When a book changes your life: …My Grecian escapades at a Cat Marnell writing retreat. Part 1

I’m unusually happy today—which feels kind of surreal considering I literally just got my period. Normally, PMS week is nothing short of hell. If you’re familiar with my menstrual cycle, which I naturally just assume you are by now if you’re a regular reader of my blog. LOL. Then I’m certain you could in fact recite back to me that: the lead-up to my period is hell, a hormonal hazard zone. Classic me: crying in Selfridges. Panic attacks induced by iced-almond-matcha lattes. Mental breakdowns in Ubers while crossing London county lines on my way home from an event, early. — Though in London, your nostrils basically double as a satnav, the scent of weed equals zone two gentrification, while the scent of crack implicates you’ve landed in a neighbourhood stuck in it’s rough prologue…

As mentioned prior, about a month ago I started taking these new PMS-targeted multivitamins, “Ditto”: dreamy capsules with the same whimsy as a snow globe! Filled with rose gold beads suspended in golden oil, like they were made during a NASA X Glossier colab. I’m not saying they’ve totally transformed me yet—it’s only been a month—but I feel a sparkle of optimism! Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not gunna be at war with my body every 28 days.

I’ve just returned from my week abroad — a trip I’ve been purposely cryptic about until now. Why? Because I needed to actually live it first. I’ll be unpacking the adventure in my upcoming blog posts, and no, it won’t be some snoozy itinerary. This is a diet pussy escapade, a flirtation with endless fun and fear.

Expressions like “feel the fear and do it anyway” and “do one thing a day that scares you” became my frequent, obsessive mantras in preparation for this trip. I can’t tell you how proud of myself I am for leaving my comfort zone. I’m not a confident solo traveller and I’m a bit of a control freak, to say the least. So going on a retreat —with strangers, was never something I imagined myself doing, until now…

The days leading up to my flight out of London were chaos incarnate: I was desperately trying not to take all my prescription benzos at once, because I needed to ration them for the flight and trip itself. It was gnarly. Nothing went to plan. Including my hair.

Yes—the hair saga. I was supposed to get my roots done, which you’ll remember from a previous post, where I wrote about this in urgent detail. However, when I got to the salon disaster struck. Apparently, the what I thought was “lemon juice” lightening spray I’d been using (shoutout to John Frieda, you weapon) was essentially watered-down bleach! It had been quietly dissolving my hair, use after use. Which my hair dresser picked up in as soon as I was sat in the salon chair…

During the cautionary strand test she insisted we perform, the chunk of my hair literally melted like over-chewed-at-a-rave-bubblegum. I was told I couldn’t bleach my hair, not until it recovers, which in a worst-case-scenario could take up to a year apparently (!!!) Unable to hold back my emotion and communicate like a sensible adult, I burst into tears in the salon for a decent ten minutes, before being ever so kindly offered a free hair cut in light of this tragic news. I felt like I suffered some sort of internal collapse. For me, my hair—my blonde—isn’t just an aesthetic. It’s an identity. It’s my dumb blonde culture.

When I was told I’d have to live in root purgatory for god knows how long I spiraled hard, taking this as a bad omen: "If I can’t get my roots done, I can’t go on holiday, the plane is going to crash and I’m going to die." That’s just a mild example how my brain works. Paranoid catastrophication is a worn out neurosis of mine.

Speaking of insanity—I'm back on Seroquel, 25mg, as of last night.

The weeks before my trip completely wrecked my body clock almost as though I had already been exposed to time zone shifts abroad! Anxiety dreams about the plane exploding final destination style, or my luggage getting lost in transit were waking me around 4 to 6am every morning. I felt jet laggy before I’d even left the country! This however did work in my favour once I arrived in Greece. As I’d become so accustomed to an early rise, that waking up early to follow a schedule was a piece of cake! I’m one of those girls who needs (at least) two hours to get ready, or as I like to call it: all dolled up, in the morning. Fitting my regime in before a busy day can be stressful, especially if you’re inclined to sleep in late.

But the funny thing is, last night, despite taking the Godamn heavy-duty-sedating-Seroquel I still woke up at 6am! It was brutal. Being awake on Ambien? Ethereal and dreamlike. But Seroquel? That’s like waking up inside a jar of thick manuka honey! My legs didn’t work. My eyes couldn’t open properly. Walking two metres to my ensuite to pee felt like performing a tightrope act in front of a silent crowd waiting for me to buckle and fall…

But let’s talk about what I know you’re all dying to hear about …My trip abroad! Because now that I’ve actually done it I can finally say it out loud:

I was on a CAT MARNELL writing retreat. In Greece.

The first time I read “How to Murder Your Life” was on a flight to New York City, a gift for my sweet 16th birthday! I spotted Cat’s book at Heathrow airport in Waterstones, the cover seducing me— an orange pill bottle… The word “MURDER,” pink. It was love at first sight. I knew immediately: this is my book.

I was lorazepam drooling with literary hunger while reading lines in my Virgin premium economy seat. In and out of consciousness, yet completely transfixed. I spent that entire trip glued to the book. It felt so meant to be, reading a book predominantly set in NYC, while passing by places name dropped throughout the pages.

Cat wrote in a way I hadn’t come across before, perhaps my own fault for neglecting an interest in memoirs up until this point… Sure I had my nose in lines, I just preferred powder over paperback.

Cat writes as she talks, with glamorous dialogue, drug and beauty references name-dropped deliciously like rainbow sprinkles on a cupcake, delightful and digestible. She sounded like me! Darkly humorous: treating trifles like trials and trials like trifles. A love letter to satire, while lacing gravity with irony. Meeting solemnity with an Anna Nicole style wink!

Not to sound dramatic, but as a drug-addled-anorexic 16-year-old hottie that book felt of biblical importance to me. Inspired by Cat’s path in many aspects, the most wholesome being my choice to study fashion journalism at university! …Despite later dropping out, but that’s just a technicality… On the other hand, I committed really hard to the drugs and breakdowns and rebellion… And later, the recovery!

This is just part 1 of many, subscribe for FREE to find out for more!!

PHOTOS FROM THE TRIP OBVI