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.

Location : Bowes Museum @ the Catwalking: Fashion Through The Lens Of Chris Moore exhibition

Gone are the days when a love of aesthetics meant a lack of intellect. Our fashion bibles tackle social and political questions, we like our clothes with a touch of art history and our garments made with ethics. It's amazing, living in a time when fashion comes hand in hand with thought. But I think we still only see that from the inside, while others doubt the ability to do both looks and books.

Within the circle, we see it all. Tabloid art history giving us our references, Manrepeller telling it to us straight, Dazed celebrating queer culture. Our favourite bloggers refuse to bullshit us with faux perfect lives and refuse to accept any falsities calling out over-editing, exploitation and inequality as and when we see it.  We see fashion living and breathing and thinking, intersecting history and sociology and psychology and politics and art and literature and more, whispering secrets from present and past to learn about humanity. But from the outside, it's easy to just see pretty pictures of the Hadid's and Kardashian's without seeing their (somewhat questionable) advocacy and charity work.

The world still treats fashion as dumb. Fashion degrees are still considered as 'easy' options in comparison to academia, and fashion jobs are still seen as positions won through socialising and being pretty, rather than careers hard fought for and worked hard for. While I know I put in work to get my internship and all throughout my time there, I still feel the friction of eyeballs rolling each time I talk about social media as a job. It's not taken seriously, and I'm not either as a result. The intellects raise eyebrows at my fashion path, and the fashion kids are all too often shocked at my academic path.

Me? I feel more than comfortable doing both. Together and separate.

Let me talk you through a day in the life: Wake up. Spend 2 hours getting ready, sitting in front of my mirror singing along to musical theatre soundtracks, tracing hands over clothes till I pull together a look with full character reference and development. Go to uni and debate literature, feminism and theory. Get a coffee with friends and debate pop culture. Write an article, a blog post, work on my book. Watch youtubers show me the clothes they bought.

This isn't me switching between two different sides of me; I don't turn off one part when I start talking about books or leopard print boots. And my leopard print boots shouldn’t come into question when I start talking theory or feminism, or anything. A good outfit neither defines nor undermines intelligence. I serve looks and books, I use books to think up my looks, and I use the looks described in books in my analysis. Did you get that?



For me, I’ve always loved fashion for the thought in it, the lineage and legacies hidden accidentally in outfits. As a writer, I love character building, spending time picking out clothes and considering the historical and cultural references behind my choices. I like spending time researching time periods, the rights of women and the things they wore as protest or submission, then walking into a room with just a little bit of their power folded into my turtleneck. I like paying homage to people, places, periods. And I can do that through my clothes and the thought I put into it, or the person I step into when I slip on my shoes. I like dressing up to go to museums, and I like what I learn when I’m there. Looks and books, together.

Those that argue that fashion is shallow and thoughtless don't think about it enough, don't look close enough. They don't give us the credit we deserve, sending models down runways wearing history lessons, art lessons, political agendas, using both sides of our brain just to dress in the morning.

Fashion always has been intellectual, it's the world's favourite form of social and cultural signalling, protest, and empowerment. Each thing in your wardrobe is born from knowledge and history, your Topshop jeans are the youngest of a long family history if you think and listen closely. Within the circle, we're considering this. Treating all our purchases as sources to say who we are and what we stand for, to consider cultural significance, using our money as our vote to support or not support what a brand or a garment represents. We're academics, really. Our specialism is just what we put on our bodies, our cited texts the newest Guardian fashion article, Madonna music videos, biblical Madonna's and Instagram.

Maybe those still considering fashion stupid just aren't quite clever enough to get the references??

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.