Is it really that embarrassing to be alone?

19th Apr 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 2 Comments

Now, I am a lot of things: some of them good, some of them not so good, but one of the not so good things about myself which I have been trying to change is that I don’t do so well with being alone.

I’d thought that travelling to various countries on my own in the months before I started university had been a decent way to combat this in preparation for moving out. What I hadn’t considered though, is that yes, I went through the airports and across the countries solo, but once I’d arrived wherever I was going it only really took me a couple of minutes before I’d found people to pass the time with. So, I was never alone for that long. This meant that when I found myself sitting in a room on my own at university for hours at a time, week after week, trying to find my feet in my degree, and surrounded by people I’d known for two minutes, I struggled. But those achingly lonely moments at university aren’t the ones any of us are supposed to talk openly about because these are supposed to be ‘the best years of your life’ where you come out of your shell; you’re not supposed to retreat back in.

In our first year, every single one of my friends experienced moments where they felt overwhelmed by it all, but I know that the thing missing the most for me was the safety you get when you’re around people who completely understand you. Like all of us, it takes me a second to totally relax and ‘be myself’ with people; in fact, I think that going to university has made me take longer to do that than I ever did before. Yet even after forming some of the closest friendships I’ve ever had, I still struggle with the fact that nobody truly understands me because they don’t understand my physical disability. My friends from school kind of got it since they saw me in a wheelchair for months at a time when my foot acted up, but even then they didn’t really engage with it because we were kids and me potentially having to be in a wheelchair for a bit was just something that happened. Then even though my closest friends at university do try to support me with my feet, they could only really do that after my foot had gotten bad and again, even then it’s just not really something anyone else can help me with unless they’re with me all the time. So, I had to accept that I have to do it on my own, and for the first couple of years since that realisation, it felt really lonely.

But being alone doesn’t need to have as many negative connotations as we like to give it. (I think) I’ve now fully accepted that all the disability stuff is pretty much a solo mission, and there will be times when I cry about that because it gets really difficult, but that’s just how it is. We each have to accept that there are always going to be certain things we can’t get from people. For example, you’re always going to have that friend who’s a right laugh in person, but you definitely couldn’t rely on them in an emergency; that doesn’t mean that the friendship isn’t worthwhile, or that the person doesn’t care for you, it just means that we shouldn’t expect every individual to be able to give us everything we need because if we do that, we’ll only be disappointed. Besides, that’s a lot of pressure to put on every relationship we have with someone. In practice though, it is difficult to accept this and I should know, because I’ve relied heavily on people and ended up disappointed by them more times than I could count, and I’d be lying if I said that I’ve completely stopped doing this. Nonetheless, I am trying to become more self-reliant because it’s just not healthy to allow the actions of others to dictate your happiness.

Stopping myself from doing this is an active effort, given that everywhere we look in popular culture we’re hounded by the impossible image of a perfect life where we’ve got a perfect relationship and perfect friends who never falter and are there for every second and every ounce of what we need. I don’t want to suggest that my friends and family aren’t brilliant because they are. Instead, the point I want to make is that we each have to learn how to be good on our own because no matter how amazing your friend, partner, or family member is, they could never be everything you need, or understand you completely.

Since I’ve started to be comfortable in doing things on my own like going to the cinema or to a gig because I want to and can’t be bothered to convince another person to come even though it’s not something they’re super into, it’s clear that there’s an unnecessary stigma around doing things in public on your own. For some reason, we’re telling people that they have to be with someone else, otherwise they look like a loser who nobody likes – and that kind of social rejection seems to be a fate worse than death for many of us. But seriously, when was the last time you saw someone walking around on their own and you thought ‘wow, what a weirdo, imagine being alone and not in the house, they must be a psycho’ ? Who even cares that much?

And if you do judge people like that then get a new hobby because that one’s lame.

Thus, the moral of today’s blog is that I think you should do whatever the hell you want to do and not rely on other people for your happiness. After all, when you lie down at night, it’s just you in that head of yours, so you’ve got to make sure that you feel comfortable being there.

Be my Valentine

14th Feb 202214th Feb 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’ve thought long and hard about how I want to address that. Earlier in the week, I’d toyed with not mentioning it at all and just posting something else I’d written; I thought about how I don’t want the only two themes of my posts to be relationships or my disability, even though I know that those are the topics my readers gravitate towards. But Valentine’s Day is a big deal for lots of people (whether they want it to be or not), since everyone is so aggressively brainwashed to believe that we each need a romantic relationship to experience true happiness or success and that this is the time when we get to show off that happiness and success. Or, we get to not, and then have it implied that we should be sad about that.

I remember when I was about 18, talking to my mum about boyzz, and saying that I thought the reason I’d had disappointing experiences was because I trust people too easily. She scoffed at that, asked what I meant, and said ‘you don’t trust anyone’. That makes her sound really brutal – she’s not brutal, but she is honest, and she made me realise that I like to tell myself that just because I’m extroverted and kind, that that equates to me being super trusting of others. Except, what she said to me when I was 18 remains true as I type this as a 22-year-old: romantically, I don’t trust lads as far as I could throw them.

This lack of trust isn’t founded in some intense trauma; I might have had some bad luck in romance so far, but I’m fortunate to have never suffered that badly from it. Honestly, the worst thing that’s happened to me in that arena is that the very few lads I was really interested in have hidden me. The first boy I ever really liked actively kept me a secret, by asking me to do things like turn my Snapchat maps off if I went to his house so nobody knew I was there, he’d never post me on his story like he would when he was seeing other girls, and he’d only be out in public with me if it suited him. Then there were the other couple of crushes who preferred a kiss behind closed doors and us to never mention it again.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: all of that’s awful and I don’t seem like someone to stand for that ridiculously toxic behaviour with the things I say in these blogs. You’re right about both of those things. I tolerated all of that sh*t when I was younger because it was subtle, I was desperate to be a part of the romantic relationship world, and we don’t always practice what we preach when we’re in the situation.

If I were to describe how I’d feel about being in a relationship now though, I honestly think that my main feeling would be terror. (I laughed when I typed that though, so don’t read this as if I’m crying about it.) I guess I’m scared of being with someone because I have absolutely no idea what that’d look like in my life: I’ve seen others do it, but I don’t know who I’d be in that context. So, the prospect of that degree of new experiences and emotions is ridiculously exciting, yet I can’t help but be scared of it as well.

I think that Valentine’s Day is a funny one because it’s nauseatingly commercialised, and it’s one day of the year when people seem to be obnoxiously happy or obnoxiously bitter or ambivalent about the whole thing. We all know that in the grand scheme of things it matters very little if you get a bit of cardboard through the door saying ‘be my Valentine’ or not, but at the same time, many of us can end up feeling pretty low when the 14th February is like any other day. That’s just because we’re human, and we want to experience love.

So, even though we know Valentine’s Day is pretty pointless, be as obnoxiously happy or sad or anything in between as you want. Plus, it’s Pancake Day soon!

Wait, but I thought that I was supposed to hide this?

1st Feb 202214th Oct 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

If there’s one thing that I always hate hearing from people as a young, disabled woman, it’s ‘oh you do so well’. I’ve heard it whilst sitting on buses, walking down streets, in the waiting areas of the doctors or in airports, from the mouths of my parents’ colleagues and those of my teachers, and plenty of times from strangers when they simply don’t know what else to say. And I know that the intention is often pure; people want to show some level of appreciation for the fact that my physical existence may not be as simple as their own. Only, most of the time it just comes across as a bit bloody patronising.

The flip side of this, however, is that I spend so much time coping with my disability whilst doing whatever I want to do, that I’ve been guilty of disassociating myself from the fact that I’m physically disabled and that these things I’m doing are impressive. I am also English, though – Northern at that – so I suffer from an acute inability to talk about my successes without the embarrassment setting in.

But when I really think about why I don’t acknowledge ‘how well I do’, it’s because ableist aspects of our western society make it such that I’m supposed to blend in. Therefore, if I make any reference to how it might be really bloody impressive that I’ve done things like travel to, and live in the middle of the Nepali jungle without any access to medical care for 3 weeks on my own when I was 19 even though 3 weeks before that I couldn’t even go into work because I had an infected foot, then doing that doesn’t make me blend in. It brings my disability to the forefront, and I stick out in precisely the way society has told me that I shouldn’t.

So this is the part where you, my lovely reader, (hopefully) think ‘yes, of course, that’s impressive! You shouldn’t want to hide who you are’. And just like I’ve said to every person who has had genuine kindness in their eyes when they’ve told me ‘you do so well’, I want to thank you for saying that.

But drawing attention to my physical weakness is hard.

Last summer whilst I was in Ukraine, I found myself in a situation where I knew I had to mention my disability in a very public way, in order to avoid awkward run-ins later on. As always, when arriving at a place full of strangers, I chose to wear an outfit which covered my shoes to avoid any judgements before people heard me speak, but then I remembered that summer camp counsellor is a pretty active job and when the kids arrive tomorrow, if people see me sitting down every now and then, then they might think that I’m lazy or slacking off. So, to save face, I sat next to my friend from the first year I’d worked there and I announced my disability to a group of around 35 people. I’d never done anything like that before, and it was awful; my voice shook with every word I said, and I was very close to tears. But people were lovely about it, as they often are, and my announcement actually created the space for individuals to feel comfortable and slightly obliged, to ask me specifically how my legs were doing during our intense working days – something no one except my parents had ever asked me.

However, every single time someone asks about my disability, or I have to explain how it limits me, it’s emotionally draining in a way that I can’t effectively explain. That’s not to say that people should stop asking – definitely don’t stop doing that. I just want to communicate to you that back to back disability explanations don’t come free: it’s new for me to meet people and my disability to be one of the first things we talk about, and it’s new for me to have to talk about it this much.

One of the most heartwarming things I experienced after my announcement in Ukraine was towards the end of the summer. I was walking back from running an activity for some of the kids when 2 girls asked me if I could please explain to them why I wear my shoes. For the first time ever, I turned to someone who’d asked me to spontaneously offload personal details, and I said ‘do you mind if I tell you tomorrow? Because it’s 11am and 25 people have already asked me today.’. 25 isn’t an exaggeration by the way, I’d counted. And at that moment I realised that I’d always answered people’s questions straight away because I’d never wanted anyone to get embarrassed or feel upset about asking me. I also realised that subconsciously, when people see something as physically obvious as a disability, they think that on some level they’re entitled to an explanation. This, of course, is problematic.

I did explain it to these girls though since they asked so nicely, but they had to wait a day.

So, I’m in a weird spot now because I’m seeing myself doing things I never would’ve done two years ago, like walk around my university library with my callipers on full show and mentioning how I’m physically disabled in the first few moments of speaking to people. Meanwhile, the stubborn part of me which never wants to be defined – positively or negatively – by my Spina Bifida persists, and it occasionally dismisses my physical successes as just what everybody does.

And I know that my writing style leans towards a nice, neat conclusion that pulls all of this together, but not today my friends. My relationship with my body is complicated, and that’s just it.

She loves me, she loves me not

25th Jan 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Recently, I’ve noticed a change in myself when it comes to how I approach friendships with other young women. As some of you may know, I grew up alongside three older brothers, and have always had a close relationship with my dad. This isn’t to say that my mum and I aren’t close, because she’s undoubtedly one of my best friends, still, I’ve always felt more comfortable in the company of men.

All four of us were raised as feminists and were encouraged to show appreciation and love for the successes of individuals regardless of their gender. Yet, my parents could only do so much when it came to raising children in a society built on thousands of years’ worth of patriarchal ideas. So the fact is, that when I went to school and I socialised with kids outside of my home environment, I found myself experiencing way more grief when it came to my friendships with girls compared to those I experienced with boys. For instance, I could type page after page of stories of when I’d been friends with a girl for a long time then all of a sudden she had decided she didn’t like me for some reason or another, and boom: the bitching starts, everyone’s crying, friendship over.

Hence, I find myself walking into rooms full of all types of people, and the ones I feel the most intimidated by – without a shadow of a doubt – are the cis heterosexual women. Especially ones in a big group. But a lot of the time, I’m not intimidated because I don’t think that I would like them, it’s because I figure that the second I open my mouth and show myself as confident, self-assured, articulate, or (god forbid) comfortable around cis heterosexual men, these women won’t like me. I just can’t be arsed with the judgemental stares.

Only, I fucking LOVE women. I am one ffs. But society and its patriarchy are so unbelievably divisive that the second we’re away from those we love, and even occasionally whilst we’re with those we love, women are taught to rip each other to absolute shreds. We’re taught to judge, and distrust, and hate each other so much that sometimes we can’t help but subconsciously give in to the misogyny. As much as we raise our friends up for being confident and loving themselves, it’s not always easy to carry that approach into every situation. Plus, women can and are really awful to each other sometimes, so it’s not always easy to like every one.

However, the main point I want to make in this week’s blog, is that all women should stop being so distrusting of one another just because of the fact that we’re female; doing so doesn’t help anyone. My friendships with the women in my life now are some of the closest, most colourful, joyful relationships I will ever have, and I think it a shame that sometimes I might have accidentally stopped others from developing because I’ve assumed things before I’ve asked any questions.

So, the moral of this story is: you’re not going to like everyone, but don’t let the reason you don’t like someone be because of their gender.

I don’t want to wait until I’m older

11th Jan 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

For a few months now I’ve been reading a lot of literature on the topic of disability and sexuality. I’ve been doing this mostly because it’s what I’m writing my dissertation on, but it’s also doubled-up as an exercise in understanding how to be a better ‘advocate’ for disability.

The first thing I learnt, which didn’t surprise me whatsoever, was that the study of disability history is a relatively new branch of academia – though obviously disabled people have existed for as long as anyone else. And whilst there are a million comments I could make on the nuances of disability history, I don’t really fancy self-plagiarising, so I think I’ll save those details for the 8,000 words I’m required to write. I do, however, wish to take some time now to acknowledge just how uncomfortable physically disabled people have been made to feel by society when it comes to their bodies. I’ve read page after page of interviews with physically disabled people, where they describe how not only have they never been led to believe that they could be beautiful or attractive and physically disabled, but that many of them are actually disgusted by the sight of their physical appearance on some level.

Disgusted. I just want you to notice that that was one of the words used by them.

This embarrassment, and in some cases repulsion, at the sight of one’s physically disabled body isn’t something people should be having to feel just because they don’t look like what some eye in the sky defines as ‘normal’. But these individuals are so poked and prodded, and pushed into a corner by societal expectations that eventually they’re left feeling physically lesser in more ways than those written in their medical notes. And these feelings of irrelevance are present in more aspects of society than many able-bodied people notice. For instance, clothes shops are made so inaccessible that people in wheelchairs can’t reach half of the clothes, or, if they can reach them, most clothing isn’t designed to fit people who need to use medical equipment or have deformed body shapes. Thus, many physically disabled people can neither look at, nor consider wearing half of the clothes everyone else is browsing, and they’re pretty much told to just cope with that.

Then there’s the fact that the medical aids designed to make life easier for people are designed solely with purpose in mind; never aesthetics. For example, let’s take the case of my callipers. Callipers are a pretty straightforward medical appliance, used by thousands of disabled people. They’re two metal bars that are inserted into the soles of my shoes, and they help to keep my legs straight. That’s it. And my shoes are made specifically for me, with personalised insoles and little tweaks here and there, but overall they just look like Docs. So, if that’s how simple the provisions are, and Doc Martins/boots are insanely popular, then why can’t I have as many designs and patterns as are sold in the Doc Martins shops? Would it be that difficult to make them?

I’ve just given you two examples out of I can’t even tell you how many, but the running theme in this discussion is that hardly anyone is considering that physically disabled people might want to look nice too. They might want to experiment with how they present their bodies just as much as anyone else. Only, their medical history means that the ability, or option, to do that is taken away from them.

Undoubtedly, there are some out there who don’t relate to what I’ve said here at all. Nonetheless what I’ve seen from my research so far, is that it often takes physically disabled people a long time to get to a place where they can wholeheartedly say that they’re comfortable with how they look.

But I don’t want to wait until I’m older to be able to do that.

It’s no secret that I’m confident in my disability. Still, I don’t look at my full-length reflection. And it’s sad to admit it, but I do think that the image of me walking is gross. What’s sadder though, is that I only think these things because my legs aren’t like everyone else’s. Thus, it’s been through my dissertation research that I’ve realised how much shit I’ve internalised when it comes to my perception of my disability. Here I was, thinking I’ve always been pretty comfortable in my body, without realising that I was only ever thinking about myself from the knees-up. But these insecurities about how I look when I walk aren’t constantly on my mind – in fact, the world has so consistently shown me that my disability isn’t pretty, that I can only describe it as an ambivalent acceptance.

But fuck that. Fuck accommodating centuries of patriarchy and nonsensical beauty standards just because some of my nerves are in a knot. And fuck writing off a whole percentage of the population’s moral right to their own sexuality, simply because of their biology. I don’t see how any of it makes sense. So, I just posted a video of me walking on my blog Instagram (it’s _bettydouglas_ btw, just in case I haven’t bullied you into following it yet) as my way of showing that I’m trying to fully accept this Spina Bifida. I can’t promise I’m going to look at my reflection now every time I walk next to, or towards a glass window, but I’ll try not to look away so enthusiastically when I spot my reflection.

Why’d you text him again?

4th Jan 2022 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Why’d you do it then, eh? Why bother texting him again when you know he’s a dick? When you know he’ll leave it a few hours (even though he’s always on his phone, and definitely knows that it’s there). When you know he’s not that interested – YOU’RE not even that interested. So if you don’t really like him that much then why bother with putting yourself through the annoyance of it? Why’d you text him, if all you’re going to do is avoid your social media, waiting for his name to disappear from your notifications screen? What’s the point? Just ignore him, and forget about it. Yes, good idea. Delete the message thread, forget about it, move it along. Until the next one that is…

Hands up if you felt personally attacked by that first paragraph!

Well, if it’s any consolation, I just read myself to absolute filth and those were all questions my friends have asked me plenty of times, though I’ve undoubtedly asked myself them more. So, why do we text him – or her ! – over and over, when we’re the first ones to admit how tedious it all is? Where’s the logic?

For me, I think it’s a combination of lots of things. For example, the being constantly exposed to media and culture where romantic relationships seem to be necessary for overall happiness, the desperately wanting to feel known by someone (and to know them), the hormones, and the heavy, heavy boredom. I think it’s defo the hormones and the boredom which override the logic on a consistent basis, though. Which is fun.

On a less personal note, however, I think that what’s keeping us shushing the logical parts of ourselves is that romantic relationships are all we ever seem to talk about. Whether it’s a discussion of someone you just walked past and found attractive, your favourite celebrity, someone you had sex with last week, someone you might ask out on a date, or even the more abstract discussion of ‘who, out of our mates, would you date if you HAD to?’, sex and relationships are just constantly on the mind. In fact, the only people I know who don’t discuss these topics as regularly, are the ones in relationships – but even they get excited by their single friends’ tales of romance.

I’ve no clue why all of us are so hung up on this aspect of life, and I’m well aware that I’m as bad as anyone for it. But it’s the New Year, and I hAvE a rEsOLuTion people !! I’d sincerely like to stop wasting my time just for the sake of it.

I love people, I love a flirt, and I love a bit of drama, so I’ve had my fair share of situations with boys since the age of about fifteen. Still, I could honestly only count on one hand the lads that I was genuinely interested in; everyone else, I either fancied but knew it’d never work, or didn’t even fancy them that much, I just liked the attention. Oh god that sounds awful, doesn’t it? But we’ve all done it! In fact, I’m 100% sure that there have been plenty of occasions when boys have been thinking this way about me; it’s not a reflection on you (though it can certainly feel like that sometimes), it’s just how it is.

A few months ago, I was sitting on my friend’s bed, having a bit of a it’s-winter-I’m-tired-I-don’t-want-to-write-any-more-essays-can-it-be-Christmas-now sob, and in the middle of it I said the words ‘I’m just so tired of feeling this lonely’. I know, tragic. And I’ve written many blogs about how I’ve not wanted to be single for years; how I’ve felt left out because the only romantic experiences I’ve had so far have been a headache. Though, other reasons have also exacerbated these thoughts, like how much easier dealing with shit like my feet would be if I just had someone there who’s interested enough to care. Or even the fact that doing things would be nicer if there was someone there to do them with. But as bored as I am of being lonely, I’m more bored of saying how bored and lonely I am. So I’m not going to do it anymore.

Famous last words…

I’m seriously going to give it a go this time though!! I know I’ll probably stumble, because it’s surprisingly difficult to avoid all drama at a university where that seems to be all anyone talks about; not to mention the fact that I’m a total sucker for the will-they-won’t-they first stages. But I’m unbelievably picky, and stuff doesn’t work out; I end up getting upset, feeling like a failure, and we’re back to square one. SO, I’m going to start asking myself if I really will benefit from texting him again, when I know that we wouldn’t work and I don’t like him as much as I like the attention. I’m going to wait and see if he’s got the balls to show me that he likes me, before I try to control everything. And last on the list of New Years’ Resolutions: I’m going to acknowledge that there’s no time for pointless drama when there’s a degree to get, and a life after university to figure out. No more drunk-texting: only fun, easy, stress-free situations.

Come on 2022, you can give me that, can’t you?

I don’t wanna hear it anymore

1st Nov 2021 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Sometimes when I’m at a house party, people come up to me and ask me about my blog, often interested in how I decide what to write about. The only way I can describe the process is that a topic will pop into my head, and I’ll feel a compulsion to type something about it: I guess it’s like a diary in that sense. Unlike a diary though, I know that these words will be read by others so I edit them and I rationalise them in an attempt to not sound like a prat. I can’t promise that I manage it every time, but we do our best. Although today, I’m not going to edit and I’m not going to rationalise: we’re just gunna go with it.

To make an extremely long, and tumultuous story short, in the past couple of weeks I’ve come to realise that I’ve never really been in a romantic situation with a lad where he’s tried as hard to get to know and understand me as much as I have him. I’ve consistently been the one who’s been actively interested in a bigger way than the physical sense; asking all of the questions, noticing the small things, and making an effort to work out what’s important to the person I’m interested in. And this realisation came to me when I was cleaning my room, sorting my shoes out, listening to music. I was feeling so relaxed and so honestly myself, and it made me think that there are so many parts of who I am that I’ve never shared with someone because I’ve been too busy trying to get to know them, and they’ve never asked.

That feeling was of course, kind of sad, but at the same time, it made me realise just how stressful ‘dating’ can be. How people have spent so much time and energy messing with my head, telling me yes then telling me no then telling me they would if they could but they can’t so they won’t; making it seem like I’m involved in the situation when really it’s just about them. I’m involved by name, but I’m never particularly relevant. Yawn.

So I went upstairs to my housemate the other day when I was feeling a little low, and I mentioned all of these feelings to her, and after listening to me she thought over all of the romantic relationships she’s had with boys and she completely empathised with me. Then without even bringing up how I’ve been feeling, multiple girls just this week have told me how they’re tired of being wanted physically; being told they’re hot by a drooling drunken boy at 2am, but never being given the time of day once the sun comes up.

Fortunately, I’m pretty emotionally robust so I can deal with the rejection. However, just because a person’s self-esteem is in decent condition, that doesn’t make it indestructible. And being told by someone that they’re really into you, or they really fancy you, is lovely for 2 seconds but it very quickly becomes hurtful if all it is is words. What I mean by that, is that the words become less believable if you don’t do anything about them. I’m flattered in the moment, but I’ve been in so many situations like this where boys have put my hopes up so far, then at best ignored me, that at this point I don’t trust words.

I don’t really understand why this is a thing, and I don’t know why I seem to attract it, but god almighty it’s a headache. Not least does messing with someone’s head like this fuck with their feelings, but it made me feel completely objectified at points. After the excitement of the moment had faded, I’d wake up and wonder if what’d actually happened there was a young lad only saying what he’d thought I wanted to hear because he wanted to sleep with me. Making that dramatic confession untrue, and all the emotional turmoil completely unnecessary.

All of this isn’t to say that I hate every lad I’ve had a situationship with; I’m still quite fond of a few of them, but I have to say my piece because I’m tired. Not to mention the fact that a healthy level of self-esteem doesn’t just happen; it’s incredibly fragile and takes a lot of work to maintain. So I refuse to allow the yeah-but-no-but treatment I’ve had from lads this year, to morph into self-criticism and thus take a toll on my self-esteem. Naturally, this is always easier said than done but once again, we do our best.

Thus, I want to finish with a request for all my readers (no matter your gender): please think before you speak. Decide whether what you’re about to tell a person is beneficial to them, or do you just want to say it to help yourself? Go into things with the correct intentions, and try not to fuck with someone’s head in the process. You might not always manage it, but it’s always worth a try. Because personally, I don’t need or want to hear it anymore, if you’re not going to do anything about it.

It gets a little too loud

24th Oct 2021 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

A few days ago, I lay down to go to sleep but couldn’t because all I could hear was talking. I tossed and turned and I tossed and turned, but the whole time I felt like I was trying to go to sleep in a crowded room full of people talking, laughing, and arguing with each other. Then I realised that all of that noise was in my head. So I breathed, and I calmed it, and I went to sleep.

Now before anyone refers me onto a psychiatrist, I don’t suffer from any mental health problems which would mean that I hear voices; the only thing I suffer from is trying to constantly keep myself busy. I fill my days with activities to avoid being bored or feeling like I’m squandering my time (or that I’m alone), then in my head I plan, organise, and evaluate everything. Once I’ve thought about all the things I’ve done, or need to do, the next brainwave is all of the internal conversations about my friendships or boy tediums, and if I’ve exhausted all of that (and am nearing the days of my period), some cheeky insecurities will pop up to say hello.

It gets pretty noisy.

All of this isn’t to say that I’m unhappy, though; coming back to a more normal version of a university life this year has been something that so many of us really needed, and I’m glad to say that I’m pretty content at the minute. I no longer need to worry about the stress of a year abroad, or the fact that my degree makes me feel stupid. I’m able to get out of the house, go to lectures I enjoy, and socialise with people without breaking the law or having to cover half of my face. I’ve had insanely exciting news which has made me feel like I’m actually going to be able to have a career doing something I love – and I’m not going to go into details about it in case I jinx it. I get to see and laugh with my friends all of the time, and I feel like I’m getting pretty good at this whole adult-ing thing. But even the good times are mentally trying, and it pays to recognise this before something happens and your brain goes bang and you end up crying on the floor eating ice cream.

As is the case with many things, I’m not an expert in how to help yourself calm down and relax because I’m constantly trying to find something to fill my time. However, yesterday when I was doing my eye make up, I realised that I’d forgotten to breathe because I was trying to make my eyeliner perfect, whilst also thinking about an argument I wanted to (but never would) have with a lad. Needless to say, (once I’d remembered to exhale), it was clear that I need to work out how to slow down a little.

When I was younger, my granddad used to take me and my brother camping in the Yorkshire Dales a lot. I think of those times with an immense amount of fondness, but possibly the most influential part of those trips was the fact that when I get overwhelmed, I feel an intense need to go to those hills because of the silence. It’s so quiet up there that it kind of hurts your ears. But as much as I want to, I can’t be driving an hour to the middle of nowhere every time I feel a little claustrophobic: I’ve got a dissertation to write. Thus, I drive half an hour to the beach to look at the sea, I go home to sit with my parents and watch TV, or I read a book I want to read (not one that’s been assigned to me); I play guitar, I listen to music, or sometimes I just sit and stare at the wall for a bit. Although, that last one does sound like something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest…again, I don’t need a psychiatrist, I promise.

Whatever it is, and whatever age you are, all I can say is that you should probably find something that gives you a moment of respite not just from other people, but from yourself too. Otherwise eventually, as everyone’s mum used to say: it’ll all end in tears.

I ran away to the Ukrainian mountains

31st Aug 2021 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

As many of you have seen on social media, I went back to Ukraine this summer to work as a summer camp counsellor for a month, and if any of you are prOper big-time stalkers (*cough* I mean, ‘followers’…) of my work, then you’ll know that this wasn’t my first rodeo: I did the same job at the end of my year abroad two years ago. And what’s funny about coming back from doing anything for an extended period, is that people ask you how it was: some ask you out of politeness when they’re not really that interested, and others ask you because they truly want to know. But then when it comes to it, there’s no way you can effectively concentrate a month’s worth of experiences into one conversation, so you’re left with the ‘oh yeah, it was really fun thanks’.

I wanted to go back to Ukraine for two main reasons. The first was that I wanted to go to a different country because I like seeing other places, and because this year pretty much everyone on the planet has had the urge to leave their home country ever since being literally confined to it by law. The second reason related to the first, but was distinct in that I wanted to go somewhere else because for so long I felt stuck. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my second year at university but a pandemic, online learning, and the basic fact that I don’t really enjoy my degree made it so that I had this feeling that I was waiting around for something to happen only I had no idea what that something was. So I guess if we want to psychoanalyse it, I was eager to go back to do something I’d done during my year abroad since that was the time that I’d felt the surest of who I was and what I was doing.

The pandemic threw everyone for a loop, we know this, but my feeling lost and directionless at times can’t be wholly attributed to Ms Rona: it must also be a side-effect of our school systems telling us all the way through our adolescence that we need to know every step of our lives at least five years in advance. If you don’t plan, and if you don’t know, then you’ve done something wrong, you’re failing at adulting.

For the longest time, I knew I wanted to go to university and study Japanese Studies. So, then when I got there and realised that not only did I not enjoy it, but that the teaching had beaten my confidence down so much that I started to genuinely believe that I’m a bit stupid, it came as I nasty shock. And though I’d never really thought about it before, I now acknowledge that when situations or people stress me out, make me feel embarrassed or upset, I prefer to just run away and hide so I have time to make sense of it in my head. Hence the trip to the Carpathian mountains to fuck about doing dance routines and eating grechka with some kids for a month. Grechka, by the way, is this buckwheat thing and whilst I love some Ukrainian foods, grechka isn’t for me…it’s just that consistency in between needing to chew it and not needing to chew it…kinda gross. But anyway, back to the analysis of emotions.

I’m not about to criticise the part of my personality that likes to hide sometimes, because I don’t see why we need to change every little inconvenient part of ourselves, but I will say that I need to be less hard on myself right now. Yes, once you leave school and move out, you become an adult and there are lots of responsibilities associated with that, however, that process doesn’t automatically come with knowing exactly what you’re going to be doing at every stage of your life. Therefore, we should start cutting ourselves some slack for feeling a little lost sometimes. Especially considering we just lived/are living through an iNtErNAtiONal pANdeMIC.

On that note, coming back from Ukraine to see people no longer afraid of standing near strangers, of hugging, of going to a festival, of dancing in a bar, has really helped with dampening all those intense anxieties building up in me for the past 18 months. Let’s not be silly and assume that the stresses have completely gone – I’m still a languages student with no real semblance of a year abroad – bUT (!) as everything relaxes, and musicians release new music, life feels like it’s moving again. And thank fuck for that.

Love letters

30th May 2021 by elizabethmdouglas ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

You know, it’s come to my attention that sometimes I’m not very kind to myself. And I’ve also just realised that that was a really deep way to start a blog… 🙂

Over the last decade or so, it’s become very fashionable for people to recognise when they’re being really hard on themselves and to rectify those moments. We start to do yoga, we meditate, we go on holiday (lol, imagine), we buy an adult colouring book, we have a good cry, we talk to each other. But still, no matter how self-aware we are, and no matter how many affirmations we say to ourselves in the mirror – although, I’ll be honest and say that I’ve never personally tried the talking to yourself method…seems a bit intense to me, but anyway – humans still don’t seem able to escape from those self-criticism shackles.

I was speaking recently with one of my housemates about this and we both noted that for each of us, part of growing up has been coming to terms with who we are: the good and the bad. Generally, I’m very comfortable in who I am and I like to think that I’m a pretty decent human being, but I know that every trait I really like about myself does have a side effect. For example, when I care about things I really care about them: I work really hard for it, I’ll spend hours on it, I’ll do everything I can to make it work – whether that be a friendship or my degree. However, the flip-side of that is that if I can’t control it and if something goes wrong, I lose my shit. I pin part of my self-worth on the success of that one thing, and if it fails then I get angry and I’ll probably end up sobbing until my eyes swell-up and the colour of my skin resembles Clifford the Big Red Dog. It’s intense.

Another thing I like about myself is that I’m pretty good at rationalising situations: I can be objective, and am decent at understanding why I’m feeling the way I do. Still, my overactive brain is very skilled in ignoring and doubting my own rationalisations, so I’m also pretty bad at practicing what I preach. Therefore, sometimes when I write a blog and I’m able to give what I hope is decent, pragmatic advice, that’s me writing a love letter to myself. Obviously, I’d love to always be as calm and measured as I can make myself out to be, but these words are carefully considered and they’re not always a reflection of my actions. But then, do any of us always follow the advice we give to our friends? Probably not. Do we know that we should? Yep. So why don’t we? Fuck knows.

I suppose I’m saying this because the more blogs I write, and the more advice I inadvertently give, the more I realise that I’m setting myself up for a fall when my friends see what I do and say ‘do I have to send you your own blog?’. (Which, though cutting, is always kind of hilarious when it happens.)

These blogs are the times when the rational part of my brain is able to take over and make sense of everything; to try and keep my anxieties and insecurities at bay. But, in this age of crafted opinions and convenient omissions, I’d like to make the disclaimer that I’m 21 years old and whilst I may know something is the right thing to do, that unfortunately doesn’t mean that I’ll always do it. What’s important, is that we each at least try to take care of ourselves as much as we can, and that we identify when we’re not doing such a great job of it. But as Hannah Montana wisely said: everybody makes mistakes, everybody has those days.

Enjoy the sunshine! Xx

An Indelible Friend

Tag: selfawareness