclined to be open when chatting to guys online. It made sense to keep to the point and not invest too much in the form of selfies, lengthy texts, daily updates and so on. A friend of mine made a good point, that in this unique dating-app culture we’re in, people are lonely and happy to use a temporary “comfort blanket”. In other words, whilst swipers may be happy to share their lives for just a few days, that’s not to say the person they’re speaking with isn’t disposable; filling a hole open part-time only.

For me, this theory made sense. By the time I was ready to meet *Jimmy, I knew not whether I liked him or didn’t. I had no preformed opinion and felt neither excited or nervous. I was neutral; made less effort, ditched the curling tongs; wore a sports bra – you get the gist.

It was a good first date. Possibly the best first I’ve ever had with someone I’d met online.

We went for cocktails in Kings Cross and we had chemistry. In other words, we held a strong superficial attraction. Jimmy was really nice looking: good build, fair height, strong jawline; smelled like a field of white lilies dusted with coconut shavings and vanilla musk snowflakes – yummy. He was in no way shy and arrived to the date guns blazing: very flirty, arguably cocky and very tactile. In fact, Jimmy was the sort of man I’d kept myself away from in recent years. I knew he’d be troublesome.

And even in that knowing, I decided to ignore the signs anyway. “Treat yourself”, I thought. After a series of turbulent relationships with an aftermath of solitary confinement and holy water blessings, I decided to finally “surrender to the moment”. I sat close to Jimmy and giggled and flirted and let outsiders believe we were a honey-mooned couple: fake it ’til you make it they say. I didn’t quiz Jimmy, or share too much about myself. Instead, I let myself enjoy him in that moment, accepting it for what it was.

We spent a couple of hours sitting very closely together, having a laugh and *deep breath* kissing. There I was, the Sister Mary Clarence of the dating app world, letting. Herself. Go.


By the time our second came ’round, Jimmy convinced me to visit his house which was may I add, in the middle of nowhere. Now I knowww what you’re thinking – you’re thinking “whyyyy did you GO?” Well, I don’t have an answer for that. I guess I was bored, naive, curious; excited. I had no intention of sleeping with the guy; he’d offered to make me dinner (but I did wax my bikini line JUST in case).

My body, my choice, right?

Jimmy picked me up from a far out location – a station I’d never been before – on the opposite side of London. He arrived in a black, shiny BMW, wearing slippers and a tracksuit. Cool as ever. Literally.

The first thing he did to cause offense (after arriving at his three bedroom, two bathroom, semi-detached house), was ‘shush’ me during a program. After finally convincing him to play one of my favourite ever shows (Haters Back Off, Netflix), he shortly switched it off and put on First Dates (Ch4), instead.



Now call me crazy, but I thought when you watch a film or movie at home, it isn’t a crime to speak while it’s on, especially when what you say relates to the content. During one of the scenes, where this painfully optimistic girl dips a fluffy marshmallow into a tub of hot chocolate and says”Mmmmm, SWIRL!!” before shoving it in to the mouth of a stranger, I made the mistake of saying “Wow! Don’t you think her date looks uncomfortable?!”

At this point, my own, epic fail of a date (who happened to be sitting alone on a rotating circular swivel couch), held up a finger, shushed me and said “Please don’t talk, I’m trying to watch”. I wish I’d seized the moment by grabbing a sword and bolting out the door true ninja-style but alas, I just smiled and said “you know, you could always press pause or rewind…”.

Leading up to this event, Jimmy’d actually raised other red flags. In a previous phone call, he’d said that he often stops fancying girls after seeing them naked. As a size 12, with large boobs, cellulite and stretch marks – I convinced myself that I’d misheard. Ding! Winner of the Biggest Fucking Idiot Award goes to me.

After expressing the desire to make “a fresh, light dinner”, Jimmy shoved two breaded chicken goujons in to the oven and halved a potato latke. I’m pretty low maintenance when it comes to food, but I think the romance truly ended when he muttered: “These are going off tomorrow,  I need to get rid of them”.

I cheered up a great deal after being fed. In fact, I actually felt a slight thrill being at this attractive mans house. There I was, being wined (watered) and dined by a universal mystery; Jimmy even invited me to sit with him on the swivel sofa! I accepted, and it wasn’t long before he and I were kissing again: fluffy tracksuits rubbing, sweaty palms patting. As enjoyable as our escapade was, I decided that kissing and caressing were more than enough. I straightened up, smiled and slightly moved away.

Poor, horrible Jimmy.

Have you ever seen someone stare at a moving London underground train? When their eyes dart manically from carriage to carriage? Based on what I could only perceive as a pent up simmering rage, Jimmy’s eyes started flickering across my face – no seriously, he was so enraged he couldn’t keep his eyeballs still – they were going wild with anger. It was a bit like watching a horror film actually. I wondered if he would transform from a tall, tanned “attractive” being, into a limbless, slimy amphibian.

After foaming at the mouth for what felt like two minutes, Jimmy began to spew poisonous venom:

  1. “What do you mean you’re not going to fuck me?”
  2. “I’m not going to spend time getting to know a girl who isn’t even going to be my girlfriend”.
  3. “So, what? You’d sleep with your ex-boyfriend but won’t sleep with me?” [Just to further enhance the absurdity of this comment – I’d been in a two year relationship with a person I’d known for six. This was my second ever meeting with Jimmy].
  4. “I don’t want to sleep with you anymore anyway. I’m over it. Do you see where I’m coming from? I’m so pissed off”. Aaannd my personal favourite:
  5. “You just won’t fuck me today, so you can convince your friends that you’re not a slag tomorrow”.

Suddenly the guy who wasn’t interested in saying more than five words to me had become very, very vocal. My response? “Right…this is awkward…I’m calling an Uber”.



That feeling when your friends share your fire 😉

As I entered his address into the app (which I even more awkwardly had to ask for), Jimmy was frantically pacing the room with both hands on his head. I could see he wanted nothing more than for me to get the fuck out. I decided to wait outside.

I put my feet in my trainers and saw Jimmy, truly repulsed by my presence. He walked toward me like a nightclub bouncer, in a bizarre attempt to usher me out. I had no time to tie my shoelaces or pull the back over my heel, so I just shuffled out the door. When Jimmy saw my laces still untied, he snorted with gratification.


Jimmy then slammed the door, literally the second I stepped both feet out. I was in the middle of nowhere, pitch black and my Uber hadn’t arrived. It was all good, I was safer in the dark cold space than the evil clutches of Jimmy’s swivel couch!

I can’t lie – if this had happened to me a year ago, I would’ve been in tears; traumatized. When I called my mum on the journey home we laughed about it, I guess we too have been desensitized.

You know, in my previous post about ghosting – I questioned my level of physical openness. The guy who semi-ghosted me said he didn’t believe I was “into him” and that I was “difficult to read”. I wondered if I should have been more tactile with him on our first date. Maybe I should have subtly tapped his arm, or sat closer to him; made an excuse to feel his fabric linen.

Jimmy’s reaction was so hostile and dramatic, I began to question myself AGAIN: Should I have slept with him? Was it outrageous of me to accept dinner with no intention of actually sleeping with the culinary master-chef? Am I the one with the problem?


Being in somebody else’s home, I realised that my body is MY home; anyone who isn’t invited is an intruder. Anyone who makes me feel unsafe gets locked out.

When I’d arrived at Jimmys house that day, he seemed agitated: he gave little eye contact; asked barely any questions. In hindsight, I think he believed his superficial attributes entitled an easy lay.

But what if I had slept with Jimmy? Succumbed to the pressure, caved in; tried to placate him in an attempt to win points – would he have chucked me out the moment we were finished? Would we have had the same ending, just with myself feeling used and humiliated?

I then wondered how many girls he’d brought back to his lair. How many girls had been chucked out the door in the cold, shoelaces scraping concrete.

When two people like each other enough and, know they like each other enough, sex is surely on the cards, right? Is the rush or delay really important? Do people use fleeting physical intimacy to fill the gap of emotions lost?


A few weeks after my “date”, I heard a plea on the radio – a mans voice – seeking any kind of information on his missing daughter, Grace Millane. Grace, a 22 year old British graduate had traveled to Auckland, NZ on a gap year, and been murdered by a male she’d met on Tinder. The dire news made me sick.

Whilst I can’t blame online dating apps for such unthinkable outcomes, perhaps there should be both a vetting and ratings system. Users should be able to leave public  feedback regarding their feelings of comfort and safety.

I reported Jimmy on Hinge, simply for the fact I felt unnerved and unsafe. Frustratingly, I wasn’t able to leave a comment stating my reasons why. I also blamed myself for doing something remotely risky and spontaneous when the truth is, women should be able to live freely, without fear.

future is female


Blog Readers,

It’s been a while but I’ve been thriving, surviving, single and SWIPING.

DATING APPS: what a tragic time to be alive.

You know, every time something remotely unfortunate happens in my *less than impressive* love life – the sensitive, trusting, hopeful girl in me curls in a ball and wants to disappear. The ballsy, no-fucks, abrasive writer on the other hand thinks: I’m so glad he proved to be like all the rest, we about to go innnnn!

Like many other busy, bright and quite frankly AMAZING single women I know, I’ve had a truly unfortunate experience using dating apps. Tinder, Happn, Bumble and best of all – Hinge, are proving to be a fucking waste of my time. I swear, I’d be more likely to develop a meaningful relationship with a bag of frozen carrots than some of the men I’ve met.

I’ve been on several dates over the last two years and have many stories to tell: the guy who tried too much too soon, the guy who claimed to be a millionaire and fleeced me; the one who thought he could buy his way into my bed…or the one who thought his bed would make a good spot for a first date. Then there’s the guy who replied every 48 hours ’til I finally got the message; the funny guy – who in person didn’t laugh once and my personal favourite: THE GHOSTER.

Bare with me readers, I’m just warming up.

I met a guy who on paper was….perfect. No, perrrrffffeccctttt. So funny, so normal, so cute, so nice. Clever. Driven. Engaging. Responsive. All of the boxes were like *check* *check* check*. Even my cynical Mother was like: “Darling, this one seems to be matching you. If you fuck it up, you have problems”.

No pressure then.

Before our date, we spoke for around three weeks. Messaging in the morning, messaging in the evening. Phone calls, pictures, voicenotes – even the occasional drunk call some nights. We didn’t meet straight away ’cause we were both working; traveling – but it felt like we were on the same page, we were opening up; getting along.

By the time our date came ’round it was nerve-wracking: with online dates you never fully know who’s going to turn up: will they be all you’ve hyped them up to be? Will you be all they’ve hyped YOU up to be?

Well, we met and it was…nice. Were we trying to rip each others clothes off? No (well, never, ’cause that’s not really my pace). But, we spent four hours together which – to spend with a stranger, on a weekday – is a fucking long time. I didn’t feel the way I felt with my exes i.e. “They’re so hot and arrogant – I’m so young and unsure of myself. I’m gonna reapply my concealer every ten minutes and then we’ll be together forever”. Instead, I felt at ease. I felt like – this is a person I can talk to, about everything – and he’s actually listening. This is someone who seems shy and unsure….but he’s got my attention. Am I in love with him? No. Am I in lust with him? No. But there is SOMETHING between us – other than this table – worth exploring.

At the end of our date we kissed. I mean, I didn’t know if we would, or whether I’d even like it. For starters, despite my bravado of being open, outspoken and just a *little bit* crazy…I’m like a snail when it comes to physical intimacy…maybe even a little uptight. It’s the only way I can protect myself: making sure his heart is hooked before he unhooks my bra, know what I’m saying? Well anyway, I was glad he kissed me because I liked kissing him. It confirmed I’d wanna do it again.

We carried on talking as normal after that. Well, for four days to be exact. Slowly though, he started pulling back. Less messages. Fewer replies. It got to the point where we went from speaking every day to not speaking for a week and I thought…he’s gonna gradually fizzle out ’til he feels safe enough to disappear completely.

Now, to most people reading this – you might be thinking – what’s the big deal? Well, I guess there isn’t one, if you’re okay with indirectness, lack of consideration; blowing hot and cold; not knowing where you stand, or wondering what you’ve done wrong.

When you reach out to someone consistently over a chunk of time, they’ll get used to hearing from you. When you open up to them about your life, they’ll feel they can open up about theirs too. Or like, if you say misleading shit to them about the future – you’ll pull them from the present.

Ghosting, is like leading someone up the garden path and pushing them into a well of self doubt.

During that week of silence, I went through all kinds of possibilities:-

  • He’s probably just giving me space while I’m on holiday
  • He probably just wants his space while he’s on holiday
  • Maybe he’s playing hard to get
  • Maybe he’s lost his phone
  • Maybe he never had a phone and was borrowing someone else’s
  • Maybe his wife / girlfriend / boyfriend has returned from Nebraska
  • Maybe he just wanted a fuck
  • Maybe he thought I was too full on and that my questions were lame
  • Maybe he’s seeing like four, five other girls

Did I have to send him all those pics of my pasta? Did I need to be so “alpha-male” by steering the wheel? Can’t I keep myself small, so that guys like him don’t get scared of my BIG?


Put me out of my misery already. I went against all of my friends advice and messaged him, straight up. His response told me everything I needed to know:

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Text 1: He made an excuse, but didn’t even bother to ask how I was doing. Why? Because he didn’t give a fuck. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself after taking ketamine all weekend. Me messaging him simply added to his self-inflicted problems.

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Text 2: Again, straight up. I simply wanted that closure so I wouldn’t torture myself with the not-so-fun guessing games. Did he reply? Of course not. He was ghosting.

Despite letting all my mates down by not playing “the cool game”, I am so glad I sent those messages. They set me free from myself, the lights went on.

And something clicked.

I believe every woman has that switching point, when we stop giving a fuck about people who don’t give a fuck about us. When we start to reevaluate our relationship with self and realise it’s not even about the guy – it’s about what WE’VE projected onto THEM. I’ve flicked that switch with every man I’ve ever liked or dated, it’s like sobering up from a messy night out and nursing yourself with food and sleep.

Look. If you’ve ever been confused, misled or ghosted – just remember: there are plenty more fish in the sea. That fish you been trying to hook? Set it free into the ocean. Let it get eaten by sharks, or later served on a plate with wasabi.

Just kidding. But think about it: if there are multitudes of sea life in the ocean – don’t be disheartened if you couldn’t reel a tiny fish in. Go for the biggest catch your rod allows and trust me, if your catch doesn’t even hold a *PLAICE* for you? Do you want him in your net?

Socially and culturally we’re urged not to be too honest with men: “Don’t tell him you wanna get married or have kids – he’ll run a mile. “Don’t bring up anything that makes you seem depressed or insecure…it’ll probably be too heavy and he’ll think you’re a psycho. “Play the game by revealing as little about yourself as possible, when he’s finally yours you can show him how crazy you are”.

My bad, I didn’t realise I was a puppet in search of an all-male standing ovation.

After being emotionally misled and then ghosted, I took all that great advice and binned it, along with every other guy who’s ever hurt my feelings.

I stopped appeasing online predators, no longer responding to sleazy one-liners with shy emojis, and started showing them my boundaries.

I started turning down dates to guys “only looking for fun”, giving them clear, honest explanations as to why I didn’t wanna date them.


I didn’t realise that being fiends for a chase, such reactions would gage more interest. Typical predators, always seeking a challenge; a conquest.

My ghoster did actually reappear – almost a week later. He listed all my favourable attributes to soften the blow of his rejection. He didn’t realise that labels like “pretty”, “funny” and “awesome” were just another way of reinforcing his absence. He ended something before it began, because I was more interesting when I was two-dimensional.

To be honest, it’s not that deep. I was pretty grateful for the honesty, even if I had already given myself closure.

People are different and where “ghosts” are concerned, perhaps he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Maybe, a ghosts logic is to back out without contact in case they choose to reappear one day. Mayyybeee, a ghost is scared to be seen in a bad light – and thinks that saying nothing is safer than saying something.

If somebody ghosts you: burn some sage and lock that door. Delete their number and any pictures they may have sent, nobody needs to be looking at that shit.

If your worth needs to be validated by anyone other than YOU – maybe it’s time you start giving yourself that much needed love you deserve. Remind yourself how worthy you are and fuck anyone who can’t see you.

Keep in mind that ghosts aren’t real: if they disappear, they were never really there to begin with.

Write My Way Out

It seems like forever since I got lost beneath a sea of words, paragraphs flowing, ideas relentless. 

Writers block: it’s the worst. I’ve had it for what seems like months now and it’s been weighing me down like a mental fatigue. It’s like, every time I have an idea I shy away from it, the lights are off; no one’s home.


Guilt eats at me with every blip. I have drafts sitting in my WordPress which I can’t seem to revisit. Why do I choose to write? Do I even still enjoy it, or am I determining “success” based on cultural appearances? Are my blogs a creative outlet, or simply used as evidence that I too, am consistent. That I too, have ambition.

That I too, am still here.

In a way, I miss being sad – like sad to the point that the only thing stopping my tears are  words, released. When I’m sad, like really, really sad – I write my way out of sadness. And when I’m angry – feeling the need to protect myself – I hold up words like a shield or a sword et voila, a masterpiece is born….

….OK maybe not, but it’s definitely cathartic.

Seeing short stories I’ve poured my heart and soul into rejected time and time again bruised my ego and made me turn my nose up like, “Well, I never wanted you that much any way”. Maybe, my reason for not being able to write, is the product of an anticipated rejection.

Evidently, I care too much what people think.  It’s as if I’m unconsciously following reported trends, only believing something looks good when everyone else is wearing it. Not feeling good enough in the eyes of the reader, a thought process which hinders not only my creative flow but plays out into everyday life.

I give thanks every day, for all the things that aren’t promised: my mother, family, friends, health, life; livelihood. In a way, this awakened gratitude provides yet another excuse to ditch the word flow. Often, my blogs are an inspired reaction to negative thought. Things I feel I have little control over suddenly seem clear once I’ve written them out.

I guess I haven’t felt inclined to process the heaviness – I’ve been enjoying a content cruise along nonchalance. Even though I still have the occasional daymare about something bad happening; an irrational fear that my headache is a brain tumor, a strong reaction to politics; a memory that no longer serves me: I’ve mostly been lapping up the good stuff. Friends, family, work and PARTIES. And it’s been helpful taking a break.

It’s easy to obsess over the past and future, despite wanting to stay present. I don’t want to think about friends who aren’t friends anymore, or what’s going to happen tomorrow, or what I think I could have done better. I want to just BE, and sometimes sharing my reflective stance prohibits that.

A friend suggested I write about how happy I am: everyone I love is OK, I have an awesome job, life is one big great adventure! Well – I can’t think of anything worse than boring my readers with a conceited prose of optimism. For starters, no one likes a show off (I  have a deep-rooted “like me” complex) and furthermore, I want my words to be relatable – to talk about the feelings we share but don’t reveal.

Making the choice to write is difficult. It’s like setting yourself homework knowing that no-one’s around to mark the paper. I have to proof read my own work, so sometimes I don’t spot mistakes until months later and feel I’ve let myself down. Plus, once I have published something – I’d rather never read it again. It’s a bit like watching yourself being played back on camera – the whole experience can be nerve-wracking, demeaning.



Writing has been a loyal friend to me over the years. As a child, my mother was anti-television and so I had no choice but to create. My brother proved to be fantastic at drawing and can draw almost anything in intricate, precise detail.

I was 5 when I wrote my first rhyme.

6 when I wrote my first story.

7 when I started my first journal.

9 when I received my first publication (a poem, about autumn).



Writing skills surpassing my drawing skills…

Aged 10, I wrote my first book “Angela”. I’d come home every day from school and go straight upstairs to write it. I didn’t care to eat, play, sleep. I was obsessed: a girl with a vision.


My mum found the book in a box of old junk and insisted that I read it. When I did, I was surprised. I realised I was a child who embraced emotion and had an outlet to process them. My mother asked if I felt proud and I really did. I’d spent my entire school life in my own world, I had few impactful teachers and was oblivious to my own depths.



angela 2


I’m always consciously transparent in my writing which can leave me feeling open and exposed. That said, I guess it’s perfectly fine to take a break when I need it; to vacate from something I’ve been doing since I was able to hold a pen. Sometimes, the wounds we carry are still raw: before exposing the scars we need to let them heal.

I’m going to end this by questioning one more time, why do I choose to write? The answer is simple. I write, because I can.