“I feel like my connection to myself is deteriorating. My brain keeps trying to erase me.”

You can always trust a therapist to reflect back to you how sad what you just said is. Prodding me about the image I hold of myself in my head, I say nothing really. I’m a pair of legs on a bed watching a film, hands on a laptop, tangled hair that worries me when the hairbrush rips through it. I’m faceless to myself, and I mourn the loss like a friend that disappeared. Barely giving myself a glance all week and reproaching her when I do, I don’t think I’d stick around to be a friend either. 

I used to be able to draw myself by heart. In 2018 I’d trace the outlines of my hips with pride, dedicating time to obsessively commemorating myself with such a grasp on the physicality of me. I look at the lines now and they look like lies, with no evidence for the contrary I push them aside as false and fill the gap with nothing else. I’ve been wanting a new tattoo for ages but I can’t visualise myself long enough to try and imagine something new there, and now the photos of fresh ink three years ago mock me as a better, cooler me that got lost somewhere. I look back and wonder where my awareness went, thinking that’s a smaller thing to tackle than the confidence and intrigue that seems to have gone to. Pulling on black trousers and a black top, most days I think today is the dullest self I’ve ever been. A panic seizes up as if I’ve forgotten something and I realise it's me. 

A keep a little bit of it locked up in my phone. In a folder titled ‘burlesque’, 2019 me seems like a stranger. I remember the songs and the outfits, but the person that got up on stage is lost to me. Analysing the photos is a dissociative game of spot the difference that I’ve been trying to complete for a couple of weeks. Somedays she has my eyes and a faint tone of my hair; but the photos I remember loving feel alien to me now, capturing myself mostly in the ones I used to despise, caught in motions that haven’t changed and smiles I’ve never been able to train. I used to post them so proudly, not even caring about boundaries or backlash, I loved living on the line between sides of appropriateness. I remember that. I think. The feeling of toying with it, attaching the should-be-secretive to the social, melding mind and body, filling performances with film characters and plot and then taking my clothes off and not caring if no one realised the meaning in the first place. I knew the thought was there. I knew I was both things, I was all the things, I felt like everything. And I look at the photos now and wonder how I did it. 

I used to sing when I was a kid. Fighting solos in the school musicals I was never nervous. I’d strive for it, sure I was going to be famous. Praying to Hannah Montana like a god and telling everyone I’d be on the West End, my ambitions were so bold and I was so brave. 

8 feels lost in 24. What am I left with if I minus out my 21-year-old self? Suddenly so separate from her, I don’t know how to count her in. I couldn’t tell you what she was like or where the bravery came from or went, but if there are only 3 years or so in me now it’s not a lot to go on. When I say I feel like my brain is forgetting me, I feel like time takes some scissors and cuts off a year as they pass, and I don’t want to only be left with now. I want to hold it all, even if I never have the guts to be them again. 

Time has a way of making memories feel like lies, of making yourself feel like a liar. If I stepped out of myself like a stranger and informed me of my past, I’d shrug it off as false and go back to being what I am now as if I was never anything else. I am only what I currently am, in a body that is born and dies daily, what do I know? what can I learn? How do I love it? The days of celebrating it on a stage feel like fiction, like AI image creations found their way into my camera roll and burnt into hazy back corners of my brain like dreams that feel confusingly real when you wake up. Finding myself in a new place with new friends that never got to come along and clap to my song choice, no knowledge to feed facts back to me, I don’t think I ever moved all the past versions of myself down here. I wonder if anyone’s found them hanging about Manchester?

My sense of self swims around my brain like a fish tank, lasting four minutes and gone. Seeing life spans as cut and dry, I want to look at my past as reinvention rather than reincarnation. I want to reach into myself a pull out a little bit of 21 for a night, borrow some childhood bravery to announce something I’m proud of without an ounce of shyness. I want to sit my friends down and have them meet Sunday Girl the performer and not worry about how that changes or dulls Lucy now. I want to hold all my hands, finish spotting differences, look in the mirror more and see myself there. In what week of therapy do your long-lost selves reunite? I’ll post old pictures on my Instagram to coax them out and cross my fingers that it's soon. 

I keep being struck by the symmetry of my life, the spirals I fall into without realising until the twos confront me. I got déjà vu on a wooden stool in Euston and realised my ass had graced it before. This exact spot, two year ago, I wrote pros and cons lists over the same coffee.

I know it probably isn’t true but I feel like cars have looked the same my entire life, every one seems familiar in its unremarkability as I remember everything and nothing at 23, both more and less burdened than at 21. My own familiarity regularly becomes the most changeable thing in my life, with new aches and the sudden noticing of grown inches making me a stranger in private seconds. My handwriting looks foreign every time I try and transcribe it. I behave like a new person in every conversation with my mum, hearing feedback from a stranger somewhere between London and Middlesbrough.

*This is a side note to memorialise the old woman at the coffee counter whose warm voice echoes into the walls like she’s hugging the concrete as an old friend. The barista stamps a loyalty card and I wonder if she’ll feel familiarity in her legs too.

Lately I’ve been thinking that my face has irreversibly changed. I can’t pin point a single reason why but something seems shifted. I can picture the person my body senses here, like a separated memory – allusive, elusive. She had blonde hair two years ago, wore the same coat. It was short and different two years before that. Three strangers circling a block in gaps of twos, all getting different trains to different homes, two of us weighing up how it would feel to live here and me the consequence.

If we sat in a row, I’d look secretly from the corner of my eye, wondering where I’d seen them before. Like every car on the road, like every café mug, I know you but don’t but do, as I return to the same places you recommend me in the past, from personal experience. 

I live in Manchester.

My hair is bleach blonde with awful roots and a grown-out fringe. I haven’t been to the hairdressers in 4 months and I’m incapable of resisting a 2-monthly urge to dye it pink.

My favourite things to wear are my Burberry trench, my big black oversized jumper and my new Docs. On a night out I wear my denim mini skirt and paint an attempt of an Edie Sedgwick cut crease onto my eyes.

My favourite books this year were The Year of the Monkey by Patti Smith and In Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept by Elizabeth Smart.

My favourite films at the moment remain Leon The Professional, Marie Antoinette and Heathers. But recently I loved The Dreamers, Clockwork Orange and Love and Mercy. I’ve started keeping lists of what I watch and read.

My favourite albums to sing in the shower Fine Line by Harry Styles, Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys or Norman Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey.

My favourite smell is Palo Santo incense, Ginsberg Is God perfume by Bella Freud, or as always, my Mum cooking a roast.

My favourite thing is getting letters from friends or taking myself out on a date to the galleries then to a café to write on a Sunday. I also love disposable camera photos and going to the pub.

I’m in love with myself, my friends, the city I live in, Harry Styles, Patti Smith and everyone else I know.

I sleep on the right side of the bed on my left side, with thunderstorms playing quietly, and going to bed way later than I tell myself I will.

I repeat this mantra to myself; I am doing so well.

I’m trying to implement a habit of drinking more water and going to bed earlier.


If I go back through my old posts in this blog, I can now find pieces I’ve written on my birthday every year since I was 16. I’ve always been a reflective person, and admittedly that makes me kind of hate occasions, finding it all too easy to get bogged down with regret or nostalgia for the age I’m leaving. But this year as I settled down for a birthday ritual of journaling and a tarot card pull, I mostly just felt content in the chaos going on. Last year I signed off saying I wanted to simply float into a new year. It’s weird to read as on the cusp of 21 I was preparing to graduate and move, so aware of all these huge changes that were coming my way. And on the cusp of 22, I was aware of the huge lack of that.

This year I ticked off all the big life things, I graduated and got a job and moved, so now all that’s left is things I do or make happen. All the pre-planned milestones of my teens are behind me now, and I could easily panic about that, but instead, I’m choosing to be excited. I’m choosing to be proud and celebratory. At 21 I imagined the year as full; ‘I imagine them full of gigs, theatre trips, city breaks, friends, new places to brunch, new regular spots, new people to catch up with.’ I got it all as I think back on gigs as Castle, trips to the Royal Exchange, visits to London, brunch at Evelyn’s, weekly coffees at Idle Hands, new friendships full of new belly laughs and gossip. On the cusp of 21, I fantasied about the reality I made, and I love that so much.

When I did a tarot card pulling thinking about my 22nd year, I pulled the upright queen of swords and smiled to myself. It’s a card of balance between head and hurt, equal parts giving and guarding, future-facing but proceeding with an openness that is sensible and protected. It’s exactly what I was hoping to see, so I feel good about it. Future facing feels like the buzzword, I see the queen of swords on a coast looking outwards into open space. It feels like something out of a Florence and the Machine video in a dramatic and glorious way. She represents intellect, sharp wit, honesty, self-reliance; she’s a mature woman, forthright and supportive. I look forward to stepping into that power.

Unlike at 21, there’s not much I can say about turning 2, other than I’m happy. I’m really happy and content with my life, the last year blessed me with beautiful people and a beautiful city to call hope, all of which I can’t wait to be reunited with post-lockdown. I’m excited to be reunited with freedom in a new age for a year of complete control, a free timeline with nothing already set up to happen. I can do what I want at 22, and so I think I’ll write more short stories and try to go to 3 different countries. I think I’ll continue to work hard on this blog and Kiloran, I think I have a lot of fun, I think I’ll get another tattoo.

I’ve long since stopped caring about who reads these posts, so I leave this here as a time capsule, ready for the eve of turning 23. 

And so here's to you, wardrobe.

Here's to my burlesque basket, full of odd ripped stockings, pieces of costumes for abandoned concepts, stained bras, and lost gemstones. 2018 was the year I began performing, and that was undoubtedly a major player in my year. Joining burlesque and being adopted by my Steel City Sirens family has been transformative, for my relationship with myself and others. To get up on stage, armed with nothing but your own fantasies and imagination and push yourself off the cliff of your comfort is terrifying, and this year terrifying became magical. The odd mix of leaf bras, leather garter belts, and maid aprons made me fall in love with adrenaline, to reprogramme the feelings of anxiety and fear into opportunity.  In these looks, I learned the comfort of character dressing, the feeling of anonymity you can get from simply deciding to be someone else for the day. Within months I was heading out to the pub with my best friend, dressed as Lolita and Madonna because why not, both inamoured with the confidence and power we've gained from taking our kit off.

Here's to my polka dot culottes and pink fluffy jumper. I refused to let myself mope about in PJs, clutching my phone in one hand and tissues in the other, desperate for that boy to call. Instead, I wore trousers that felt like PJs and clutched a glass of rose, letting the wisdom of Samantha Jones and the Sex and the City girls wash over me. I coated myself in pattern and colour when I felt grey just so I could see happiness in the mirror. I draped long coats over the top and enjoyed the wind catching in the shapes when I dragged myself out for seaside visits with my friend and my mum. On the worst days, I managed to get dressed.

And on my best days, what I dressed in changed things. Here's to my bodycon dress, worn with confidence and assurance that I looked damn good, curves and hips and tiny boobs and all. As strange as it is to say, I think 2018 was the first time I saw and confronted my body. And god, nothing is more reassuring than having women cheer you on, nodding along in agreement. This year I talked about having curves, and the struggle to come to terms with them after being raised in a pre-Kardashians society. I talked about the feeling of being the curvey one and the challenge to not re-define that as the chubby one, learning to accept that these birthing hips will always look like this, so I might as well like them. And damn, in that dress, I worshipped them.

To my bikini; the holiday isn't one I care to remember just yet, I've accepted that this porcelain skin will never let me be a beach baby, but you looked good. And you look even better with some wide leg jeans, peaking out from a duster coat, on a November evening in Sheffield. Who knew a black bikini could be a symbol of reclamation?

Here's to my Mum's killer boots, my favourite secret weapon. Stomping my way across a rooftop in Camden, on my way to my dream internship at ASOS, in 2018 I learned to make noise. My very own kinky boots, this year I learned the power of the heel, forcing you to stand up straight and tall, making your footsteps heard, forcing you to walk with certainty when you might feel wobbly.  But mainly, stripping away the metaphors, here's to my Mum, for keeping me stomping on and cheering me on always. And one day I promise to forgive you for not keeping more clothes from the 80s, at least these boots make up for a lot.


Here's to my snake print coat. Not to be too dramatic, but I feel like my summer pivoted when I dug this yellow monstrosity out of the sample sale racks. My summer in London was described best by Dickens;

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I was nervous to walk into a fashion setting at my lowest, terrified that the Devil Wears Prada stereotype would ring true. But instead, I was assured of what I believed deep down, that fashion is good. ASOS wanted me to feel my best, the brand and all the people there are motivated by empowering others, and I felt that each day. I walked in day one in a basic jumpsuit and left on my last day in a sparkly star print dress, white mules and one too many animal print items. The coat sums it up. Before the summer I would have never put that on, and my sadness sure didn't match the happy yellow, but it felt right. Stomping round Camden in heeled boots, flare jeans, and yellow snake print felt right. When I couldn't feel my pride yet to celebrate myself, I could wear it through a one-of-a-kind loud jacket. And since, that piece has become me. The summer built me up until I could be that confident character, and now when I'm heading out to Tesco, oh I'll just throw on that bright yellow mac, just casual.



Here's to my pink and red clash, stood next to my best friend's animal print dress. Here's to living, drinking cheap wine in a mansion in Hampstead, winning free drinks in a dance-off, applying glitter eyeliner outside the tube stop, and crying on rooftops in pink denim.  Here's to Natasha, my partner in character dressing. Meeting a woman that loves fashion as much as I do was a blessing this year, but meeting a woman that also encourages me to wear my stupidest clothes for a simple pub trip, shout about my achievements, treat myself like a girl boss was an absolute miracle. We got through it all, and we looked fabulous while doing it. I feel like my year started in Summer, crawling out of heartbreak in a full face beat, animal print, and stupidly impractical shoes. Turns out if you dress like your Absolutely Fabulous heroes, you can adopt some of their spirits. Escapism becomes realism.


Here's to my fur coat, surviving into its third winter, still holding me like home. I didn't need new clothes to play a new role. My trusty fur coat feels like comfort and looks like a rich bitch at Christmas, and I wear it well, moving back to Sheffield still recovering but strong. And I end the year in that, my favourite coat, holding all the potential for any character I need to play to get me through the day. With leopard and red lips, or a jumper and jeans, all or nothing, screaming or quiet; I can dress for what I need, wearing soft fur as armour.

On the precipice of a New Year, I feel assured. When I put on my day, stepping into its spirit, I don't feel like I'm forcing it anymore. The snakeskin isn't hiding me as I've come to accept the multiplicity of the person I am, enjoying getting to know each side of me and the power of my sensitivity. I've got through a lot, but I've achieved even more. I finished my second year of uni with a 2:1, I put on six killer performances, I moved to London solo, I smashed my dream internship, I made some of the best friends with the best people I've ever know, and I carried myself through it all in some 10/10 looks.

Here's to the new year and the new people I'll be.

In Summer I looked to this flat as a goal, a light at the end of a dark tunnel. I desperately wanted to be well enough to thrive here, to make it a home and feel it so, for the first time in this city.

After a timeline of heartbreaks and tough times, Sheffield felt like a ghost town for me. I love this city, I'd be the first to advocate for its spirit and life, the creative blood that runs through it, and the communities its built through art and music. There is so much life here, but it felt dead for me. I thought I was done with it. And some places I am, I don't go to certain bars or parts of town, far too haunted to enjoy my pint. But this flat, I remind myself daily, is mine, it's new, reborn with me.

While living alone was daunting, coming into this flat with no one but my own company feels so right. I said in summer I wanted to live happily and radically alone, actively working on myself, and being selective of the energy I allowed through my door. And so far I think radical is the way to describe it, fluctuating from extreme highs to extreme lows, forcing me to confront and comfort myself far more than I knew I could.

At first, I filled it; I had friends round constantly, always the hostess, always busy. It took me about two weeks to realise that I was delaying the inevitable. I needed to freak out a little, it had to hit me that I was alone so I could start to learn to love it. Also, having friends round a lot just means you go through coffee and milk at an alarming rate.

My freak out came at around week three. In the excitement of freshers week and reunions, I hadn't even finished unpacking and settling in, my decoration still wasn't how I wanted it, it still didn't feel quite like a home. I turned down a night out and cried, home alone, for the first time. Being alone is terrifying, I don't know if we ever grow out of that feeling, flinching when you hear an unknown sound and always being a little bit scared of the dark. I definitely have days where I freak out a bit walking into my dark flat alone, or when I literally speak to no one else and go a bit stir-crazy.

It's not the kind of alone I imagined. I don't feel isolated at all, my best friend lives around the corner, and I go out more than I have any other year. I feel more involved and active than ever, and it's nice to have the space to offer up to others for meals, or pre-drinks, or even sleepovers when friends come to visit. We can lounge about on my sofas and not have to be sitting on top of each other when we watch a film or all sit around an actual table to have a meal, rare situations at university let me tell you. It's more of an internal sadness, the lingering insecurity that I'm 'doing uni wrong' by opting for solo living, or for sometimes turning down a night out to tidy my flat and do a facemask instead.
I have nights were I'm here alone, talking to no one, texting no one, bored out of my mind because I have no one else to rely on for entertainment, or to make me happy. That's the biggest thing. No one else is here to make me happy, no one is at my beck and call, I have no choice but to get on with myself.


My flat is now exactly how I want it. It's the haven of pink and feminism and pom-poms that I imagined it would be in summer. I've learned exactly what things and surroundings make me feel calm; each night I light my candles, turn on my fairy nights, and cuddle up to a hot water bottle with some tea, and each morning I open my curtains and put music on my speaker while I make my coffee. But the internal things take time. I'm slowly working on my issues with reliance, finally confronting them and learning to love my own company. I'm starting to feel it. I get giddy at the thought of my evenings, having complete freedom to pamper myself, do whatever I want, listen to whatever I want. No one can interrupt my flow, or dictate any of my choices, I can be completely and unapologetically selfish with no worries. Each time I take a 20-minute shower and perform a flawless one-woman show of Hamilton, I realise that I'm living in bliss.

It's all ups and downs. If I'm already low, it can be hell. Living alone in a creaky old flat and having anxiety is a challenge, and if my depression is playing up, the temptation to isolate myself from everyone and everything is tricky, but that's the point! It was always going to be difficult, I hoped it would be. I wanted these walls to test me, force me to work on issues that are too easily ignored or forgotten with company. I've had to step up for myself, learn how to calm myself, take my security and safety into my own hands completely, look after myself fully. My self-care has had to step up to full self-protection, preservation, love. I know myself now better than I ever have. Me and my mind spend a lot of time together, and I'm starting to think she's pretty great, she cracks me up daily at least.

They say you're all you'll ever have, you have to love yourself first blah blah, well living alone is a crash course in that, and I'm finally feeling like I can keep up.

Journal entry from 7th October

'Celebrate every tiny victory', I see it on pastel pink backgrounds daily, I've said it to others, I just can't do it.

I've lost track of how many times I've joked even just this week that I'm a has-been, or half-laughed through the phrase 'I peaked at 18'. And I really do believe these things, using them to both bully myself into action and doubt myself, vocalising the voice in my head that says no one care about what I do or don't do, so why bother. I tried to tackle this a couple of years ago by speaking success into existence and becoming what I wanted to be, I started calling myself a writer. It's a stupid little thing really, changing my instagram to a business account and calling myself a writer before I call myself a student, I signed off my emails with 'writer and editor, Lucy Harbron', I tried to be more forthcoming about what I was working on and what I had achieved. I say I am a writer, I am an editor, I am i am i am, but I haven't done any of these things in quite a while.

Despite having things published recently, I struggle to think of when I last wrote something that I would consider 'significant', shaming the rest of my work, shrugging it off. I beat myself up daily for not releasing an issue of Kiloran since February, voiding all the other work I've done in that gap. I count the years and months, since the release of my book, 1 year 5 months, considering each day I'm not releasing another to be a day further into insignificance and failure, ignoring the fact that I know my writing has improved since.

And in all of this, I give no value to the fact that I've survived all this time, that I've managed to keep up any productivity at all, pass uni, do an internship, recover from various things, and maintain relationships. Whatever I do is never enough.

In the worlds of fashion and writing, and I guess young creatives in general, that might be considered a good thing. Work hard play hard, grind until you own it, never stop, build your dream, always chase what's next. But I'm tired, where there is no finish line, I can't find a medal to give myself.

This isn't the first time I've written about this. I wrote about it at 19, and here I am at 20 unable to throw the feeling off, instead it gripping tighter and tighter with each passing month. The best way to put it is that I feel like I'm on a conveyor belt pushing me towards the end of the cliff. The cliff is the end of my degree, or maybe even my youth. The conveyor belt is time. And the only way I think I can stop it, or build a net, or make it at all easier or less scary, is to build things or make things or just do something so at least the belt isn't empty.

I think I never quite shook off the childhood idea that I'd be a star or a princess by now. I'm still wondering where all the success and satisfaction is. Slowly realising that it's in front of me, behind a sheet of glass I built.

It's hit a peak. I'm struggling, and each day of struggling makes me struggle more, bully myself louder for not managing to do something. Uni work, laundry, painting my nails, writing, painting, interviews, Kiloran prep. It stacks up into a microphone stand for the voice in my head, 'Lucy your past successes and all the ones coming in the future are now void, because you haven't written the blog post you said you would today, you are a failure.'

Somedays I manage to take my medication, shower and go for coffee. And I wish I could see that as enough, see my survival, my recovery, my self care as enough for that day. I wish I didn't have to always be more for myself. I wish I could find myself worthy as I am.

The stupidest thing is that I would place this on no one else. I tell my best friends to rest, to treat themselves kindly and remember that they are no their productivity and sometimes we all need a day. I just don't allow that to myself, too caught up in the pressure to maintain the pace of past achievements, do more, make more, stay active or else. I have no doubt in this world that my best friends will do incredible things, become important people and achieve amazing things, regardless of whether they spend today in bed or only manage to get coffee. But my depressed days sound like a death knell, today's sadness always seems to affect forever.

Even stupider, I still do it all. Here I am writing a blog post, I will release an issue of Kiloran this year, I'm up-to-date with uni work. I'm balancing things, still. My productivity is maintained and largely constant, but I treat myself, still, like a failure. I don't know what it will take to please myself. I pray one day I'll be enough.

Deep down I can recognise that I'm doing well. I know logically that I've done a lot, I do a lot and I do it well. But I don't feel it, always jumping straight to love for others but critique for myself. I hate the phrase 'you have to love yourself before you love someone else', because I love deeply, care deeply, believe so deeply in everyone else, and I seeing my friends give me that back. I don't think it's uncommon, I give my voice to the success of my friends and they voice mine back to me, blind to our own beauty and power, slowly letting each others words sink in.

We are trying our best. I am trying to believe in myself, to speak softly to my reflection, whether she's stuck in bed, or starting to write again.

I talk a lot about self-care and healing, but I realised I've never talked frankly about mental health. And while no one ever needs to divulge their struggles in order to justify their need for self-care, and I strongly strongly believe that self-care should be practice regardless of the presence or luck lack-off mental health issues, I'm also more than aware of the multitude of self-care posts, in contrast to the clear lack of open, honest discussions about experiences with mental health services and treatments. My friend recently asked me about antidepressants, struggling to find any experiences online that were simply lists of side-effects or horror stories, and I was more than happy to talk about it. But I've never spoken about it online, strangely considering my verging on TMI openness on my platforms. It's weird, and I can't help but worry that even I've fallen into stigmatism, feeling the pressure to stay silent on the particular conversation of medication. And in the interest of rejecting that, let's discuss.

Here is a brief history of my brain...

I'd say I've struggled with my mental health since I was around 13/14, moving in and out of phases of deep lows and bouts of self-harm, probably symptomatic of my over-active imagination causing me to overthink and overthink and overthink. All attempts to get any support were shot down. When I spoke to a doctor, my self-harm and depression worsening, I was deemed 'fine' and refused any counselling or support; a story far far too common.

This continued on and off. I always considered myself recovered, carrying that label of 'fine' as a shield, staying quiet out of fear of bringing back the conversations about attention-seeking or faking it. Looking back, it wasn't healthy at all, but definitely, a reaction to over-run mental health services, always reactionary or crisis support rather than on-going help or preventative measures.

Alongside this, my emetophobia was gradually becoming more and more consuming. Emetophobia is the phobia of being sick, with symptoms including...feeling sick, mine specifically sparked by anxiety. It got to the point where I lost a lot of weight when I first moved to uni, so anxious that anything I ate made me feel sick, sending me into a panic. The weight loss from anxiety brought up some issues with body dysmorphia and disordered eating, so add that to the roster. I ended up isolating myself a lot, as alcohol became a big trigger and I felt extremely insecure making me not want to go out. I also was in a very isolating relationship, and struggled a lot to be around friends as I dealt all these things along with trauma from being sexually assaulted, while all my uni friends seemed to be having the time of their life. At this point I sought out some support and got counselling which was actually a really bad and unhelpful experience, making me a bit scared of any form of therapy.

And for the final chapter. October 2017 - At the start of my 2nd year of uni there was a  noticeable change, everything started to feel a bit more out of control with more mania. The best way I can think to explain it is that my blues became the mean reds, and for the first time I ceased to be high-functioning, and in all honesty, I felt that life was unlivable feeling like I was being carried away by my mind.

I went to the doctors after friends assured me that the university health service didn't turn people away, and I was lucky enough to have an amazing doctor that refused to let me scapegoat my pill for my mental health worsening, and calmly explained that the pill was actually putting a cap on the worse of it, and I had depression and anxiety. She talked me through my options, listened to me when I said I didn't want to do any kind of group therapy, assured me that I was worthy of treatment and support, and did everything she could help me when waitlists for mental health services can be months long.

The waitlist was the reason that she decided that medication might be the best option for me. 4 months wait for CBT, 2 months wait for eating disorder therapy, and they're lower than average wait times. At the place I was in, I was scared to wait that long, so after giving me a week to think about it, I was prescribed sertraline, a Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI), starting on a dose of 50mg.

The main reason why I wanted to write about antidepressants is because my experience has been totally and utterly average, neither amazing or awful. I think it's important to have people's experiences out there beyond fear-mongering articles or miracle testimonials. Anti-depressants remain a very taboo topic, causing casual conversations on the topic to be few and far between, and making it hard for people to find any advice when they're considering it as an option. And for that reason, I'm going to talk this through as fully as possible, which may be boring but I wish I could've found things like this during the week I was trying to make my decision.

Short-term

The doctors warn that the worse side-effects will come within the first couple of weeks, so it's important to have another appointment about a week after going on the medication in case there are any serious effects. I was lucky. While I had some really minor side-effects like a metallic taste in my mouth, slight drowsiness, tummy aches, I escaped any nausea which was my main fear, scared of triggering my phobia.

In the first week, I did struggle with drowsiness. I'm normally really energetic; up-early, no-napping. So when I was suddenly feeling the need to snooze in the middle of the day, that really got to me as I felt unproductive and lazy and awful. But my doctor assured me that this does stop and is just your body working harder to process the extra hormones etc, and eventually it did.

A lesson I quickly learnt; don't drink when you first go on medication. My doctor had said that I could still drink on sertraline but warned me that my tolerance might have gone down and it might make me drowsy. On Halloween, about 3 weeks in, I had a couple of glasses of wine and lost my mind. A really minor trigger majorly upset me and all the mania came back both mentally and physically as I felt nauseous and kept shivering. I realised that I was probably going to have to rebuild my tolerance and take it slow for a little while.

Struggling with alcohol really upset me as I worried it would leave me feeling isolated at uni again as I was suddenly back to either not going out or feeling the need to go home halfway through the night. I think something important to remember is that going on anti-depressants isn't like taking a paracetamol. It will have an effect on your body, and it is going to take a while to get used to it so you have to allow yourself that time. Once I accepted that and started going at my own pace, it got easier.

About 4/5 weeks in, I noticed a drop. I suddenly felt like all the effect had disappeared and the blues were getting deeper. After weeks of being more functioning, I was back to struggling to concentrate on work or go into uni, so I went back to the doctors and my dosage was raised to 100mg. Apparently, this is really common, some people just need the extra boost if those mean reds are stubborn, sometimes your body can get used to 50mg too quickly and easily, and the effects fade to zero.  I stayed on 100mg until about April/May 2018.

All in all, the short term was A-Okay. I didn't have any major side-effects and I quickly felt better. I think a couple of my blips came from refusing to accept that I needed to slow down a little and let my body chill. Listening to your body is so important, and I'm glad I've learnt that now.

Long-term

As the months went on I got used to alcohol again. I'm still a sleepy drunk, but I can easily last a full night out without becoming overwhelmingly upset or tired. I'd actually say that I can drink better than ever, with less anxiety as the symptoms of phobia dulled and became way easier to handle.

I'd say that's the main outcome, all the symptoms have dulled. I don't get as many physical anxiety symptoms anymore when I used to get bad headaches and nausea, panic attacks have pretty much stopped, and my sadness doesn't spiral into uncontrollable fits of mania anymore. In general, I feel stable and my doctor agrees. I was really worried about this dulling, with so many articles dubbing anti-depressants the enemy of creativity if it's muting your emotions. I didn't feel this, but I never could write during the mean reds. But my medication definitely hasn't muted my emotions, I remain my over-effected, over-emotional self without the sharp edges. It hasn't eradicated all the sadness, I've still had some really bad depression lows but they're definitely more handleable. I think that's the main thing, one pill isn't going to rid you of all negative emotions or anxious feelings, I think you remain depressed and/or anxious but life is liveable, you can function, and everything is lighter.

I think it has to come hand in hand with other treatment. I eventually got therapy, seeing an eating disorder specialist that does CBT. I really think without going on medication, therapy would have been lost on me. I think I needed to be stable before being forced to confront my issues, otherwise, it wouldn't have been productive. Now, I feel like I've made progress and I'm in the right place to be able to confront issues logically and actually processing them rather than spiralling.

Almost a year on I'm ready to start weaning off the medication, having already dropped down to 50mg again. I'm kinda scared, but days when I forget to take it (stupid mistake) I manage to get through the day just as easy, sometimes with a headache and the shakes. And again, I'm so lucky with my doctor who always keeps in contact with me, and assures me that there's support in place during and after I come off the medication.

To conclude my experience has been uneventful and average, but life-saving. I'm now functioning and happy. I get little to no physical symptoms, my low points aren't as crippling, my high points feel cosy and warm without burning or leaving me anxious, and my phobia has become manageable and no longer has a daily effect on my life. Definitely a success story, not without issues, however. But the medication can't take all the credit, and I don't think it ever should, my therapist and doctor deserve praise after praise for teaching me that depressed and anxious thoughts can be processed and passed over simply by pausing to think logically, who knew?!

I still have depression and anxiety, I still suffer from both of those things. But sertraline has helped me become stable and feel like life is liveable, and more than that, it's exciting. And I think experiences like mine, not instantly fixing or horrifically terrible, should be shared more, and we should talk about these little pills that so many of us are popping every morning, helping us live the day.

PS. If anyone wants to talk to me more about any of the issues raised in this post, feel free to DM me on Twitter or Instagram x

Shoes: ASOS (here)

It's hard to imagine the girl that got on the train and moved to London just over two months ago, the girl that wholeheartedly believed she couldn't do it and cried way more than she smiled. I don't know her anymore.

When I moved I was the saddest I've probably ever been. I felt shattered, reeling from unexpected, brutal heartbreak, and trying to process and prepare for a huge life event in the eye of a hurricane. I felt overwhelmed and all I could do was cry while everything was spiraling around me. My mum asked the question again and again in the days before I moved; 'are you actually going to be able to do this?' Well, I did.

In the midst of the pain, I didn't want to hear peoples words of encouragement. I shut my ears each time someone told me London would help or said I would come back changed so much for the better. And if I have one regret about my time in London, it would be spending so much of it so sad. I lingered in the loss for several weeks, going through all the motions, mourning, crying a lot, working through it all. And while I know it was necessary and healthy, and I know I still managed to experience so much and live fully in that time, it's annoying that I spent so long with tight lungs and a knot in my stomach.



But everyone was right. London did help me, and one of the things I'm most proud of is managing to adopt the city into my self-care routines. I allowed myself to shrug off the pressure to always go out and be busy, and let myself have down days. And London made it so easy for me, there's always something to do, but at the same time there are always places to hide. Hackney Wick became my favourite haven. So much quieter, people walking slowly, it was a rare area of calm not too far out of central. Taking my laptop, walking until I found a coffee shop and just sitting, quietly and alone, for hours gave me the space I needed to process things without isolation. Once I started to adopt the city, I stopped feeling like I was drowning. Once I stopped saying I was lonely each time I was alone, I stopped feeling it.

Top: ASOS (here) Bag: ASOS (here)

I was never alone anyway. I can say now that I'm so thankful for that heartbreak. Without that pre-move panic and pain, and my vulnerability forcing me to make connections, I wouldn't have met so many amazing people and I don't think I would've been as emotionally available to them. It's weird, I have best friends that I had never met 10 weeks ago.

To name one, Natasha. What would I have done without Natasha? When I was thrown into the deep end, Tasha was a lifeboat, forcing me to come out for a drink to celebrate my arrival, and forcing celebration on me my entire trip. Having a friendship that was instantly so accepting and open, was an absolute savior. Without becoming too cringe, I'll never be able to thank Natasha enough for being by my side, and I'll always remember the summer of kinship as we were both figuring it all out as we went along.

The women I met saved me, they reminded me that I was doing well, took me out, stayed in with me, and made me have fun when I still left so smothered. I was the most social I've ever been and I'm so in love with everyone I met, and so inspired by them.  Alice, Char, Holly, Emily, Amy, Tina, Ellie, Evie, Rufaro, all the girls at work, my fellow interns, and all my friends that came to visit. I was never alone, and I feel more loved and supported than ever. Cities can be daunting, you suddenly become so small in comparison and it's easy to feel alone in the crowd, but when you see it as an opportunity, it becomes one.


As unrealistic as it seems at the time and no matter how much you hate people for saying it, you have to wait out for healing and you'll wake up okay one day. I don't remember exactly when it was, but by mid-august, I was waking up happy. I was aware that I was having fun, able to celebrate myself, breathe easy. When my best friend Sophie came to visit, I felt changed and she noticed it. I was excited about life and the future, I wanted to go out and do everything and see everything, I desperately wanted to make up for lost time. I realised when I was showing her around that I felt assured, I knew my way around, I could navigate the tube without a second of worry, the word anxiety didn't cross my mind. But even more than that, I felt confident in myself. Obviously working in fashion is such an echo-chamber, you see the most out-there outfits day today so nothing is too much or shocking. But now, I'll go out in whatever I want without a second thought. My favourite things to wear have become some of my boldest pieces; my snake print coat, my pink and red clash top, my denim boilersuit etc. My outfits of black and navy have ended up further and further back in my wardrobe, my trainers have been swapped out for mules and heeled boots. I stopped caring about overdressing, and starting indulging in my love for dressing and curating a look and a character. I bought bigger earrings, colourful eyeshadows, each thing getting louder and louder. Natasha pointed out last week that my wardrobe has become a testament to my growth, I'm 10x the person I was when I arrived and I've got outfits to prove it.

The anonymity of London does so much good. You can wear what you want, go to a club and dance as ridiculously as you want, singing with your friends walking down the street at 2pm, sit alone in a cafe, mess about on the tube, no one cares. The city is so busy and so shocking that the freedom is endless, no judgment and hardly even a second look. I loved that, and it's an attitude and a confidence I'm excited to carry forward, even if I'm leaving behind my dance partners.

And the city lets you have fun, like so much fun. There's always something to do and I tried to do it all. Shows, gigs, clubs, parks, museums, galleries, shops, parties, press events, cool neighborhoods, restaurants, bars. I tried to do as much as I could, and I only missed two things off my list; bikes in Hyde Park and seeing a show at The Globe. But I have no regrets, it's just an excuse to go back. And I'm going to work so hard to go back.

Dress : ASOS (shop here)

When I signed off my last post with; "especially when you left a piece of your heart there", I wasn't expecting it to ring so true merely two days later.

I'm a huge believer in positive affirmations and the effect your mindset can have, but when the world is throwing hurdle after hurdle your way, or when you're hurting so deeply, it seems impossible. I'll be honest with you, I haven't been taking my own advice, the last couple of days I've achieved little more than getting stress skin and red eyes, hardly managing to move from my pit of a bed. But I'm slowly processing and moving forward, recognising the power of friends and family, and letting their words soak in and build me up. In a week I move to London for a huge, amazing internship at ASOS. I have a week to regain confidence, prepare myself, and soak up as much healing as possible; and I'm hoping repeating affirmation after affirmation will help.

I wanted to do something here, both for me to look back on and for anyone else. Even if they seem foolish now, like putting a plaster on a broken dam, I know eventually I'll acknowledge how much positive words helped.

I got me. I’m in my own corner. I am enough. I can take on any challenge that is coming.

I am good enough. I believe in myself. I am not worthless. I will heal from this.

My peace is mine, I won’t give anyone the power to take it away from me.

Life is short. I will not allow the anger to disrupt the happiness I’m supposed to have.

I’m going after my dreams because I love them and this is my dream, not because I’m trying to prove something to someone else.

I’m going to feed my mind better thoughts.

I am doing what I love to do.

I am living, a beautiful, magical life.

Focus on what matters.

Stop doubting yourself, you are on your side.

Better things are coming, I am ready.

Be what you need.

Celebrate every tiny victory.

You are making progress.

I will be okay, even before everything falls into place.

I am exactly where I need to be right now, and I have everything I need.

I am becoming the best version of myself.

I love today.

I’m thankful for opportunities to grow and change.

All things are working for the good in my life.

I live my life for me.

The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.

I can.

I deserve better. I deserve the best.

Today is my day.

Last night I saw Patti Smith live in Manchester. I stood in a crowd beside hundred of others, and I saw my idol, my inspiration, sing, talk, dance, and honestly, for the majority of the time, I stood not knowing what to do with myself, just staring up at this mythical figure in complete awe, and shock.

I bought Just Kids for £3 when I was around 14/15, a friend bought me a CD of Horses when I was 17, after I'd fallen completely in love with her writing and he thought it was time to introduce me to her music. Since then, Patti Smith has become the figure I hold closest to my heart. I've read Just Kids five times; writing an essay on it got me into university and I'm about to begin a dissertation on it. I would run into a burning building to save my signed first edition copy, I hold so much of her advice and her words as gospel, and I know I wouldn't be the person I am, with my passion for literature and the concept of an artist, without stumbling across her book. I've been captivated and inspired since the beginning, and that's why part of me was anxious for last night.

They say you should never meet your idol. The potential for disappointment is so high when you think so much of someone you've not only never met, but really have no idea of what their true personality is. You can have such a strong sense of the person, then see it shattered within seconds, even by the slightest of details like them not playing your favourite song, finishing too early, or not behaving quite like your brain had imagined they would. As I sat on the grass outside waiting to go in, this realisation hit me. I was so scared that my beloved image of Patti as this incredibly free, wise, vasty intelligent and political, strong woman would be ruined by a minor detail. I had no idea how I would even react; cry and just dance and clap like at any other gig. My boyfriend asked what I'd do if I met her and I couldn't answer, I couldn't think of a single understandable sentence I would say to her, and I had no expectations of her, only love and admiration for her work. So I decided to take that as a good thing, and let it be enough as we walked in.

When I was asked how the gig was, all I could say was perfect.

From the second she walked on, you could feel her presence. Patti Smith is as captivating on stage as her writing is on the page, or as she sounds in interviews. She switched seamlessly between funny anecdotes about her life, her toothbrush, her tv preferences, and insightful political messages and beautiful recollections. At 71, she dances around the stage, smiling to herself, throwing the mic stand around, spitting and screaming. And then she calms, says thank you and giggles, she stands on the edge of the stage and waves like shes greeting a friend, and her face fills with love and pride as her son plays a guitar solo in Because The Night, a song about her late husband, Fred. She was the person from her work, in equal parts bold, strong, punk, and gentle, wise, intellectual, and she clearly loves her art with her whole heart as she shared the joy we all felt in the crowd.

And my reaction? I cried and danced. From the corner of his eye, my boyfriend caught me wide eyed and weeping as Patti dedicated a song to Sam Shepard, and again the second she mentioned Fred, and again as she left the stage. Happy tears, as I was seeing my idol there in the flesh, seeing a gig I never thought I'd get to see and sharing it with the man I love, who draped an arm over my shoulder, sang along with me, and danced during the chorus of Gloria. I was so happy, I left with a full heart with a growing place in it for Patti.

Dress - ASOS Bag - New Look Shoes - Primark

Dress - Boohoo Bag - Charity shop Shoes - Primark

This past week I was told I have "the perfect hourglass figure" and I didn't know how to feel about it.

It's the end of the year which means exams and revision, yes, but it also means socials and balls. After opting out last year, this year I attended my subject ball, as well as our burlesque glitter ball. Anyone that knows me knows that I love an excuse to dress up. Getting ready for an is always my favourite part; I love the process, I love fully indulging in the fantasy and drama of formal wear (or any kind of wear really), I love allowing myself to take 2 hours if I want, and go all out to make myself feel incredible. And getting ready for these events was no different; I spent weeks finding outfits, dabbled in fake tan for the first time, did face masks, did my nails, and sat there with my ritual of gin and RuPaul's Drag Race. Everything went to plan, but gradually over the past year, the process has felt less and less calming and more confrontational. I was nervous of the photos and seeing myself stood next to others, who I would never judge as harshly as I judged myself. I loved my dresses and I'd been excited to wear them for weeks, but I was scared for the confrontation of seeing my body in them, and the realisation that this is my adult body, this is what I look like.




I've said it to my friends a lot recently, but I wish 'thicc' had been a thing when I was younger. Growing up in the 2000s, the only body shape that was celebrated in pop culture was thin, athletic, slender and straight up and down. Think of women like Paris Hilton, Kate Moss, the Olsen twins, all the young disney stars. All beautiful women, but all the same shape; a shape that was never going to be me. And even in my family, my mum and sister both fit this mould of tall and slender, so when I suddenly got these hips I was confused.

Before the time of the Kardashians and Chrissy Tiegan, there was really just no representation of curves beyond 'plus sized'. So when suddenly my size 10/12 hips didn't match my little size 8 top, the only associations and labels I could attach to my wide hips was fat. I felt I was big and needed to lose weight. And obviously I know now that no matter how much weight I lost, these hips won't go anywhere. But with no role models, little early teens me didn't get that. I then grew into the indie fashion fangirl I am today, loving women like Alexa Chung, Francoise Hardy, Jane Birkin; beautiful women with bodies vastly different to mine. And so I grew up with the niggling, lingering sadness that I will never look like my icons, a thought that translated, somewhere along the line, into I'll never look right or my body will never be skinny or normalised or would never meet the standard. I always wanted to by straight up and down, lanky and twiggy. But instead I'm an hourglass.

I envy the younger generation that are coming of age in this time of wider representation. Although not without their downfalls and issues, I wish I had grown up with the Kardashians, with Ashley Graham, Rihanna, with women like Adele and Lorde and all the women doing amazing things and coming in all kinds of shapes and sizes. I wish I'd always known that is beautiful, and all shapes are amazing and glorious and equal, and shape and size are actually different things.

Because I'm only know figuring that out, and learning to not hear 'hourglass' as a negative or a statement on how my body is different and therefore inferior.  Only now at 20 am I starting to accept that my body was not made straight up and down, and that is beautiful. I'm only just starting to accept that this body is just as good and worthy as any others, and that my hips look amazing in a body con dress and maybe some other things just don't flatter me or do me justice. When my friend called me hourglass I was confronted with the realisation that that's exactly what I am! I'm curvy, with hips and a bum and thighs, all topped off with small boobs. I'm a wobbly line rather than a straight like from hips to waist, but I know deep down I have a lot of love for that, I'm just working on fighting off all the clouds first, all the social pressures and preconceptions and cruel labels I placed on myself.

I looked good. I had an amazing couple of nights dressing up and celebrating with my friends who I love and who love me, who I compliment wholeheartedly and regularly, and who compliment me back. And in the end, I love the photos, and each time I look at them I feel less confronted and more comfortable with the fact that this is my body, my adult body in my twenties. It's not what I wanted at age 13, but it's glorious and I'm learning to love it and accept what it's become.