On Hope, On Perfection, On Who-The-Heck-Am-I?


It hits me in the stomach, a gnawing, empty feeling. I’m hungry, and my muscles scream at me for nourishment. Eating means moving, eating means opening fridges and cupboards and looking for sustenance and right now I’m far more content to sit here feeling my body responding.

I’m used to passion in my life, over-whelming, heart-wrenching, suicidal, passion. Yet, currently I’m living in a strange comfort, where I need not worry about my relationships, my health, my finances, because there is a level of security I’ve never had before.

Where I am now is a place I have spent years running from. This security feels so final, as if everyday for the rest of my life could be this secure. That I’d be able to take risks with ideas and activities because there are people cheering my corner. There are people to pick me up and comfort me if it all goes wrong.

Times where I feel like ending it all and giving up don’t last as long, the lows, as prolonged as they are, seem to lift eventually. It’s days instead of months. There’s a nagging hope in the back of my mind that the bad days are becoming less and less. My immediate ‘kill yourself’ reaction is not as forceful.

I’m contemplating that my life might have some value.


I don’t want to say that my whole reason for being ‘ok-er’ is because maybe, finally, my psychiatrist and I have discovered the right medications, but that is, and will remain a possibility while I’m swallowing tablets morning and night.

My weeks are marked by medication packets and weekly visits to Patrick in Boots. Every three months I’m given the chance to bare all my sordid thoughts, ones that I keep quiet and hidden from even the closest people in my life. How lucky I am to live in a country that allows me free access to health care. How lucky I am that I have doctors that listen to me and care.

How lucky I am.


An iron fist clamps down on the extremes. Extremes are dangerous and have a tendency to gather friends and enemies. They have the ability to consume rationality. Letting out even a little bit is a threat of a storm that’ll destroy everything in it’s wake.

When I was 20 at university, a woman came up to speak to myself and a friend. She held our hands and told me that I was a woman in my prime. That this was the time I grew into myself, my body, my soul, my mind.

I never saw her again.

Six years on. I might just be seeing myself from her point of view, finally.

Get the monthly newsletter

Straight to your inbox

Visual: Creative Spaces

I miss having a studio. Sadly though, since leaving university; twice I have taken on studios spaces and twice I have ended up working from home more. Meaning that I’ve wasted so much money. I’m rubbish with money.

Except I want a studio again, I want a space to create works. I want to be able to shut the door, listen to music that I shouldn’t admit to, and work. I’ve pictured it in my head, a huge drafting table that is high enough to work standing up at, huge windows with so much natural light. Crisp clean white walls, one completely bare to try things out on. Working from home is hard when I don’t have the space to realise ideas. Scribbled notes in sketchbooks will have to do, but a girl can dream, right?

Until then I’ll just have to content myself with gazing at other studios on pinterest. These three are some of my favourites to immerse myself in, and I hope you like them too.

Oh My Clumsy Heart/Brogues In A Coffee Bar/Dianne Tanner


Favourite: Mark Jenkins

mark jenkins 1 mark jenkins 2 mark jenkins 3 mark jenkins 4

Images from the artist at xmarkjenkinsx.com

Who doesn’t like creepy human-esq statues in the street? Mark Jenkins is a genius and I love his sculptures of people that are so often over-looked. Jenkins highlights what we don’t pay attention to, and although his inside sculptures are fascinating, it’s the outside street works that really make me fall in love over and over again.

Jenkins wants us to question our environment and what’s real and what’s not. Several of the street art installations are dark, drawing on the homeless and melancholic, but always seem to be exciting still. It’s this type of politically charged work that I really like, it highlights the problems and represents them in a concise way. So here’s to Mark Jenkins and here’s to changing the world.