I’ve made it through the first week back to school almost completely unscathed. I. Am. Exhausted. I have been in bed by 8pm every night last week. Including last night. Yeah, Friday nights in my household are THRILLING!

I will reiterate. I am exhausted. And I am exhilarated. Elated. Excited. Empowered. Engrossed. Effervescent. Enthusiastic. Efficacious. Enthralled. Eclectic. Entertained. Empathetic. Eager. Ecstatic. Efficient. Electrifying. Enlightened. Can you tell I’m an English teacher? And working on Week 5’s spelling test? Notice a theme?!

Catching up with my students has been a genuine joy. Congratulating those who received great results, encouraging those who didn’t quite get what they wanted. Reminding them that their success is not based on a grade, it is based on how hard they work; and I KNOW how hard they worked. Meeting new students and helping them to navigate they way around college has been wonderful. Laughing, joking, demanding to see ID badges… I’ve missed it.

I’ve missed seeing my colleagues every day, even though I saw many of them throughout the holidays. A big difference to last year when, after six months of working there, I went home and locked myself in the house with a new dog for two months. I’ve missed pretending to bully one of my colleagues when, in actual fact, every hilarious remark comes from a place of friendship. And maybe love. But don’t tell him that. Realising he is actually my work husband would be devastating for both of us.

Hugging my work wives every day is a sheer delight. Especially for somebody who once upon a time could not bear to touch or be touched. I have changed. I have grown into an almost normally functioning human being, I think. It’s wonderful. And terrifying. Because this means I have opened myself up to people. Plural. More than one person. I have opened myself up to being hurt, disappointed and rejected. I have opened myself up to being loved, happy and accepted.

This week has been an amazing week. And it shouldn’t have been. My cycle is at ovulation stage and with this comes a rise in estrogen, a hormone that my body can not cope with. What does this mean for me and my PMDD?

It means I am riddled with what I call cyclical acne. This month, it’s predominantly on my face and my arms. In the past, when I was not looking after myself, it would be literally everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE.

It means I am bloated and a dress size bigger than normal for the next couple of weeks. If I eat gluten, make that two dress sizes. And trust me, I eat a lot of fucking gluten. Bread is life. I am planning on trialling a Keto food plan soon but am waiting for hell week to fuck off before I add in any more stress to my life. Because let’s be honest, I also have horrific food cravings and only crave carbs and chocolate; so cutting them out and getting Keto Flu during hell week and the second week of the new school year would be fucking idiotic.

It means I am hyper sensitive to noise and smell. My husband is too loud. The animals smell too much. And they’re too loud. The cup of tea on my husband’s bedside table almost made me vomit this morning. This may have happened at any stage of my cycle however, considering it has been there for about three fucking weeks.

I am fatigued. Not tired. No. This is about seventeen steps below tired on the “I’m a teacher so I’m tired” scale. I am physically, mentally and emotionally spent. The effort it has taken to get out of bed this week has been IMMENSE. And yes, this will have been impacted by the fact that I haven’t had to get up at 5.30am for seven weeks. My alarm has been going off at that time though. I just happened to switch it off almost every morning. And go back to sleep. Whoops.

My body aches. My shoulders rattle with sharp tension pain. My hip wants to tell the world to FUCK THE FUCK OFF as the jackhammer swings around the socket and sometimes into the groin. My lower back can’t remember a time when life wasn’t pain. My knees hurt. I have had headaches all week. And this morning, the soles of my feet have decided that they would like to be filled with pins today. Walking is fun. I mean, I am in my mid thirties so this could be normal but I’m going to claim it’s exacerbated by my PMDD. Beginning to see why the average life expectancy was 30-40 in the 1500’s; they obviously just laid down and died based on the general aches and pains of their fucking age.

My patience level has dropped to below that of Piers Morgan. It’s low anyway (both my patience and Piers Morgan) but during the few peak days of ovulation, it is LOW. I can feel my irritability rising constantly and have spent most of my time this week recognising her ugly little head and calming her down by telling her how beautiful it is. She’s easily distracted.  

This is not the worst stage of my cycle. Oh no. Next week is. This is the precursor. This is the DO NOT ENTER warning sign to remind me that next week, there may be points where I want to die. And I do not say this lightly. Suicidal ideation is one of the most horrifying of PMDD symptoms and, coupled with a rise in levels of depression and anxiety, can be life threatening for AFAB women. But we’re not there yet. And I won’t worry about what might be coming because that will ruin this week. I can manage what comes with the same mentality I quit drinking with. One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time.

So, with all of that in mind, you might be wondering how I have had such an amazing week. First up, I FUCKING LOVE MY JOB. I love what I do, the people I work with and the students I meet. I love it. I love it. Sorry, not sorry. I appreciate this all the more because I have been in those shitty, toxic, mean spirited work environments before myself. Luckily, I’ve found something I love and intend to keep doing it.

Alongside this, because of the job I have chosen, I get a lot of time off. During the school holidays, I focus on self care. Whether that is long walks with the dog, sofa days with Netflix or getting lots of niggly jobs done around the house, I make sure I am looking after myself.

During the Summer holidays, I have tried to get into a self care routine that I could bring to this first week back. My self care routine is verrrrry simple and begins with washing my face every morning. Walking everywhere. Eating at home. Yoga. Walking everywhere. Properly washing, cleansing, toning and moisturising my face at night. Brushing my teeth before bed. I used to skip this a lot because a) drunk, b) exhausted, c) drunk. And I have carried this through to this week.

I have washed my face every morning. I have walked to and from work every day this week. EVERY DAY! And I’ve been on time. Mostly. I have prepared my breakfast and lunch every evening ready for the next day. I have (for the most part) properly washed, cleansed, toned and moisturised my face (admittedly, once I did just wash and moisturise). I have brushed my teeth every night. Apart from Thursday because I was drinking hot chocolate in bed. And I have yogied almost every day. Even if it’s just a ten minute routine or a stretch after work, I have done something every day.

Has this helped my PMDD symptoms? Maybe. Has it helped me transition back into work? Yes. Has it made me feel fucking amazing? Erm, yes. Obviously. Even during a tough week, I can see wat I have achieved with these simple steps. And I mean simple steps by, they’re simple when you can do them. I also see the other side of the coin where washing your face is too much exertion for the entire fucking day. I guess the best advice I can offer here is to start your self care routine small and during menstruation when your PMDD symptoms have subsided. By the time hell week kicks in, you’ve had a few weeks of practice and the routine becomes more habitual and less fuck it.

Routine is helpful for my physical and mental health, for my PMDD symptoms and for my ability to be the best version of myself that I can possibly be. So is silence. So this weekend, while husband is on day shift, I will be spending the entire weekend in silence, apart from Smiles needs my unconditional verbal affection. Or if somebody asks me if I would like some chocolate. Note, I am likely to bite your hand off while snarling, “Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss”, like Nagini attacking Arthur Weasley.

A huge congratulations to everybody who has made it through the first week of school this week; students, educators and parents alike. Especially those dealing with physical and/or mental health difficulties. You are a fucking champion. I see you. Look after yourself this weekend and keep on keeping on. You got this.

And to those of you with PMDD who work in education; WOW. You are fucking amazing. You are incredible. And brilliant. And resilient. And just fucking magnificent. Keep up the incredibly work you do.

It’s GCSE day and many of you will have been filled with anxiety waiting for your results. You’ve probably opened them now and know what you have achieved. Or what you haven’t achieved. You’ll be excited about enrolling at sixth form or college or your apprenticeship. Or you’ll be trying desperately to figure out what you are going to do next. It will feel like the biggest and best (or worst) moment of your life. But please know this: those results do not define you. 

Those results do not acknowledge you battling through education in the throes of puberty. They do not acknowledge your parent’s divorce this year. They do not acknowledge your eviction. They do not acknowledge the abuse you suffer every day. They do not acknowledge your family’s financial issues. They do not acknowledge the bullying you have experienced throughout school. They do not acknowledge your physical or mental health difficulties. They do not acknowledge your sexual assault. They do not acknowledge the death of someone you love. They do not acknowledge your first heartbreak this year. They do not acknowledge the weight of expectation put upon you. They do not acknowledge the weight of people’s disappointment in you. 

You are 16 years old and you have already achieved so much. Turning up to school every day exhausted, hurt, heartbroken. You have still attended classes. You have studied and tried to revise. You went to your school to sit your exams and you have results from doing that. The grades you receive today are about the education you have received. Nothing else. They do not define you. 

The sleepless nights, the anxiety, the fear; they do not define you. 

The skipped classes, the lower grade, the missed exams; they do not define you. 

What defines you is your strength. Your bravery. Your resilience. Your fucking happiness. 

What defines you is turning up to lessons every week when the numbers don’t make sense and words fly around the page. What defines you is the dignity you behaved with when your parents were screaming at each other every night. What defines you is overcoming every odd possible to be the most incredible young person you can be. 

What defines you is what you do next. 

So if your grades weren’t quite what you wanted today, it doesn’t matter. You are sixteen. Of the thousands of people I have met in my life, I only know two who are doing now what they wanted to do when they were sixteen. Most of you will get to past thirty and you still won’t know what it is that you want to do. And that is ok. You might not realise this now but I don’t know a single adult who knows what they’re doing. As Frank Turner put it, “Don’t worry if you don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing, no-one has a clue; but you’ll figure it out, and I might too.”

You might resit exams this year. You might resit them when your thirty six. You might never resit them because you don’t want or need to. You might go to sixth form. You might start an apprenticeship. You might go to college. You might go out to work full time. Pick whichever option makes you happy. And if you get half way through the year and KNOW that you made the wrong decision, change it. While you’re young enough to easily change your career path. And if you figure that out at 42, that’s fine too.

Find the confidence and strength to figure out what you want to do and chase that dream with the tenacity you are known for. Look at the people around you, your support network, and identify what makes them happy. Know what makes you happy. 

An A or a D has no impact on your long term happiness. You are the biggest impact on your happiness. Celebrate your results or mourn them, your life starts here. 

Have a crack at every job you can to figure out what you want to do. Travel. Think outside the box. Meet new people. Read everything. Listen to music. Take your shoes off and go outside. Dance in the street. Jump in the sea. Build a sandcastle. Sleep under the stars. Love so hard you think your heart might break. And when it does break, keep loving that hard. Throw yourself at everything (and everyone!) you want to. Be brave. Be confident. Be happy. 

Make your own path in this world, it’s the only path that matters. 

Further help. 

Exam results helpline (UK): 0800 100 900 
Open between 8am and 10pm and available for both students and parents. 

Samaritans: 116 123

I’ve fallen off the wagon a little of late. Maybe it’s because I celebrated a year sober, or because it’s Summer or because we were on holiday… But I’ve had a pint here and there. Which I think is fine; if it is just here and there. But as is the life of the alcoholic, it hasn’t just been here or there. The odd pint of nice beer on an occasional hike or at the end of climbing Hellvellyn (via Striding Edge. With a dog.) has turned into three pints here or four pints there. And on Friday, I woke up with a hangover.

When HolidayKi was here, I had a pint after we had climbed Hellvellyn. Six hours of walking, climbing and hoisting the dog down sheer cliff face had taken a fair bit out of me and maybe I was tired, emotional or just felt that I “deserved it”. A couple of days later, after a family walk around Tarn Hawse, I had another pint. And then fancied some wine; but did not buy a bottle. After all, I know where my limits lie. Or so I thought.

Then we got home, and I had three pints with friends in the pub, catching up on a week of adventures and laughing until my throat hurt. Boy did I feel that the next day. I was dehydrated, tired, lethargic, hanging out of my arse hole and the less said about what was coming out of my arse hole, the better. I talked to Husband about it and said it was clear I had a two pint limit these days.

So the next week, we had another pub evening with friends. And after two pints, husband highlighted that I had reached my two pint limit. So I told him to shut his pie hole and get another round in. As identified in the past, once I start, I just can’t stop.

Four pints later and the morning after was grim. I was hungover, tired, lethargic, riddled with diarrhoea. All I wanted to do was bury myself in a pile of carbs and sleep. We were meeting friends for coffee and cake and then another friend for lunch at the pub. I had two pints of ice cold water with lime. And then spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the paddling pool.

I felt guilty about spending three hours in the pub with Smiles, who was likely bored out of her mind, sleeping on a tarmac floor. I felt shit about getting home so late, going to bed at 1.30am and waking up at 6.45am feeling as though I had slept for all of four minutes. I felt incredibly annoyed that after doing so well with my eating habits for a couple of weeks, I had an additional meal at 1am as we were drunk and hungry. The only reason we didn’t get takeaway is because they were all already closed. I was pissed off that after budgeting so well last month, I had wasted money from my limited monthly budget on alcohol. I felt anxious about my behaviour. Had I been too loud? Annoying? Irritating? Had I been offensive? Insensitive? A Class A twat? Probably not, but it didn’t matter, the worry was there.

And the worst thing about this whole experience? I knew with the first pint that I didn’t even enjoy the taste of it and I just carried on. If only I had chosen a pint of iced water instead. If only I had stuck to one. If only I had chosen an alternative option. If only. 

This has been a very good lesson for me to learn. I got to a year sober and I became complacent. I thought I could handle drinking now, that I could practice mindful drinking, that I was in control of myself. And this came partly from discussions with people who said they didn’t agree with my terminology of alcoholic as I hadn’t “ruined my life”. I recognised that I had to stop and stopped. That doesn’t make me any different to the person who stops when they’ve already lost everything, or the person who can not stop. It merely means that I can not control my drinking and once I start, (or Pop if you, love Pringles), I just can’t stop.

So, I’ve packed my most prized possessions in a handkerchief and tied them to a garden cane. I’ll be popping it on my shoulder and jumping on the first wagon to Sober that passes me by. In fact, I can see one heading my way now so I’d better get ready to jump on. In the mean time, I’ll be avoiding pub scenarios as clearly, these are currently a huge trigger for me.

But first, what have I learned from this experience?

1. Don’t beat yourself up. There’s no point in punishing yourself more for messing up. We are human, we make mistakes. Start again. The best apology we can make for getting things wrong is changing our behaviour.

2. Go back to why you started your journey. I have a list of reasons saved to my phone about why I am doing this. I’m making a point of reading through them every morning. This time round, it is even easier because I can also look at everything I have accomplished this year. And, I can probably add more reasons on to that list. 

3. Remember your triggers. Early on, I wrote down every time I was triggered to drink and 90% of the time, it was around poor coping mechanisms and giving in to my emotions. The other 10% was sunshine, summer, rewards systems, pressure. I forgot how difficult Sober Summer time can be and need to remind myself of these triggers and have coping mechanisms to overcome them.

Anyway, that wagon is almost here and it ain’t stopping so I’d better get a run up to make sure I can get on as it flies by. The good thing about jumping on this time is that I’m less scared of doing it than I was 14 months ago. The speed, the dangerous act, the not knowing are all part of the fun now. After all, look at everything else I have achieved since I started this journey; imagine what might come next… 

It’s Smiley’s Coming Home Day today!

I can’t believe that we bought this gorgeous girl home a year ago today. Who would have thought that she would have changed our lives as much as we have changed hers?!

When we first met Smiles, I was struck by both how beautiful and how anxious she was. I had found my spirit animal. This time last year, our gorgeous girl would not go near any man, she avoided my husband for weeeeeks. She would cower at the side of the road whenever a car went past. She was sick with anxiety on walks or when left at home alone for short periods of time. We couldn’t get her into the pub, I had to sit outside with her pressed so far into my legs, I felt as though I was rebirthing her.

On walks home, she would be so anxious that we had to walk long loops through the countryside as she could not walk home next to the road. She would not eat. If Dave told her to eat, she would look at me to make sure it was OK. She would eat a little, then look back to check we weren’t’ watching her. The slightest noise would make her flinch and run back to her bed to avoid any physical punishment for perceived wrongdoing.

For weeks, we didn’t leave the house. I stayed at home with her 24 hours a day for 7 days a week, playing in the garden, snuggling, introducing her to the cats. She met Foxy and immediately launched herself at him, rolling into her back for snuggles while Dave looked on in sadness. I had to remind him constantly to be patient with her. That young girls who have suffered abuse need time and love even when they are barking at you; after all, he had enough experience of that with me. It paid off. His face the first time she picked him to snuggle with on the sofa was an absolute picture.

Eventually, we were able to get her harness and lead on and walk her around the block, training her to sit at each road crossing for treats. We would do this for hours until she was panting or sick (from anxiety, not treats!) and then walk home, never more than 2 minutes away from the house in case it was too much for her.
We built up to walking around our estate, avoiding the busy main road and adding new areas on to each walk.

She slowly became more confident and was vomiting with anxiety much less. And then finally, we took her onto her first proper walk, crossing a busy main road where she flinched away from cars every time one went passed.

We practiced recall, progressed up to her being off lead, tested the water (literally) in the river and learned how much she loves any form of water. We bought toys and discovered that she is the Queen of Fetch and loves nothing more than chasing a ball through the country side. We both developed tennis elbow trying to keep up with her enthusiasm.

We went to the beach and she LOVED it. The sea, the sand, the dead seal she rolled in when we weren’t paying attention. That was a fun two hour drive home. Trust me when I say the windows can’t roll down enough in that scenario.

She has climbed mountains (Kinder Scout, Mam Tor, Skiddaw and Hellvellyn via Striding Edge), visited more National Trust properties than the average adult, been camping. She has run along beaches, played Frisbee in the park, taken on a Swan, chased Canada Geese, walked to a multitude of pubs, made a best friend (Piedypants), snuggled the shit out of everything, including Captain Niggles, enjoyed the paddling pool, eaten dog ice-cream, had holidays with Grandma and Grandad while we went safari-ing…

She is a different dog to the one we brought home a year ago. Just as I am a different girl to the one Dave met almost six years ago. Having watched him throw love at me for so long and help me to heal from my trauma, to be able to do the same, alongside him, to help heal her trauma has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.

This tiny black Labrador who couldn’t go outside without being sick, will pull us down paths that she knows lead to pubs because she gets strokes and treats. She pulls me out of the door every morning for her walks. She loves riding in the car to new places and exploring the world. She loves us. And my god, do we love her.

She has given me a new love for the countryside that I did not know I needed and wanted. She has pulled me up mountains. She has supported my sobriety. She has improved my mental health. She has comforted me on bad days. She has kept me company me during long night shift weekends. She has given me a reason to leave the house, every day. She has shown me my capacity for loving another being. She has taught me how to be patient, compassionate, loving and kind. She has shown me what unconditional love can do. She has reminded me of all the good in the world, of all the good in me and of all the good that we can create together. She is my Queen, and I am hers.

To My Darling Smiles,

You have changed my world completely, you are my sun and my stars.

Thank you for loving me, unconditionally, and for teaching me so much about myself and about you. You are my best friend, my soul mate, my first born and I will love you for the rest of my life. Daddy feels the same but a part of me thinks he still loves Captain Niggles the most so, you know, stick with me!

Thank you for trusting us, even when you were scared and afraid. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing, we just knew that we needed to love you and treat you kindly. I think we’ve become better at this as we’ve developed into a functional little family; please don’t be afraid to tell us if we need to do better. Daddy probably does. He’s very strict. Maybe I’m too soft. Either way, it doesn’t matter does it?! Because we are an amazing family unit. Yes, even Macho Meow Mandy Savage and Captain Nigglypants. I know you and Niggles have developed a delightful little friendship, Macho is a little more like me. Prickly. It will take a little longer, more time and effort, but it will be so worth it in the end.

Keep on jumping through the air to catch your ball. Keep on drinking from the scabbiest watering holes you can find. Keep on snuggling us for film nights. Keep on climbing mountains, running through fields, chasing birds and sleeping in pubs. Keep on loving and trusting us, knowing that we are trying our best and that we will never hurt you. Just please don’t ever catch a pheasant for me again. I really did not enjoy that. It dying in your mouth was one thing but having to remove it from you and hide it in a field was a bit much for me. Still traumatised by that actually.

Thank you. For so much, even more than I am going to write here. I’ll tell you this afternoon when we walk into town. You know anyway, I hope. But I will tell you a million times a day how much I love you just so I know that you know how loved you are.

Happy Birthday that is probably not your birthday. Happy Day All Of Our Lives Changed For The Better. Happy Family Day.

I love you,

Mummy (AKA Best Mum in the World)

xxx

The writing bureau is complete. I know right?! Only 5 months after I bought it!

This was one of my “what can I do with all of this time now I don’t spend every day in the pub” projects and I gotta admit; I hated it. It was a big project to start with and in hindsight, if I had started with the skip chair first (a free chair recycled from a friend and which husband refers to as “skip chair”), I would have been able to see results much more quickly and much more easily. This would definitely have helped my motivation levels. I think.

Anyway, here’s what I learned from my first upcycling project.

• Start small.

I started with a 140cm x 88cm x 62cm dark mahogany unit. It has 16 drawers, 2 sliding doors and some very intricate wooden storage space on the internal compartment. That is a lot of paint. Two 750ml tins of stain blocking primer to be exact because mahogany is a fucking cunt to paint over. An absolute cunt. Fucking mahogany.

I have never even so much as painted a wall before. Well, I maybe did about 20 years ago but have lived in rented accommodation for most of my life, until we bought our home 18 months ago and as this is a new build, we’re getting our moneys worth from the white paint it was completed in. With some additions of Laurel Green and Satin Teal now. I’m pretty clumsy.

My point is this: it was difficult and because it took so long to paint (three coats of stain blocking primer and two coats of chalk or satin paint in no less than five different colours, because I am a prick), I would often need a months recovery in between each fucking coat. Honestly, I hated it. I hated painting it. I hated looking at it unpainted in my living room for five months and I hated that my husband had a ready made jibe every time I asked where the shed was that he promised me when we moved in. (Note: The bureau is now painted and I still don’t have a fucking shed.)

As I said above, starting with a smaller project would have enabled me to hone my skills (HAH!), know what equipment I needed (I used foam brushes on the chair and think they gave it a much nicer (and quicker) finish than the normal brushes (sans brush marks) I used on the bureau and get that little completion thrill quickly to motivate me onwards. Little wins and all that. Start small and work your way up!

• Don’t post about your progress on social media.

I started this process prior to my removal of all social media and would occasionally post updates on my progress on my Facebook/Insta page (Soberkiki, @mycathasacne). This led to a lot of unsolicited “advice”. I say “advice” as it was not helpful “advice”, it was judgement wrapped up as questioning my process or, as was often the case, judgement merely dressed up as judgement. “Why are you priming it? Just paint it.” “Waste of time, you’ll never cover mahogany.” And my personal favourite; “Jumping on the shabby chic train, typical.”

Apparently, a response of, “I’m doing it properly as it will live in my house for the next forty odd years and I want to be able to look at it without stabbing my eyes out and WISHING I had just done it properly the first time,” is not an acceptable answer. Shame really.

• Get yo Youtube on.

I watched some awesome furniture painting videos on Youtube before I started my project. This gave me an idea of what equipment I would need, what I needed to actually do and a heads up for some common troubleshooting problems. There are millions of videos on Youtube if you google “painting furniture” or “painting wood furniture” and whilst some are useless (I don’t have an industrial set up for example), they are incredible to watch.

• Plan your colours BEFORE YOU START.

So. I have a habit of second guessing myself and not trusting my instincts; something I work on relentlessly. Not this time though. Oh no. I decided that as this was not my area of expertise, I would allow myself to doubt my colour combinations until I had painted the entire fucking dresser and immediately loathed it. I didn’t even need to paint the whole thing before I reviled it; I abhorred the first brush stoke but carried on anyway. This obviously set me back a little as I painted it and then refused to even look at it for a month, covering it with a sheet so I couldn’t see its ugly Sage judgement. Bastard. (Note: I love Sage but my living room colour scheme is teal, light green, grey and yellow. It did not work.)

I had planned my colours out beforehand, even buying kids paintbrushes, drawing a replica of the bureau and painting each section its corresponding colour. I knew I didn’t like the Sage but didn’t think there was another option and I felt rushed to start making progress on the project (by myself, nobody else), so I ignored my instinct. If you plan the colours out and don’t like one of them, don’t use it. You will detest it even more when it is on your furniture, trust me on that one. You don’t need to experience nightmares in your chosen despicable colour for weeks afterwards.

• Keep it simple.

Did I NEED to use five different colours? No, probably not. But my God does it look cute! Did I need to start with a huge bureau that had 16 drawers, 2 sliding doors and some very intricate wooden storage space on the internal compartment? No, probably not. But my God does it look cute!

Would I do it again? Absofuckinglutely not. Nah. Nada. No. Nein. Non. Nyet. Na. Nem. Ne. I would not.

So there we go. Those are the lessons I learned from upcycling an antique writing bureau to create an office for myself in the living room with the dog, as the dog is not allowed in the office upstairs. Yes, you read that right. This whole project was for the dog. And because I have a writing bureau. But mostly because the dog needs company downstairs.

And it was utterly worth it. As I type, in the window at my new writing bureau, Smiley is sleeping on the sofa opposite me serenading me whilst I work with her snuffly snoring and chasing rabbit dreams/nightmares. What I wouldn’t do for this dog 😊

I’m a month clean from social media. Apart from Reddit. I need to get my memes somewhere. Specifically Facebook and Instagram. I haven’t posted on social media for over a month. I uninstalled Instagram from my phone. I’ve never had Facebook on my phone; in fact, I specifically chose this phone (Huawei Mate 20 Pro) because it wasn’t a standard install that couldn’t be removed. Unlike other phones. I’m looking at you HTC.  But of course, I could still access FB via Chrome…

All of a sudden, I have an issue with baring my life to anybody on the internet. And I’ve realised that some of my posts are directly targeted at people who may (or may not) be stalking my profile. I’m occasionally aiming to hurt people, to show them what they’re missing, to take digs at things I’m unhappy about. And that’s just not healthy. I’m not moving forward if I’m still exhibiting those very same qualities and traits that I have removed from my life when seen in other people. 

Alongside this, I’m not writing properly. I’m posting every day about whatever is on my mind that day. Constantly looking for things, scenes, memes, motivational quotes that I can post. It’s not meaningful. Not to me. It’s not a story or a poem or an inspirational piece. Even when I do have a very public breakdown on insta. And whilst these posts may make other people feel less alone, they don’t help me. 

It doesn’t help me when people talk about my mental health at work when I’m already on the edge. It doesn’t help me when conversations with friends are only about aspects of my anxiety and not how I am or who I am. It doesn’t help me when reaching out is a comment on a Facebook post and not an actual conversation. 

It doesn’t help me when I waste HOURS scrolling through worthless feeds on different sites. It doesn’t help me when I am procrastinating. It doesn’t help me when I’m ignoring my husband or my friends because my go to anxiety calmer is aimlessly scrolling online. It doesn’t help me when I am supposed to be watching a great film or interesting show and instead I am lost in a black hole of perfect images, photoshopped and filtered to within an inch of their lives. It doesn’t help me. And like alcohol, like drugs, like no strings attached sex, like sugar… It’s got to go. 

Yesterday, I started work on a piece, probably poetry, about fearing being a failed writer. If I write, and fail, I’m a failed writer. But if I don’t write and never give myself the opportunity to fail (or succeed), I’m still a failed writer. 

When a friend gave me the opportunity to perform my work on stage, I wrote like an animal for months beforehand. An animal with opposable thumbs and the ability (mostly) to hold a pen and maintain a selection of 5,739 notebooks. I had so much content to choose from, I still hadn’t planned my set hours before the performance was due to start. 

That’s generally how I work best; under pressure and shitting myself. It’s the story of my Masters to be honest. Last minute assignments handed in literally on the deadline, still damp from my tears. Or the long distance writing course I started 6 years ago and still haven’t finished. 

Write I must. I must write as though I have a deadline. I must write with purpose and with dedication, with timetable and passion. I just must write. I must just write. So write I will. 

It’s the Summer holidays and my freedom is within easy grasp. We’ve had our annual camping trip, this time to the Lakes to conquer more mountains with Smiles and have my annual phone free holiday. Like all philosophical problems however, did it even happen if it’s not posted on Insta? My phone was replaced by a camera, a notebook, pens and borrowed library books. Every time I felt a boredom itch, that desire to reach for a phone that is of no use to me once all of the pointless social media apps have been removed, I instead picked up a pen and wrote. Wrote about the scenery, feelings, thoughts, moments of inspiration. Because I am a writer. And write I must.

While I try to figure out how to celebrate a year of sobriety, here’s the first post I ever wrote about quitting drinking. Written on 21st May 2018, this explains why I made my decision to quit. Who knows, maybe before the end of the weekend I’ll have some kind of reflection on that year!

I haven’t really written anything for the last six months bar the occasional drunken rambling trying to put some order into everything that has happened in such a short time. I, of course, haven’t been able to. Everything is still chaotic, discombobulated and too painful and so, in true K style, I’m going to skirt around everything that happened and pretend it hasn’t.

So what’s this about then? Well, it’s about the sudden realisation that I have buried my emotions underneath a carefully crafted facade of caring for other people for six months. I have pushed aside my pain to support others in theirs. I’ve ignored it, limboed under it, run from it. And recently, those people I have thrown my soul into supporting… Welllll, they are recovering and don’t need my masking ministrations anymore. I have nothing more to hide in, I have to confront my emotions. Eurgh.

With this in mind, four days ago I stopped drinking. Not for a few days or a month this time. I’m out for good. I’ve battled with this for a couple of years, the pinballing between complete abstinence and binge drinking for months at a time, and working in the beer industry made it incredibly difficult to a) stop drinking or b) control my drinking.

For as long as I can remember, I have always had a writhing ball of wormy anxiety in my stomach. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t anxious (apart from the occasions I have been shitfaced and unable to remember or feel anything before waking up riddled with even higher levels of stomach worms than before). From bullying to abuse to Domestic Violence, there were many factors that created my anxiety and whilst I have spent my life trying to resolve these in therapy, I have always fallen back on my old friend booze to forget a problem I could not fix.

But he’s the type of friend that ghosts you for months at a time. Or deletes you from social media for no reason. Or invites everybody to the pub except you. It is not a good friend. But you’ve known each other for so long and sometimes, it’s just so hard to break the bonds of time and habit and parasitic symbiosis that you fall back to them in your weakest moments, unable to remember which one of you is the parasite. It is the booty call at 3am, from the guy that wasn’t even good in bed, that you whisper yes to because even that colossal wankpuffin is better than sleeping alone. It is the guy who tells you that men like him don’t marry women like you, but you let him stay anyway and cry yourself to sleep for a week afterwards, without ever challenging him. It is the ex-boyfriend, claiming he is single, who tries to hook up with you while his girlfriend is 8 months pregnant. Alcohol, for me, is every relationship I have ever had with an abusive, manipulative, narcissistic piece of shit. Alcohol is every bit of shame, guilt, anxiety, fear, pain, embarrassment, humiliation, depression and blackout that you can find, rolled into one big fuck off lie that none of those things exists. Until the day after.

I have been hiding from my feelings, using alcohol as the ultimate dismissive drug, since I was twelve years old. Back then, binge drinking on a Friday and Saturday night was the norm, with a two litre bottle of white lighting and a bottle of 20/20 on the beach with boys from the local high school. Some of us were tall and big chested, getting served was easy in a small minded, decrepit seaside town on the East Coast. Others had older siblings who helped us buy booze underage. Others had well stocked drinks cabinets that we could raid and nothing was ever said about replenishing them.

For a long time throughout my life, especially during my teenage years, I hated myself. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I hated everything about myself and did everything I could to try and be somebody else. The discrepancy between ideal me and actual me was so Psychology 101 that it actually pains me to think about, especially as a Psychology graduate. A course chosen to fix all of the issues I had been told I had (and to be fair, a few of them I definitely had), even after being advised not to do that by every faculty I visited. Eventually, I managed to surround myself with people who loved me for the hotpot of insecurity that I was (and occasionally still am) and I started to see myself through their loving eyes.

It’s been a long time since I have felt my teenage self-hatred monster rear its ugly head and, having spent a week or two looking for it and finding it, I can only find it when I drink. Where inhibitions are lowered and I rapidly regress to the fucked up, unloved, attention seeking, lying twelve year old who first started using alcohol as a crutch to forget everything about herself and her life. I’m 33 years old now and I don’t want to be that person anymore. She was awesome and absolutely fucking FEARLESS, but she was a child who needed love and support that was never given to her and now, the adult version of her has everything she ever dreamed of. Not the usual childish dreams of Princes, castles and Unicorns, but those of financial stability, inner peace, love and a normal life. And Unicorns. I do still very much want a Unicorn. It’s time to let my inner child, and all of her sadness and pain, go.

In the last few years, I have nurtured myself, my relationships and my career to a point where life is wonderful. It is not without its challenges and maybe it could be a million times better, but it is undeniably wonderful. My husband and I have cultivated a safe haven of a home that I have never truly had before. A place where physical violence will never be seen, where abusive words will never be spoken, where windows will never be smashed and where doors will never be kicked down.We don’t argue in this haven of ours. We may exchange the occasional frustration ridden word (me, to him) but we do not argue. Until I am drunk. And stubborn. And cantankerous. Unable to control the vitriol that hides in me, passed down by parental figures who once honed its use so well. Those vestiges of a twelve year old me that I need to let go.

In this haven of ours we don’t lie, cheat or manipulate. We don’t physically fight or verbally wound. We love so much. We fill this haven with laughter every day. We dance around the kitchen, we snuggle our cats and we invite in the people we love the most. This haven of ours is sacred. So it is about time that I begin to treat it with the sanctity that it deserves.

Drinking has always enabled me to lessen the wriggling worms of my anxiety. I know they are still there and they know they are still there, but we’re all drunk and languorous. We can’t be bothered to cause problems. If I could stop there, what a delight that would be. To have one drink, or two, to take the edge off and enjoy the moment. To stop there, with the gin glow and brighten up the world. But three starts getting louder and louder and louder and louder. Four starts slurring and insisting, really loudly, that they are NOT FUCKING DRUNK.

Five wants to take on the fucking world and has already forgotten about the Morrisons delivery that’s just turned up twenty minutes away at its house. Six. Well. Six is a fucking arsehole. Six gets so wankered by 4pm on New Years Eve, that it has to have nap and leave its husband to entertain their guests until 10pm when it manages to pull its shit together and join the party.

Seven, eight, nine and ten are colossal arseholes and purely create additional pain for the next day; physically, emotionally and monetarily. They spend £40 on takeaways or meals out that they don’t remember, argue with their husband on the way home and refuse to walk home with him. They’re dicks. Proper fucking dicks.

Then appeareth the morning after the night before. The flashbacks of shameful memories that can’t distinguish between reality or dream. The sticky sweats, the sickness, the shits. The thumping of a thousand tiny plastic swords against the surface of your brain. The lethargy, the hunger, the sickness. The suffocating dryness of your mouth, infused with the taste and smell of stale vodka, vomit and fucking cigarettes. You don’t even smoke. The inability to keep even a sip of water down. The having to drive home knowing full well that you are not safe to drive. The cancelling of plans because no, you can not get out of bed today. Topped off with the incessant fucking writhing of the wiggling anxiety worms that are now full grown, two metre long snakes and they are beating you to death from the inside. AND NOW THEY’RE IN YOUR BRAIN. The shame spiral that swoops you up in it like a tornado and banishes all logical thought. The texts you think you should send to apologise for being a douchebag dickhead but you can’t even write them because to do so is an admittance that you have a problem and your behaviour last night is only the beginning of it. When you say never again, but you mean until the next time, the next party, the next stressful day at work, the next night.

And the cycle begins again.

When I stopped drinking for a month in January (because I spent the whole of December completely wankered and fucked myself up on New Years Eve), I remember telling people honestly that I had stopped drinking because I had a problem with alcohol. No further detail, just the acknowledgement that I had a problem and I was trying to manage it. A conversation started about drinking and because my weekly units were maybe half or even a quarter of some of theirs, it was decided that I didn’t have a problem because they didn’t and so therefore, I couldn’t. I was told that I would have the worst night ever on a night out because I refused to drink. I was asked REPEATEDLY if I was pregnant, even by my friends who know how hurtful comments like that can be.

Stopping drinking, just for a month, for Dry January, made me more of a social pariah than if I had started taking heroin. Because in questioning my relationship with alcohol and admitting that I had a problem, there was the insinuation that other people should do the same. Other people have a different relationship with alcohol than I have. Other people might not have used alcohol as a social crutch for 21 years since they were 12 years old. Other people might not bury every difficult emotion under a catastrophic hangover which can only be slept through for 36 hours. Other people might be able to have one drink and stop.

I. Can’t.

There was no defining moment this time. No hellscaped hangover to promise never again. No argument with a friend that made me feel like shit. No shame, guilt, humiliation that triggered this decision. Just a timeline of little things that all triggered a change in mindset at the same time.

My excuse for so long has been, “Well, I work in the industry so it’s impossible to stop.” A few months ago someone in the industry that I respect a lot made a very emotional post on Facebook about their drinking and how it had ruined everything that mattered to them. They stopped drinking and continue to thrive in the industry.

Another friend reminded me of our many years sober friend who now runs a successful business in the same industry.

A fellow poet stopped drinking a few weeks ago and is still alive and writing and thriving.

A couple of bloggers I follow stopped drinking and continued to write brilliantly engaging posts and THRIVE.

I’ve always had a fear that alcohol is the only thing that makes me interesting. That without it, I am boring and unable to create, to write, to bond. My social anxiety and general social ineptitude makes it difficult for me to develop relationships sober. But being drunk makes it impossible for me to maintain positive relationships so… Swings and roundabouts. I might not be able to make new friends easily but at least I can’t lose the ones I have through drinking.

I used to hate myself all the time and now I only hate myself when I’m drunk. If that’s not a good enough reason to quit, then I don’t know what is. 

And no, I’m not fucking pregnant.  

I heard something yesterday that really pissed me off. I was still thinking about it hours later and wrote a piece about the situation. But the situation is not worth my energy, so I’m flipping it on its head this morning and thinking about how I can manage my responses to scenarios. Here’s a few tips to handle yourself when a difficult situation arises.

1. What impact does this have on my life?

Literally none. I look at the love I am surrounded by and the direction I have turned my life in over the last year and no amount of shit talk can touch that. If my sobriety offends people, that tells me all I need to know about them. And if they dislike me for standing up for my beliefs and speaking out about damaging behaviours, that’s fine too. Silence makes us complicit and I will not be complicit in the oppression of any person. If people don’t like me because I’ve called them out on their racist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynist shit talk then I’ve stood my ground. I will not be silenced.

2. Why do I care?

We all just want to be liked. Clearly, I still have some abandonment issues but hey, who doesn’t? As I continue to work through those issues, I remind myself that I choose only to have people who love, support, cherish me in my life. Any toxicity, negativity, nastiness has no place in my life.

3. Do I want to change the situation?

No. This person isn’t somebody I am friends with, nor somebody I desire to have any contact with. Their values and beliefs do not match mine, nor do their actions.

4. Have I validated my feelings?

Yes. It’s OK to be upset by something (or someone) and to spend some time thinking about the situation and your feelings around it. Do I want to be liked? Yes. Do I want to be liked by changing who I am and playing a role for others? No. My authenticity is one of the traits I value most about myself because it took me so long to find it. After all, you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

I’m making a note of these questions and keeping them safe on my phone so that if this situation arises at another time, I can run through them and change my thoughts about it, challenge my negative self talk. You know, the inner prick that tells me how much everybody hates me.

Some people won’t like me, and that’s fine. I won’t like some (ahem, most) people, and that’s fine too. Neither should cause a direct assault on my self-esteem or the value I place on myself as a good human being. It has taken me 34 years to have the confidence to be the person I am today, to speak out about topics I feel strongly about and to challenge damaging and oppressive behaviours. I won’t be bullied or silenced by cishet, white men, twice my age, who would rather pick apart a young woman and her beliefs than inspect theirs a little more closely. And that realisation makes me incredibly proud.

Not only of myself, but of everything I have learned over the last year from podcasts, conversations with my students, books. Because I have challenged my beliefs, my language, my knowledge. I have been called out on oppressive language and I have apologised and changed the terminology I use. I have listened to campaigners talking about the ableist language used around mental health and I have changed the way I speak about it. I have listened to my students talking about assumed gender and I have changed the way I manage my classroom.

Being told that you are wrong can be uncomfortable, but we owe it to the world we live in and the young people growing up in it to try to do better. It is not that difficult, and it costs us nothing, to apologise when we are wrong and to strive to do better in the future. And when I listen to my students talking about topics I am only really learning about now, and the confidence and understanding they have in these areas, it gives me hope that every tiny interaction we have can make a difference.

So stand your ground. Be an inconvenient woman. Stand tall. Speak loud. Create a world that you want to live in. We only have one life, let’s spend it changing the world.

I have been sober for 11 months today. Yey! And in the spirit of collaboration, it is also Day 17 of the #pmddawarenesschallenge and the prompt today is light bulb moment.

I would never have realised that I had a cyclical hormonal mood disorder if I had not stopped drinking. I thought my anxiety and depression, my irritability and snappiness, my misophonia and physical symptoms were all down to alcohol use, hangovers and hangxiety.

When I stopped drinking, a lot of these symptoms decreased in severity at certain times of the month and as I reached 4-5 months sober, I realised that there was more going on than the standard mental health issues I had been told I had.

I started logging my symptoms and realised that this also wasn’t just PMS when my symptoms were starting in the middle of my cycle, at ovulation. I googled “PMS symptoms during ovulation” and a psych guide for PMDD came up.

I searched around more and started ticking off symptoms (around 30). I downloaded printable symptom sheets from the iapmd website and logged the severity of my symptoms.

My sobriety has given me the ability to recognise my symptoms and to plan ahead how to manage them. It has made me face up to my deepest fears and insecurities and slowly start to overcome them. It has bought new diagnoses (PTSD, PMDD and Degenerative Scoliosis) that had all been written off as depression and anxiety before. It has brought me peace of mind and is the ultimate act of self care for my recovery.

My sobriety has changed me, for the better, and things can only go up from here. One year next month… I never thought I could do this. And if anything, it has taught me how truly strong I am.