Hot girl, cold city!

It is freezing in London at the moment —feels like minus one on the weather app freezing. We had our first light blanket of snow on Tuesday, which though short-lived, did actually settle for a fleeting moment.

I made a good choice today layering a floral printed cami-top over my oatmeal-white heat-tech thermal long-sleeve, under my hoodie. That’s some serious Y2K layering! My reflection felt akin to a 2007 Hollister advert! Cami’s and long sleeves really take me back to simpler times. 

As if that wasn’t enough, I’ve also left the house with my miniature hot water bottle tucked snugly into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie— perfectly placed over my abdomen, which is still cramping despite the fact I’m two days back on the pill. I really don’t want to have to go to my GP for “ladies’ issues,” as I know I’ll either be dismissed outright or, worst-case scenario, have my benzo script quietly scrutinised by the inevitable random temp doctor I’m assigned— who also cannot speak a lick of English. I always seem to be seen by doctors who simply cannot (or will not) understand what I’m expressing. I’m not being spiteful by saying this. The sheer number of inaccuracies in my NHS notes can only be explained by a language barrier. 

In intimidating situations —like GP visits— I have the fatal flaw of being an agreeable people-pleaser, I’m truly awful at advocating for myself. If I don’t understand a doctor, I’m far more likely to nod and smile than ask them to repeat themselves for the third time. On top of that, I carry a deep distrust of the NHS for very real, very negligent adjacent reasons, which I don’t wish to divulge right now, as I don’t fancy opening my Pandoras box of medical trauma today. 

There isn’t much that can be done for “ladies’ issues” anyway. I’m already on the pill. Antidepressants made my entire clitoris numb and incapable of orgasm, and benzos are incredible— but God knows I’m not about to arouse suspicion by asking for an increased dose.

I sip my matcha thoughtfully, resisting the urge to nibble the paper straw, whose integrity is already beginning to fail. You can’t really savour a drink through a paper straw without consequence; eventually it becomes so soggy it seals itself shut, a quiet act of sabotage. 

My January depression has arrived, with bells on! Alarm bells! I spent a good three hours last night weeping into my pillow. At 7:30pm, I clumsily broke a 10mg Ambien in half and while it didn’t erase all of my anxiety, it made me severely happy. So happy, in fact, that I managed to stay up until midnight— absolutely buzzing. Proud of myself for saving £500 on my gargantuan “Nobody’s Child” clothing order and successfully snapping up some vintage Barbie’s on eBay with my cheeky, low-ball offer the night prior. I didn’t mean to spend £400 in a day, I had actually forgotten about the offer I’d submitted for those Barbie’s… But who fucking cares! Because on Ambien these chaotic choices all felt like marvellous victories! To add insult to injury, last night I also spent another 100 on two tickets to see an actress and author I admire in conversation later this year! That’s hot!! I look forward to writing about that experience when it happens, but until then I best keep quiet as not to endanger myself. I’m paranoid enough as it is, I practically only ever uber these days as I fear being stalked!

I know I probably sound like a feckless, self-indulgent bitch, spending money with such frivolity. But I am, for once, actually spending my own, hard earned money from WORKING. I even worked over Christmas!! So leave me alone!!! And please don’t be jealous, I may be insanely hot and financially stable but I am so periodically suicidal and mentally deranged that even with these social advances I still dream about dragging a precision craft blade through my soft perfumed skin at every minor inconvenience and drowning myself in a rose petal laden, scented bubble bath every couple weeks.

I digress,

I don’t know why it is (I’ve written about it before), but I get the most incredible adverse reactions from Ambien. Instead of sending me to sleep, it fills me with euphoria and trips me out just enough to feel like I’m wrapped in a warm chemical cuddle where everything is entertaining. I feel the tension drain from my body, like water from a bath-tub. It’s cathartic. It’s beautiful… —Then I fall asleep.

Half is all I need, too. Despite how much I write about prescription drugs, I don’t have any tolerances— and the intensity of my reactions to small doses proves that. Most psychiatrists will tell you that pharmaceutical drugs work best at the lowest possible, functional dose. That’s why any responsible doctor will titrate slowly until you find the sweet spot.

I like to think of myself as a little bit of a self taught prescription drug expert. I mourn the life I could have lived had I spent my school days actually in school, instead of burdened by debilitating health conditions and self-medicating with whatever I could get my manicured hands on. Otherwise I might have attended more science classes and realised my yearning to work in the pharmaceutical industry sooner. I would love to be a chemist— to understand and synthesise new drugs, especially for mental health and especiallyyy prioritising clinical trials for women and women’s mental health.

It’s probably too late to go back and start again. I wish I’d spent more time cracking book spines than being cracked out, laying on my spine! Back then, I truly believed with all the delusion of a cokehead that I was going to become Insta-famous. I was already blowing up on other platforms, making enough money to buy Prada handbags and all the illicit goodies I could dream of. I genuinely thought I could make a living being a hot internet girl— and for a moment, I really did. But that kind of life is wildly unstable and you don’t realise how much of yourself you’re sacrificing to the wrong people until it’s already gone. I don’t regret that chapter, but it came with some horrific repercussions I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time —because I was far too busy maintaining my relations with substances on a first name basis! Obvi! 

When you’re a teenager, you think you know everythingggg. Then you reach your mid-twenties and feel more like a deer in headlights than ever. When you’re a child, that’s your alibi. When you’re in your mid-twenties, there are no excuses— even when there are, no one outside your inner circle really cares. Not unless you martyr yourself, and I’m trying hard to resist those dark temptations. Instead, I hope that writing about my experiences brings people a sense of familiarity and comfort.

It’s no secret, we’re only shown the very best bits of life on social media —much of it fabricated— yet we still compare ourselves and feel as though we’re coming up short to the 19 year old billionaire with a twelve bedroom mansion in hidden hills.

I wrote a two-page list of New Year’s resolutions in the back of my new paper diary, which I’m going to try to write a page a day in for as long as I can remember. Usually, I make it to about mid-May before I fall off the wagon and stop recording. But I’m really going to try this year, because I love picking up old diaries and reading the simple but revealing entries from years past.

My memory is horrific and I’m genuinely concerned by how much I forget without even realising it. Having a pen-on-paper record feels grounding. My list of New Year’s rezzys includes fairly basic —but still challenging— goals like remaining employed and getting my roots done every three months, alongside more complex dreams and wishes that feel too personal to share right now— plus I don’t wanna jinx it! But manifestation has to start somewhere, where better than on paper! 

I only ever want the best for myself.

Do you guys have any New Year’s resolutions you’d like to share in the comments? I like to think we can all be inspired by each other’s strength in simply trying.

I remember Jennifer Tilly’s character —a head in a crystal ball— in The Haunted Mansion saying that “the only true failure is when you stop trying”. I loved her voice so much as a child (and adult) that her quote lodged itself in my brain. 

Never stop trying :)