Did I overreact?

So I’m quite a private person, and don’t like to share intimate details with my closest friends, let alone with strangers on the internet. However, sometimes I believe it’s important to talk about the things which affect us as a person, not just because it acts as a kind of catharsis, but also because more often than not there are other people out there who can sympathise in some way. So I write this not as a cry for attention or help, not because I’m angry or upset, not because I want any sort of resolution; just because I believe I deserve to be able to convey my deepest emotions in a world where we are constantly taught to suppress them.

Six months ago, I was ‘not’ sexually assaulted. This phrase sounds like a paradox, and I in no way mean to cause offence or infantilise the serious issue of sexual assault, but what I mean is that although I wouldn’t describe my experience as sexual assault, it was unconsentual. And it was horrible. In the 21st century there is such an emphasis on consent and safety, which I believe is absolutely amazing, but I read an article recently about unconsentual sex recently which really got me thinking. The writer was talking about a sort of ‘grey’ area, where although she didn’t feel her experience was severe enough to constitute as rape, it was a violation of her sexual rights. As a feminist this is a difficult concept to except: if a woman says no, and isn’t respected, then surely she was raped? However, having been in a similar situation myself, I sort of understand where she was coming from… It seems so difficult to even mention the word consent nowadays without people immediately panicking, but what happens when what we experience is in that grey area? Am I still allowed to feel violated, am I allowed to talk about it, yet not pass blame?

Let me put this into context: last year I was sort of seeing somebody (by that I mean Netflix, weed and make out sessions… how romantic). I’ve suffered from a long history of mental health issues, and consequently struggle to trust people or accept intimacy, so the idea of a ‘boyfriend’ absolutely terrifies me, and although I liked him, I didn’t like the fact that seeing him meant breaking down the wall I build to protect my vulnerability. I’d only known him for a couple of weeks, we’d kissed and I’d gone down in him, yet I knew i wasn’t ready to sleep with him – I guess I hoped he’d respect that… unfortunately I found myself as his house one night, really drunk after a party, in his bed… Shit. 

What happened next still upsets me, yet I don’t know whether I’m overreacting? We were kissing, I was passing out, I felt the cold of his hands all over me, I felt my clothes coming off and lethargic waves of alcohol pull me under. I didn’t say I didn’t want him to touch me, I didn’t pull away, but I guess I just assumed he’d stop. Next thing I know he’s trying to sleep with me, I don’t want this, I feel the panic rise up and I pull away, battling the drunken haze I’m under. I don’t think anything happened, I think I got away in time, but I still can’t get rid of that feeling of helplessness as I felt him disrespect me.

Yet I know I wasn’t raped, I don’t even count it as sexual assault. My friends have all been so supportive and comforting, telling me what he did was wrong, and although I believe them, I still feel like I overreacted- why can’t I put the blame on anybody but myself? I was drunk, he was sober. I was uncertain, he was sure. I thought he understood, he didn’t. Yet I led him on, I went to his house and let him undress me… do I have any right to call it sexual assault? Now all I’m left with is the memories he gave me, and this uncertainty over my right to feel ashamed, my right to feel hurt. Even if I did overreact, it doesn’t change the experience, and it certainly doesn’t take it away, and for that I am angry, I am hurt, and I am ashamed.

I’m sorry for burdening you with this confusing, emotional-train wreck of a story, but I honest don’t know how else to address it. Next post I’ll be back to my usual whitty self, but for now I’ll just try and learn to forgive myself, and the people who’ve hurt me…


Cigarettes and self destruction 

Do you ever feel like life becomes so heavy sometimes? Like the weight of the world is pressing down on your shoulders like a pair of 70s diamanté shoulder pads? I’m writing this whilst smoking out of my bedroom window, surrounded by the fumes which slowly pollute my body, and it’s all I can do to bring myself one step closer to corruption. I crave self destruction, as if it will mask the emptiness of my life, give me some valid excuse for failing… Or maybe I just like the taste of the smoke in my mouth, as it mists my vision and transports me to an Audrey Hepburn film where the heroine is glamorously smoking and oozing sex appeal? In no way am I justifying such a disguising habit, but after years of hating myself and hurting myself, sometimes long term pollution is a slightly gentler option.

I promised myself this blog wouldn’t turn into some quasi teenage rant forum, where I erupt my insecurities to avoid truly confronting them, but on nights like tonight you can’t stop the mind from questioning everything, and solving nothing. Spotify is playing a soothing mix of acoustic love songs, the wind is whistling in the trees outside, and I feel in a strange, empty state of calm, not happy, yet content with the sadness engulfing me.

 For years I’ve battled with the desire to self destruct, it’s an innate response bred from our overly-pressuring society where thin in a goal, and beauty comes in the form of a bottle of foundation. Yet lately I’m coming to accept the fact that my face will never resemble a flawless ‘dewy’ pillow, no matter what maybelline may tell me, and the fact that the reason I don’t have lips like Kylie Jenner is simple: they aren’t real. In fact I no longer blame my need for inner corruption on society at all, even though it’s definitely the main cause of teenage angst, and instead have simply accepted it as a part of me, like my crooked teeth and overbearing reliance on sarcasm. So I smoke, and I drink too much, and maybe I go days without showering, but maybe that’s ok, because it’s how I get through the day.

I was going to post this earlier, with a soppy ending regarding how it’s ok not to be perfect, but then I remembered one of the golden rules of this blog: no inspirational bullshit! Sometimes it ok to tell the truth, without feeling a need to justify it or purify it, sometimes it’s just a fuzzy ball of mess which cannot be categorised, a rubber band tangle which is meant to be: a beautiful mess.  In life you can’t always erase the shitty parts of your personality to please others and fit in with society, sometimes accepting them is the only option. So I’m going to list all of my bad habits and traits, and instead of trying to change them overnight, I’m going to try accepting them first:

1. I smoke and I drink and I swear, and I don’t really care…

2. I push people away out of fear of getting hurt, so end up missing out on friendships and relationships which could have been.

3. I’m overly sarcastic, and can often come across as rude or dismissive, but am really just protecting myself from serious emotion.

4. I set such high standards for myself that I can never meet, and punish myself for failing.

5. I’m not that sympathetic or patient with other people’s issue, if they’re my friend then obviously I’m supportive, but if I don’t like you then sorrryy…

6. “I have really bad breath in the morning”, creds ‘Mean Girls’!

7. I make rubbish jokes like the one above to stop myself getting too serious.

Woah that got deep, and writing it I was desperately thinking of some way of lightening the mood, another one of my many faults. But actually, this is my stupid blog and I can post what I want, so let the cringe-worthy lists continue 😂.

The point is (I think there’s a point to this!) sometimes the best parts of you are the things you hate, so write a list of all your flaws, and I garuntee they aren’t all as negative as you think.

I’m going now, partly because I’m rambling, partly because I do actually have a life, and kinda want to keep it that way… Stay amazing, and have a cigarette on me, because we can’t always be perfect!

The honest truth

I have an eating disorder. I hate food, but I love it. How sick is that?

Yes, it is sick, truly. Eating disorders are an actual medical condition, not a fad or a phase, not a cry for attention, not some pathetic way of feeling in control. It’s real, it’s  visible, and it’s shit. This blog isn’t meant to be full of teenage angst about how depressing my life is and how much I want to be normal, because honestly, normal sounds pretty fucking boring to me. I actually lead a way normal life (quoting ‘Clueless’), and my anorexia is only a tiny spec in the lilt-covered carpet that is me: it should be insignificant, yet it feels pretty fucking massive to me.

When people think of an anorexic, they imagine some waffer-thin girl, listening to Emo ‘My Chemical Romance’ songs and drinking black coffee, whilst scrolling through depressing tumblr accounts: the truth is far less glamorous and way more boring. I go to school, I have friends, I eat like all humans do, I even socialise occasionally when I’ve finished scrolling through the whole of ‘Sarcasm only’s’ imstagram account. From the outside most people don’t even know I’m messed up, and that’s how I want it to stay. But sometimes I need an escape, a place to talk about the mess that is my life without the judgement of our society: that’s where you come in…

To be honest, I’m not actually expecting anybody to read this, and based on how pathetic I  must sound I’m sort of hoping nobody does! This will probably become one of the millions of failed blog posts, that teenage girls create on a whim to add some meaning to their lives. In which case, I will revel in my basic nature, because maybe that’s what normal really is. I’ll grow up to become some failing writer living in a bedsit with my ten cats, clinging on the hope that somebody, somewhere, someday will be interested in what I have to say… But I guess until that glorious day I’ll keep in typing, because you never know, that somebody may actually be out there.

I’ll start by laying out a few ground rules, so that all of you hoping for some depressing/inspiring read will kindly know where to fuck off:

1. I’m never going to tell you how to dress, or how to style your hair and put on your makeup. The world is full of demoralising beauty ‘inspirations’ that really just make all of us semi-ugly people want to jump off a bridge, and I don’t plan on adding to that.

2. If you’re hoping for some clean eating tips or slips of my avocado salad, just no.

3. I’m writing this for myself, not for you, so sorry if I swear or am inappropriate (like always) but come on, this is 2017, and women didn’t burn their bra’s just so I could be censored from saying ‘fuck it’ occasionally!

4. I’ll try and be a positive burst of sunshine all the time, but let’s face it, life can be shit and even us bloggers (yes I am validating myself with that title) are entitled to complain now and again.

5. I am actually a semi-decent person, and if anybody is affected by any issues raised I will try and be here to help, as long as it fits in with my hectic Netflix schedule…

6. And finally, I’m new to this whole ‘blogging’ scene, so be nice people. Nobody likes a troll who has nothing better to do with their life than criticise others, so if your crippling low self esteem makes you hate the world, go and watch some porn or something, but don’t take it out on me!

And that’s about it… no inspirational life lesson, no self absorbed rant, just a girl trying to pass the time whilst waiting for life to become less crap. Im going to go now, I’ve got many hours of research on ‘indie’ blog topics to do, and if that fails I’ll just resort to eating the pain away 🙂🙂🙂