ASMR – Tingles and Triggers

What is ASMR?

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, or ASMR, is the phrase used to describe the tingling sensation people experience on the skin. It usually begins at the scalp and works its way down the spine, but not always. For the majority of those who experience it, this sensation brings about a sense of relaxation and well-being.

It sounds whacky, but I promise you it’s real. I know because I experience it, and it’s awesome!

ASMR tingles are usually brought on by acoustic and visual triggers and these vary from person to person. It’s also possible to bring on the sensation by thinking about it, but this doesn’t happen for everyone.

There has been little academic research into ASMR. In fact, it was only relatively recently that anyone tried to give the sensation a name. Conversations on forums like Yahoo! and Steady Health saw contributors sharing anecdotes of personal experiences, and discussions grew informally from there, giving rise to the blog The Unnamed Feeling. The term “autonomous sensory meridian response” was only coined in 2010 by Jennifer Allan for her Facebook group.

Some have referred to the experience as a “head orgasm” or “braingasm”, but many within the ASMR community (yes, such a thing exists) refute that terminology because it attaches sexual connotations to an otherwise asexual experience. (Although, there are those who do gain sexual pleasure from these sorts of sounds, leading to a sub-section of the community focusing on ASMRotica, or ASMR erotica).

Most people react in one of two ways upon hearing about ASMR. They’re either intrigued and glad to finally put a name to the sensation they’ve been experiencing for years, or they’re plain weirded out. So, now it’s time to clear something up – this is a natural, physical response that the body creates to relax a person.

As explained in a blog post called “Talking Names: What do we called these tingles, then“, Andrew MacMuiris pointed out that ASMR is:

  • Autonomous – spontaneous, self-governing, within or without control
  • Sensory – pertaining to the senses or sensation
  • Meridian – signifying a peak, climax, or point of highest development
  • Response – referring to an experience triggered by something external or internal

It’s honestly not that weird. Although I will admit that I’m not a fan of all the types of videos you can watch on YouTube within the ASMR community.

Who experiences ASMR?

Have you ever watched someone reading a book intently, or type on their laptop and get a warm, fuzzy feeling spread from your scalp and down your neck? Then you’ve experienced ASMR!

I love ASMR. I have found the videos on YouTube to be incredibly helpful at calming me when I’m anxious. They can cancel out the white noise in my brain when I’m desperate to sleep but it feels like sounds are rushing around my skull. I can’t count the number of times I’ve drifted to sleep listening to an ASMR video. They have become a huge part of my self-care routine.

My biggest triggers are ambient, repetitive sounds. I love the sound of turning a book’s pages, light tapping and the sound of hairbrushing. I do have visual triggers too – mostly when I see someone intently carrying out a simple task, like reading or writing. Spiralgraphs and cooking videos (without Gordon Ramsey’s sweary rants) are other great triggers too!

ASMR on YouTube

The ASMR community is arguably most prevalent on YouTube. There are countless ASMR channels whose videos are all created with the intention of triggering viewers’ ASMR. These include audio and visual triggers, with many incorporating a number of different triggers into each video to maximise the ASMR experience.

Since my introduction to ASMR a few years ago, I’ve found a couple of videos incredibly useful for helping me unwind after a stressful day or send me to sleep when I’m really struggling with my anxiety.

Ikea’s venture into ASMR just makes me love the brand even more! While these types of videos don’t usually work so well for me (it’s a bit too Role-Play-esque for my tastes), the sounds are lush and the video has a wonderfully calm vibe which sends light tingles down my scalp and neck.

I once made the mistake of watching this video at work on a particularly stressful day during my lunch break and nearly fell asleep at my desk… (Note to self: ASMR videos are not condusive to a productive afternoon!). The repetitive motion and soft crunch of the sand lulls me into a zen state, which is pretty apt if you think about it.

Tibetan singing bowls have become one of my all-time favourite inventions. This particular video is probably my most-watched on YouTube. There’s something incredibly wholesome and warm about the sound of Tibetan singing bowls. They resonate deeply and never fail to help me relax, even at my most anxious.

I’ll finish off with some unintentional ASMR. Bob Ross is the KING of unintentional tingles. He’s so softly spoken and that deep hum melts my stress away, and do I even need to mention the bristles bouncing gently off the canvas? His videos are ASMR heaven!

So there you have it – that’s the basics of ASMR! Give those videos a shot, you might find they turn you to a puddle of relaxed goo too!

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The Hymen Lie

Your sex ed class probably misinformed you

I recently read this article published on Buzzfeed about the misconceptions of the hymen and virginity and from the title alone I was shook.
buzzfeed hymen lie
WHY IS FEMALE SEX ED SO HORRIFICALLY BAD???? (not even sex ed, but education of our own bodies. Like, that’s just biology. It’s just the bloody meat sack we lump around in our entire lives. No biggie.)
It’s one of many examples of historic misogyny within medicine and science. Female genetalia and sexuality have been massively under-researched for far too long, thanks to a society and research body largely dominated by a group of men who believed it wasn’t important.
There are female bodily functions that remain a medical mystery, even to those who have worked hard to get to the bottom of them (e.g. female ejaculation). Granted, some happy accidents occurred like the invention of the vibrator to cure Female Hysteria (smirk).

Everyday I get more and more upset about the reality we live in. It’s all fucked up, but the way the world treat women is disgusting. The other day I told my friend how horrible is to see the differences between being born a man or a woman and how unfair the achieving process is depending on ur gender. His answer was: ”You are the luckiest, you can get every man to fuck you and get anything you want from them.” How sad is that men think we are lucky bc we can manipulate them with our looks to get their power? Is that the only thing we can do? Take advantage of men’s work? It’s just bullshit that even if I’m fucking smart or such a hard-worker society is gonna see me weaker or worst than some weirdo just bc I have no dick? Tf? But anyway, enough ranting for today, what we need is #POSITIVEVIBES • • • • #storytime #ranting #upset #heartbreaking #reality #patriarchy #society #fuckedup #womenarestrong #lesbian #gay #memes

Une publication partagée par meme queer ? (@ursisterscrush) le

And there are those taking female medical research more seriously, like those who conducted the review into the validity of virginity testing that resulted in the realisation that the hymen doesn’t prove virginity. However, even today stories of doctors not taking women’s pain seriously continue to circulate and I’ve just about had enough.

The implications of The Hymen Lie

I have so many issues with this hymen lie.
Firstly – we can finally prove that virginity doesn’t medically exist. For far too long, females have been led to believe that remaining ‘in tact’ is pure, virginal, right. Truth is, none of these things factor into it.
“‘Virginity’ is not a medical term, it is a gender-based social and cultural construct…It has been used to sexually exploit and humiliate women and girls throughout history. Its definition changes depending on who you talk to. We need to change how we talk about virginity. ‘Losing your virginity’ implies that you are not in control of it. No one besides you, not a hymen or another person, can ‘take your virginity away’. You are in control of your body, and no one should define you by your sexual history.”
Rose McKeon Olson (one of the researchers from the above study)

Sidetrack, but important – non-penetrative sex is just as valid as penetrative sex. Just because you haven’t/don’t want to/can’t be penetrated does not make you a virgin. You can still have sex in a number of ways, regardless of what society/religion/education has told you in the past. I think this is really important to drill in.
Next, we have to consider those who didn’t bleed when they first have penetrative sex. Does that make them ‘impure’? Does it mean they’ve previously had penetrative sex? Why are we even asking these questions? Hasn’t anyone heard of body autonomy?

Also, tampon anxiety. It’s real. I’ve experienced it. When I first started my period, my bleeds were heeeaaavy. Like red river of doom heavy. I considered using tampons, but I’d been told it hurt. I was led to believe that using one would break my hymen. That when I lost my V card, it wouldn’t be the same because I didn’t have my hymen. These things were all wrong (apart from it hurting – I experienced that first hand and have never gone near tampons since).

 Now, we have to talk about the more sinister implications of The Hymen Lie. While it’s upsetting to think about, we must consider the brutality that The Hymen Lie has brought about on those who “broke” their hymens?
What about girls who felt forced by their religion/culture to undergo “reconstructive” surgery after assault/rape/just not having one to prove virginity?
Or those whose hymens remained in tact after being assaulted, and so their accusations went unheard?
Reconstructive surgeries, honour killings and other abuses females have suffered from as a result of being considered “impure” because of their lack of hymen are now medically indefensible (where they were only morally indefensible before).
The review I mentioned earlier had this to say about virginity testing:
Virginity examinations are most commonly performed on unmarried females, often without consent or in situations where individuals are unable to give consent.
It’s incredibly upsetting. I’m privileged to have grown up in a society that didn’t put so much emphasis on that small collection of cells. I can’t imagine the stress and pressure put on those whose elders enforce this idea that the hymen represents purity, worthiness and – in some cases – is a matter of life or death.

So, what do we do now?

To my mind, it’s simple really. We educate. We need to get this message out there to those who need to hear it most. Vagina owners everywhere need to understand how their bodies work. I’m not just talking about a Vagina Monologues-style session with a compact mirror between your legs (although I think it’s absolutely a necessary learning curve – does anyone else think it’s weird that women often don’t know what their own vaginas look like?).

We need to get the message out there that hymens aren’t really a good indicator for virginity. Nor does virginity really exist outside archaic, oppressive systems that look to control women in every way possible and that fear women’s free expression of sexuality and personal ownership.
We should also be pushing for more medical research. This doesn’t end here. It can’t end here. We need more answers and we need them now.
Because, at the end of the day, how can we truly know and express ourselves if we don’t have all the right information?

Cícliques* ?✨☯️ #empowering

Une publication partagée par Cinta Tort Cartró ? (@zinteta) le

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My Top 5 Fave Poets

I’m back! I know it’s been ages. I’m terrible. And busy. Like, soooo busy. But, I managed to find time to knock this bad boy together.

So, today I want to talk about poetry.

Do you ever read a passage in a book and instantly imagine it brought to life in a hazy, Baz Luhrmannesque kind of beauty that you know would reduce you to tears just looking at it? Or listened to a song and thought you belonged in the music video? (You’re lying to yourself if you say no – everyone imagined themselves in Taylor Swift’s music video for Love Story).

Well, that’s how I’ve begun to feel with poetry.

taylor swift love story
(image source)

Last Fringe, I went to the Loud Poets’ show at the Scottish Storytelling Centre with a friend. A friend of ours used to perform with them regularly and it sounded like a sophisicated way to spend an evening at the festival. At the time, I wasn’t much for poetry. I mean, sure, in theory it was great and beautiful and, well, poetic. But in practice I rarely read or watched anything that wasn’t Shakespearean or woven into a film or tv show.

The Loud Poets’ Fringe show changed that for me. I was awestruck by the beauty and fun and sadness their words were eliciting from me. It’s hard to verbalise the experience – you really had to have been there. My love for poetry has since been reingited and I thought I’d share some highlights from my recent readings and watchings.

Slam poetry is new to me, but I have fallen in love with the rhythmic, raw passion it is so often performed with and the realness of the words. It’s one thing to read a poem, but to feel those words seeping into your skin and crawling up your neck with the goosebumps they produce? That’s something special.

Speaking of special, my first slam poet recommendation has to be Neil Hilborn. He has lived with mental illness since childhood and discusses his experiences openly and with an uncomfortable honesty that you can’t help but enjoy.

I went to his Fringe show this year at the New Town Theatre on George Street. We sat in the front row (which after he reduced me to tears for the third time I was starting to regret). He’s an incredibly funny, self-depricating, hugely talented man. He tells stories as easily as breathing and was born to share his words with the world.

This is the poem that convinced me to follow his work and the one that emotionally broke me at the end of his set. I hope you enjoy “Joey” as much as I did.

Savannah Brown is my next recommendation. This poem was my first introduction to her, and I went on to buy her book and artwork created from this poem.

This poem has been shared across social media a number of times. In my opinion, people need to watch it now more than ever. This poem is something of a battlecry for women everywhere who have been marginalised, categorised, appraised, disregarded, sexualised, trivialised and minimalised.

She’s soft and bold and her words reflect many of my experiences growing up. Give her a watch, you won’t be disappointed.

 

Next up has to be Sabrina Benaim. Yes, there does seem to be a theme here in mental health chat (and the fact that Button Poetry is the source – a channel I’d urge you to follow for more great content), but I swear you need to watch this one.

It’s real and it’s painful and she gives you a real insight into the fear and frustration that comes with depression. Her other work is fantastic, but personally this one pushed a button and it has stayed with me ever since I first saw it.

 

I first came across Iona Lee through BBC The Social’s Facebook page, watching her perform this particular poem.

It might be her Scottish accent that endears me to her words so much, but she is a wonderful storyteller and the rhythmic cadences are almost hypnotising.

 

Some written poetry now, but just as worthy of your time as the videos above. You’ll likely have heard of Rupi Kaur by now. Having hit Number 1 on the New York Times Bestsellers List and become an Instagram superstar, her words are world-famous.

I bought her first book, Milk and Honey, a few months back and putting into words how her words made me feel is incredibly difficult. She writes about growing up, falling in and out of love, loss, feminism and her experiences of abuse.

While I can’t relate to everything she has lived through and written about, many of her poems really moved me to tears. Her words are magical and I truly appreciate her craft. I’m currently waiting for my copy of her second book, The Sun and her Flowers, to arrive so I’ll be sure to update you when I’ve had a chance to read it!

???

Une publication partagée par rupi kaur (@rupikaur_) le

So, there you have it. There are many more poets I’ve found and fallen in love with, but this post was getting to be a hefty length so I’ll save them for a Part 2 in the (hopefully) not too distant future.

Are you a fan of poetry in some form or another? Do you have any recommendations for me? Share them in the comments below!

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My Mental Health – A Reflection

It’s World Mental Health Day. More than just a hashtag, for many it’s the one day a year that provides open dialogue they rarely get to experience otherwise about their mental health.

Today, I thought I’d share 6 things I learned (sometimes the hard way) about depression, anxiety and self-perception.

Until I started experiencing it, I had no real clue what depression was. I had friends who’d lived through it, or who were experiencing it there and then, but I never really understood it. I certainly wasn’t prepared to face the embarrassing truth that I believed much of the stigma and prejudice and stereotyping that I hated in other people’s uneducated rhetoric.

Happiness

This is probably the most ridiculous one, but I didn’t know that I could be depressed and happy. I didn’t understand that depression could still allow me to genuinely enjoy things. I didn’t think the anxiety tearing my brain apart would give me time for laughter.

Looking back, I’m pretty ashamed to see how deeply ingrained some serious prejudices were in my understanding of mental health. Hopefully, with more open discussion and better education on the subject, others won’t have this realisation smack them in the face the same way I did.


(credit: Veronica Dearly, one of my fave artists on Instagram)

Sex

I didn’t know that I could be depressed and horny.

Despite feeling trapped in a pit of despair and emptiness, I could still want and enjoy sex. That took some getting used to. It does make sense, though. There’s a rush of endorphins released during sex. That feeling is addictive.

I was definitely not prepared for my anxiety to kill my libido, though. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t orgasm because my brain was too busy running so fast I could barely understand all the information it was throwing at me. I couldn’t switch off and just enjoy being in the moment. I’m lucky to have a boyfriend who is incredibly understanding and who refuses to let shame enter into that mortifying conversation.


(credit: Gemma Correll)

It’s not a conversation many people are comfortable having, but it needs to be talked about more. Like every other aspect of your life, mental ill health will very likely affect your sex life. Coming to terms with that can be frustrating, embarrassing, upsetting and a million other things. Give yourself time and allow your mind to catch with the horn your body is throwing down. You’ll get there. And then you can get back to doing the sex.

(I would apologise to any family/friends/strangers who feel weird about this section, but I’m not sorry. Sex happens. We’re adults. Your discomfort feeds into the lack of discussion. It’s time we get over our discomfort around sex and get honest.)

 

Energy

I’ve been tired before, but depression doesn’t make you tired. Depression leeches every iota of energy from your being and leaves a husk of a human behind. A human who still has to get up in the morning and function and go to work because there are bills to pay. Depression left me feeling empty a lot of the time. Spoon theory can apply to mental ill health and sometimes this accurately explains how my days go when I’m not well.


(credit: Gemma Correll – a brilliant artist with endlessly relatable Instagram uploads)

Filled to the Brim and Endlessly Empty

I didn’t know I could feel more than just depression. I didn’t know that I could feel nothing but depression. I didn’t understand how my head and heart could be a cacophony of emotion and feeling and mess and noise that would overwhelm me to the point of tears.

The way I describe it is a runaway train where you can hear and feel all the passengers’ thoughts and feelings, while your heart keeps in time with the ever-quickening wheels. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.


(credit: Gemma Correll)

Self-care

It took me a while to get to grips with self-care. Understanding that calling devouring a tub of ice cream is not necessarily self-care, but it’s also not something to agonise over for hours after. Finding healthy routines to practice as self-care took a while and I’m still bad at keeping up with them. There are days where getting in the shower seems so arduous the thought reduces me to tears. But I know that taking the time to wash and condition my hair and use my yummy-smelling body wash always makes me feel better. I have to push through the fog and continue the routine.


(image source)

Cross stitching, reading, adult colouring in books. They all give me a little time to be productive while also contributing to self-improvement in some fashion, reducing the guilt I’d otherwise feel for not spending my time doing more “worthwhile” things.

Getting back into musical theatre has been incredible too. Pushing me out of my comfort zone again, forcing myself to socialise and surround myself with music and activities I love.


(credit: Gemma Correll)

One thing I wasn’t prepared to have to do, though, was to step back from friendships that weren’t good for my mental health, no matter how much I loved the people. It’s hard accepting that someone is bad for you, but you have to make yourself the most important thing. Toxic relationships only work to undo the effort you put into your wellbeing. Assessing the health of your relationships is difficult, but can be incredibly freeing when you are able to lessen the strain that relationship had on your health.

Love

I wasn’t prepared for the good days to feel so damn incredible and my heart feel like it could burst because it was so full of love. I certainly couldn’t imagine that people could still love me despite me not loving myself. It can be hard not pushing those people away in a fit of shame and anger – how do they see something worth loving when I can’t? I’m learning that my perception of myself and the world can be skewed by depression and anxiety. That, no matter how real it might seem, Tam is in fact just sleeping and not silently fuming at you for not saying “I love you” 9 times instead of 8 that day. That, despite the many niggling thoughts of unworthiness I have, I am really worth people’s time. I actually do have a lot to offer. I’m a lot more capable than I sometimes give myself credit for.


(credit: Veronica Dearly)

While I don’t always feel like I have fight left in me, I don’t want to be this way forever. Especially when there are other, far more important things in my life I’d rather focus my energy on.

At the end of the day, regardless of the state of my mental health, I’m still me. And I think that’s the thing I was most surprised to learn.

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51 Hours in the Big Smoke

London: it’s where everything happens. A hub of creativity, richly diverse and abuzz with cultural, historical and political events strewn across the vast city. As a self-diagnosed theatre nut and finally maturing enough to appreciate art galleries and museums far more than I did as a child (sorry, Mum), I was keen to visit a few exhibitions while I was down – not to mention Oxford Street’s Topshop. Being a flying visit, I wanted to make the most of my time down here, but I didn’t want to drain myself entirely, so I made sure to keep my options open and my plans flexible as I entered the Big Smoke.

Tuesday

12 noon: Off the train at King’s Cross, straight into the welcoming arms of my wonderful host and tour guide, Ellie. Straight onto the tube and we were soon nipping our way under the city to Mile End. Falling into Ellie’s new (and fabulously grown up) flat, we set our bags down and got to catching up.

2pm: We wandered towards the DLR and headed for Westford Stratford City shopping centre. A wander through the shops and scoring a fantastic deal on crockery in John Lewis for Ellie’s new flat left us pretty peckish, so we stopped off at The Big Greek for a feast of halloumi, and various other traditional dishes. With a large glass of wine, of course.

5pm: Back on the DLR to Bow and we freshened up before heading on the tube for Holborn.

6pm: Ellie took me to her favourite gelato shop in the city, Gelupo, and with good reason; it was to die for. I’m blaming my indecision for having to buy a two scoop tub – one of pistachio and one coconut. I regret nothing.

7pm: Having scoffed the ice cream and only dripping it on myself once, we acquired a gin in a tin from Tesco and headed for the main reason (other than friends) for my visit to London – Our Ladies of Perpetual Succour.


Best new musical I’ve seen in years

An all-female cast and band telling the story of fictional Oban High pupils coming of age in Edinburgh on a wild day out? How could I say no!? It was raw, pure and left me speechless. Musically, it was flawless, the choreography was slick and the mentions of Pulpit Hill and The Station had me giggling like I was part of some unspoken inside joke. I could relate with those girls in a lot of ways, having moved to Oban aged 8 and grew up surrounded by many of the caricatures they portrayed of the townspeople. At 17, I was chomping at the bit to experience something new in the capital. I was as emotionally naive, angsty and curious as those girls (although I’ve never tried Hooch).  If you ever get the chance to see a production of this show, go. Although this run finished September 1st, unfortunately for you.

9:30pm: We left the theatre, the pair of us buzzing, deconstructing every element of the show and gushing over how wonderful and modern and relatable and crafty and entertaining it was, and headed back on the tube home.

10:30pm: Both of us were knackered (Ellie’s app said we’d walked 15km that day) and with early starts and long days catching up with us, we hit the hay.

Wednesday

7am: A quick public service announcement to any of Ellie’s friends – if you ever stay the night with her, you will need to mentally, physically and spiritually prepare yourself for her alarm. It will, without a shadow of a doubt, scare the absolute shit out of you. Having startled awake, we had a leisurely morning filled with tea, chat and getting ready for the day ahead.

9:30am: We set off for Mile End tube station and I finally started to get the hang of using my contactless MasterCard to swipe myself through the barriers every journey.

10:30am: I jumped off the tube a stop before her and made my way to the Victoria and Albert Gallery, using the underpass to arrive right inside the place! (I tell you, London can be very clever sometimes.) Ellie had leant me her membership card, so I headed straight for the fashion gallery which was exhibiting Carlos Balenciaga’s work and it was there that I fell in love. I can’t claim to be that clued up when it comes to fashion (some would argue that I’d happily live in Primark clothes for the rest of my life and they wouldn’t be wrong). But I know Balenciaga by name, and I appreciate a well-designed outfit as much as the next person, so I ventured in. He was a fascinating man, pioneering techniques that used material-led design; he’d choose his fabrics and work around their limitations. His evening gowns are meticulous, the hats rule-breakers and his Spanish heritage evidentiary in many of his pieces.

12 noon: Having wandered the Balenciaga exhibition and house fashion displays, I headed towards the opposite end of the gallery. Ellie’s neat V&A member card helped me queue-jump and with a headset to guide me, I entered the world of Pink Floyd through a giant replica of their trademark black van with the white stripe. It was an incredible display, showcasing the musical artistry and behind-the-scenes talent that went into creating their masterpieces. You should definitely give it a visit if you’re in London before it closes in October.

1pm: Pondering politics, art, culture, society and life (as well as a low-level hunger and need to pee), I left the V&A feeling educated and cultured. Ellie had mentioned that Grayson Perry’s exhibition was still showing at the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park, so I walked through the rainy streets and made my way to what can only be called The Most Popular Art Exhibition Ever (because that was the name he gave it). A social commentator through multiple artistic mediums, Perry has examined post-Brexit Britain, social media and, of course, his relationship with masculinity. Stopping off in the gallery shop, I picked up Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s We Should All Be Feminists (adapted from her TEDTalk) for the train home for a fiver. I just can’t say no to a bargain. Or feminist literature.

1:30pm: My urge to pee becoming more pronounced now, I made my way through Hyde Park to Lancaster Gate Station (passing the wonderful Peter Pan statue that fills me with childhood glee) and hopped on the tube towards Oxford Circus.


Hyde Park

2pm: Nipping into Paul’s for a spot of lunch (10/10 would eat their olive baguette with mozzarella, tomato and pesto again), I headed for the shops. I won’t lie, I was slightly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the H&M. Two hours at the shops and a couple of fabulous purchases later (including a bottle of Bleach London Violet Skies hair dye because I was on holiday and felt like living dangerously), I was back across the road to meet Charity for a coffe

4pm: We met up at H&M (because it was the easiest landmark for me) and wandered down to House of Fraser for a natter over coffee and cake in their cafe (which, by the way, is a mixture of the Mad Hatter’s tea party and something from Cinderella). The service was slow and the cappuccino size hilariously large, but that gave us more time to catch up

6:30pm: Heading back to Ellie’s, we stopped off at the Disney Store. My nose was put right out of joint when a 3 year old’s parents skipped ahead of us in the queue to take pictures of her. I reckon my photos turned out much better.


Living my best life

Oh Mickey, you so fine

7:30pm: My uni friends are some of my nearest and dearest, and it has been really hard not having them all round the road to call in on whenever the notion strikes. Having Lucy, Charity, Katie and Ellie in one room with bubbly and good nosh was so wonderfully easy, it was like no time had passed at all! We spent hours catching up, exchanging stories and revelling in the comfort of strong friendships.

10:30pm: Kate and Chaz had a long commute home ahead, so they set off after many, many goodbye hugs and promises of visiting soon, which I intend to ensure they keep. After a sneaky speed cry in the toilets – it’s hard saying goodbye to the people you love when you don’t know how long it’ll be before you see them again – we settled in for the night and hit the hay.

Thursday

7am: I will never get used to that alarm.

9:30am: Back on the tube, we headed towards Kings Cross so Ellie could hit the library, which was my plan too.

10:30am: The British Library has an exhibition on just now, Gay UK: Love, Law and Liberty. If you’re in London before DATE, I implore you to visit. It’s in the main entrance hall and while not large, it’s full of information and anecdotal evidence of the persecution, liberation and activism of gay men and women in the UK over the centuries. Central to the exhibition is the vital question – Where are we now, and what more needs to be done? Using literature, theatre, music and art, gay rights activism has persisted for as long as it has existed. When the law persecuted, they persisted. It’s inspiring and heartbreaking to learn of the struggles faced historically and presently by non-heterosexuals. It was a moving, educational exhibition, has given me a long list of educational and fictional literature to work through and is well worth a visit.

11:30am: I wandered back towards Kings Cross and took the long way round to The Granary, soaking up the sunshine and buzz of the city. I did try to visit Words on the Water, but it was unfortunately shut. So, after nipping into Waitrose for a San Pel and an apple juice, I made my way into the House of Illustration.

12 noon: At £8.25 a pop (including Gift Aid), it’s not cheap at first glance, but after completing the three exhibitions currently on display, I’d honestly have paid as much for each one alone. The Jacqueline Ayer exhibition, a carefully and cleverly curated exhibition, was as fascinating as her life. Drawing on Thailand is filled with simple drawings that are full of character; her artwork is deeply emotive and each piece tells its own little story. The Quentin Blake exhibition filled me with warmth: it’s small, but perfect. Anyone who knows Blake’s work would enjoy The Life of Birds, a collection of anthropomorphic winged creatures. Finally I walked round the largest of the exhibitions, Anime Architecture: Backgrounds of Japan and left with a newfound appreciation for the artform.

Comrades in Art © Quentin Blake
The Photo © Quentin Blake

12:45pm: The sun was warm and the families were out in force, with children frolicking in the fountains in the Granary’s courtyard. I sat on one of the stone benches, edited an Instagram photo, enjoyed the smells of the food vans and soaked up the rays while I waited for Ellie to wrap up some uni work.

1pm: We headed back to King’s Cross to pick up some lunch at the food market outside the station. After much internal turmoil, I settled on a roasted pepper focaccia and honeycomb doughnut (I was on holiday!). Ellie snaffled a decadent looking salted caramel brownie. We chatted and people-watched as we scoffed our spoils before she headed back to the library and I to the train station.

2pm: I wandered the shops in King’s Cross. Oliver Bonas is a particular favourite of mine: the colour palette they use for their clothes makes me drool and their jewellery is divine. A quick toilet stop and a bottle of water from WH Smith later, I sat on the floor outside Starbucks and casually watched the board for my platform to be announced and started planning this blog post.

3pm: Settled into my seat with my laptop, San Pelligrino, headphones and my little book of feminism, I got myself comfortable and started writing.

London, Londoff

Yes, it was fleeting, but I really loved my time in the city. London has always been something of a wonder to me. I know I couldn’t live there – it’s too busy, too far from home and it genuinely intimidates me. But to visit like this, to have learned so much, laughed so much and to have finally overcome my paralysing fear of the tube, is wonderful. Catching up with friends I love so fiercely and miss so terribly was a delight and being able to soak in the vast and varied cultural offerings was a treat.

I think my next trip will be more theatre-heavy so I can finally get round to seeing The Book of Mormon and maybe something a little more obscure. I’m determined to visit the Saatchi Gallery too, which I missed in favour of the Serpentine (no regrets other than my limited timeframe for catching as many things as possible). It was a whirlwind trip, and I so desperately needed it. I won’t leave it so long before my next visit, that’s for sure.


The view from St Giles

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My Bikini Body Guide

I’m going to talk today about another societal construct that infuriates me no end.

The Bikini Body Guide

There are so many GET YOUR BODY BEACH READY and IT’S HOLIDAY TIME, CAN YOU STILL FIT INTO YOUR BIKINI? memes and magazine articles circulating just now. Just like every other year as the weather (supposedly) starts to brighten and the air gets a little less nippy.

If you know me at all, you’ll know my feelings on these. I can’t stand them.

They force this idea onto society that bikini wearers can only be busty, flat stomached, round hipped, long legged women with perfectly smooth legs, a dazzling smile and not a bead of sweat in sight.

It’s all lies.

Equally, though, I sometimes find the whole “To get a bikini body, put a bikini on” rebuttal a little too simplistic. For some of us, who are perhaps more prone to a lack in body confidence or have never before bared their belly outside the bedroom or bathroom, it is not as easy as slipping into a two piece and running towards the sea Baywatch style, desperately hoping you don’t accidentally flash your tatas to the world.

IMO, there are a couple of steps between deciding to buy a bikini and doing a PamAn along the golden sands. Here’s my 4-step bikini body how to guide for all of you planning your holibobs this summer.

Bigging up your body

The first step to buying a bikini is actually finding the love you have for your body. This may come naturally to you; you may be incredibly comfortable with how you look.

Or you may struggle with that horrible, terrible, oh-so-convincing voice that pipes up every time you start to find your confidence that tells you flat out that you can’t or shouldn’t wear a bikini.

So, to begin your bikini body journey, you need to stand in front of your mirror. You can strip down to your skivvies if you like, there’s no right or wrong way to do this. But you have to look yourself in the eye and find your beauty. Look at the parts of you that make you go “Heck yeah I look good”. Appreciate them. Hug them. Tell yourself you love them.

Then go to the bits you maybe wish weren’t on show when you wore a bikini. Give them a long, hard look. Accept them for how they are. Maybe you’re in the process of changing them, maybe you’re not. Understand that this is the stage they’re at now. And they’re beautiful.

You have likely lived with those parts of you your whole life. They’ve grown with you. Propped you up on exam tables. Been a cushion for someone to rest their head on you. Moved you across a dance floor or acted as a table for your plate when you’re eating dinner in bed. Maybe it’s the source of your obnoxiously loud or mouse-like sneezes. Perhaps they jiggle when you laugh or run.

They’re unique.

And brilliant.

They’re the building blocks that create you – the things that help make the glorious human that you are.

Buying a bikini

This is potentially harder than just rocking up in Primark and picking a pretty pattern. There are shapes, sizes and the whole separates issue to battle through first. I own a pair of breasts. They are quite nice breasts. They tend to fit into a size 14 t-shirt without much complaint.However Primark’s t-shirt sizes for boobs don’t work well for me.

And even if my boobs did fit the size 14 top, there’s no way my butt is squeezing into the same sized bottoms that come in the matching set. It may be £12, but the savings enjoyed by my bank account will soon pale in comparison to the loss in my confidence as I hope that somehow my butt will not burst straight back out those bottoms.

There are lots of different places to buy bikinis from. Shop around, find the style that suits you and make no compromises. You’re going on holiday, you want to feel good. Don’t try and force yourself to wear something you’re not comfortable in.

Hitting the beach

Accept that, if you’re a little short on the body confidence front, you won’t be the only one. When you walk onto that beach or to that poolside, remind yourself that while you’re so busy worrying about how other people see you, many others will be thinking the same. Then there will be those too busy enjoying their holiday to notice who’s wearing a bikini and who’s in a turtleneck.

So much of what those magazines peddle at us is nonsense – but the biggest lie of all is that the general public’s opinion of your looks matter in any way. This couldn’t be further from the truth. When you truly find yourself believing that the only opinion of any value is yours, you’ll start wearing your bikini for you and not the rest of the world.

Self Appreciation Time

Take a selfie. Give yourself a wee hug. Or another mojito. Eat a whole watermelon or have a burger and dessert.Whether you share your love for your body with the world, or just yourself, is up to you. (Personally I’d appreciate you all filling my Instagram feed with your bikini bods, but that’s just me.)

Just make sure to take some time to really appreciate the fact that you look good, you feel good and (if you’re like me and rarely go for practical holiday beachwear) you’re going to come home with some interesting tan lines.

The whole point of this 4 step guide to a bikini body is to highlight the hypocrisies of those magazines that promise to get you “beach ready” in 4 weeks. The fact of the matter is that if you have booked your holiday you’re beach ready.

The trick is to find the love for yourself to wear a bikini that those magazines may try and convince you that you’re not allowed to wear them. They are made in all sizes for a reason.

Wear that bikini proudly and loudly.

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Personal Space – The Importance of Self Care

Last week was Mental Health Awareness Week and social media was abuzz with hashtags, conversations and motivational memes on the subject.

Be kind to yourself every day ?? #MHAW17

A post shared by The Young Women’s Movement (@youngwomenscot) on

With my hyper-active brain, neverending list of projects to get stuck into, reliance on lists to keep some semblance of order in my life, whacky sleeping pattern and a bunch of other quirks you all associate with my kookiness, I often get run down. Like last week, which put publishing this post on hold until today. Kinda ironic.

But now, I’m feeling brighter and more on top of everything, I’m going to take a bit of time and run through my self care routine.

Self care is something I started intentionally practicing about eight months ago. Far from a social media soundbite and tool to get more love on Insta, this has become a necessary part of my health routine and often saves me from slipping down the rabbit hole and ending up in a dark spiral leading to exhaustion.

The usual candidates in a self care checklist do exist on mine – a decent amount of sleep, an abundance of vegetables (I love making myself a Greek-inspired mezze platter of raw peppers, olives, cherry tomatoes, cucumber and a variety of dips when I feel depleted and in need of a clean, fresh boost to the system) and an indulgent shower or bath.

Some of my other self care activities are maybe slightly more obscure, but important to me nonetheless.

Firstly, I cut my nails. It’s a chore I am forever pushing down on the to do list until my poor nails can take no more and snap painfully close to the nail bed. So, when life is starting to get on top of me, I make sure to spend some quality time giving myself a speedy mani.

Usually just cutting them down, a quick file and a thirst-quenching moisturiser. One of my nervous ticks is picking at the skin on my fingers, but pretty nail polish is a great incentive for me to leave the poor skin alone.

This self care technique requires enough concentration to distract me momentarily from any outside stresses and is a productive use of time so I don’t feel guilty for procrastinating from the ironing pile. Double win.

I also write. It might be teen angst inspired, embarrassing awful poetry, a to do list or an overview of what I’ve done that day.

As my blog posts indicate, I’m a good rambler. I purge my thoughts until I cry, sigh or reach some other state of release. It’s incredibly important for me to get my thoughts and feelings out in the world by writing or typing away until I have fully purged.

Usually I reach a solution by writing, or can reach a place where my rational side negotiates my emotional mess down from teetering on the edge.

Another self care love of mine is colouring in.

While my doodles don’t tend to end as violently as Deadpool’s, I do own 5 adult colouring books, 3 sets of colouring pencils and a steadfast opposition to venturing outside the lines.

Snuggle puddles are also a total self care necessity.

Teddy (original, I know) and Piglet have been with me since birth, Alaska Bear was a slightly later addition.

Bunny, Toothless and Rocky flopping after a long day of whatever it is toys do.

I am currently sharing my bed with 9 teddies of all shapes, sizes and animal types. Some are as old as me, others are more recent additions. All are equally adored.

Apart from my raccoon, Rocky, who has been through the best times and the worst times with me. A dear friend of mine who understood my trash panda obsession gave me him when I was 16 and have rarely gone a night without him in my bed ever since. He even comes with me to my boyfriend’s sometimes.

Rocky and a lizard friend he made at Tam’s, along with Mr Fox and an equally foxy hot water bottle.

This bunch of cute and cuddlies are the perfect counter-offer to human contact, when I just want to be left alone but am in dire need of affection. They are the real deal.

Sidenote shout out to my boyfriend who makes a great substitute to the snuggle puddle on nights that I do want human contact. That boy is a hot water bottle load of snug – seriously, his body temp runs higher than most saunas.

Finally, the most important ritual of my self care routine is self-acceptance.

I often find myself buried under a mountain of guilt, frustration and a slew of other negative feelings when I start to get run down and feel low.

Reminding myself that the low point isn’t going to last forever and that the world will not end if I can’t make myself smile once that day is really important.

As a perfectionist, I get caught up in my own head, obsessing over everything, especially my perceived shortcomings and what I think others expect of me. I take this time to acknowledge that I’m not feeling 100% and realise what I expect of myself.

Whether that’s getting myself into the shower, socialising or just enjoying my own company; it’s a vital exercise I need to keep myself feeling more grounded and less like the world is slipping through my fingers.

Self care is exactly that – for yourself. You might read my list and scoff. You might run or bake or cry or knit or host a dinner party as part of your self care. Those are all legitimate forms of looking after yourself.

We all have different aspects of ourselves that need a little more attention than others. Recognising, accepting and acting on those needs are what keep us happy, healthy and able to live our best lives.

Look after yourself, you deserve it.

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Bottoming Out – or why tights are the Devil’s underwear

I wore a dress to work yesterday. I’d been in jeans and leggings all week and my thighs weren’t thanking me for it.

It’s one of my favourite dresses; vintage, knee length and has silver thread through it.

Yesterday started off well. I got up in enough time to brush my freshly washed hair and put make up on – a rare occurrence for sure. I felt on it.

(Slight divergence, but does anyone know what we’re supposed to be On when we’re On It? Like, what is It??)

Anyway, I was wearing my big girl witchy shoes and everything. They are from M&S. They make me feel powerful. They are pointy toed. They have enough of a block heel to make them clip and clop as I cross the office foyer. I love those shoes.

So, I got through the entire day. No casualties, issues or upset. It was a productive day – I mapped two blog posts, created a checklist for the blogging process and managed to contribute in a workshop on buyer personas (look at me learning the new job lingo!)

I even had a shopping list written for the night’s dinner.

The sun was shining as I left the office. I was ready to great the weekend with a smile.

Fast forward to just far enough away from the office to warrant turning round, and the worst thing happened. My tights rolled right over my hips and belly bulge (we had a welcome lunch for the new guy and my food baby was huuuuge).

Now, I’m not talking a wee, easily rectified slip.

No no.

What I experienced was utter betrayal.

Down to my mid-thigh, chafe-inducing, butt-out exposure.

Well fuck me sideways.

How was I supposed to walk to Tesco, round Tesco and then on to Tam’s flat?!

I panicked. Hard.

So of course I messaged Tam in said fit of panic. He was useless.

He sent two laughing emojis and told me there was nothing he could do. What about emotional support, you heartless bastard???

So, I had my hand in my jacket pocket, holding my tights up as high as possible to prevent tripping myself up with tights round my ankles and hobbled as quickly as humanly possible to Tesco.

Once there, I headed for the clothing section, hoping I’d find a changing room or bathroom.

It’s at this point in the story that I’d like to play a game – that childhood favourite Fortunately Unfortunately.

Fortunately – I located both the bathroom and changing room quickly. They were next to each other.

Unfortunately – both were locked and required a member of staff to unlock them.

Fortunately – that was the end of the game. There were no Fortunatelys left.

Unfortunately – I was surrounded by 2 families, had tights now dangerously close to revealing their crotch below the hem of my dress, I was sweating profusely due to the stress of my situation and could see no way out.

So, I did what I had to.

I pretended to be trying a pair of shoes on and whipped the damn things off as quickly and discreetly as possible. Which, from the looks I got from a couple at the end of the aisle, wasn’t discreet enough.

The horror doesn’t end there, though. Oh no. That would be far too easy.

Have you ever tried to slip on a pair of leather shoes that cover the top of your foot when your feet are hot, you’re in panic mode and you have nothing to create a barrier between leather and skin?

If you haven’t, let me tell you – it’s absolutely horrific.

It took me 4 minutes of huffing, puffing, pulling and muttering under my breath to get the first foot in a shoe. The shame was almost too much.

Eventually, after my shoes were on, tights shoved into my handbag with as much contempt as I could muster, I zoomed round Tesco and was on my way.

I’d like to take a moment to apologise to my poor feet. They endured a hell of a beating on the walk from Tesco to Tam’s. I promise never to mistreat you like that ever again.

So, I guess the moral of the story is to always have a pair of back up tights, but really, invest in better quality tights than shitty Primark ones. Those fickle bastards will leave you high and dry in your hour of need.

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Don’t shit on Barry Manilow’s coming out. It makes you a dick.

That’s right, everyone’s favourite Copacabana crooner has come out at the ripe age of 73.

Before you scoff and start up with your duhs and obviouslys, think about why this is important.

Barry Manilow married a man in 2014. Manilow, while camp as a row of tents and flamboyant to boot, never once addressed his homosexuality to the press or public. He and his husband have been in a relationship since 1978.

His courage may give others the confidence they need to be true to themselves and their loved ones about who they really are.

What I really can’t stand about this story is that people are shooting down his courage. I don’t care if you think your gaydar is 100% accurate (which it can’t be, btw, because sexuality is fluid and far from static – but that’s another rant for another day). You have no right to take this defining moment from anyone, regardless of their celebrity status.

Jezebel published a sarcastic, patronising article about Manilow’s coming out and it pissed me the hell off. I’ll tell you something, Babe, you can take your judgemental attitude and omnipotent gaydar and shove it. Downplaying the importance of any person’s public coming out makes you a dick. End of story.

There he was, a “rich white gay man” as Jezebel dubbed him, and yet he couldn’t be honest with the world about the love he felt for this man because, as he opened up in an interview with People, he thought he would “disappoint fans” if they knew he was gay. I don’t know about you, but I find that heartbreaking.

Coming out at any age is a big deal. My new favourite Netflix show, Grace and Frankie, is testament to that. As Robert, who came out as gay after 40 years of marriage, notes in episode 4  “I’m never not going to come out, am I?” This speaks a great deal to a stigma and unavoidable eventuality for older people and their sexuality.

Sexuality, gender and identity among the older generations are beginning to receive more attention in the press and media. In 2010, Ewan McGregor played the supportive son of Christopher Plummer in the film Beginners, where Plummer’s character comes out as gay. Amazon debuted Transparent in 2014. It follows the story of retired college professor Maura Pfefferman (Jeremy Tambor) and her family’s journey after she opens up about having always identified as a woman.

More recently, Patricia Davis made the headlines in March after publicly declaring her transition at 90 years old. The WWII veteran explained that her late wife was very supportive when she explained her identity and bought Patricia jewellery to wear in private. Now, there’s no stopping Patricia living her life as her true self and advises to others “Don’t worry, as long as you’re happy”.

There has been an increasing visibility in the media about non-hetero-normative relationships and non-binary gender identities, much to my delight. We need to continue shining a light on these stories of people accepting themselves and their identities to encourage others to do the same.

Not everyone realises how daunting coming out can be, even if your peers already think they know how you identity. Barry Manilow is a prime example of that. To reach 73 and finally feel ready to publicly announce that he is gay is courageous and heartwarming. He grew up in a time far less outwardly liberal and with a support network for those of the LGBTQIA community largely muffled by larger society.

We are now seeing individuality, sexuality, gender and identity celebrated in all their vibrant, brilliant, beautiful forms. So much so that the man who brought us Mandy and Can’t Smile Without You is ready to tell the world, not just let them assume, about his sexuality.

Live your best life, Barry.

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The Truth Will Set You Free…if you’re prepared to cry, curse and work your butt off.

A year ago I had the metaphorical rug pulled out from under me. I confronted a lie and learned the truth. A reality that seemed so alien to me I couldn’t believe it, but I knew it couldn’t not be true. It was a horrible, devastating truth that broke my heart and left me reeling.

They say the truth will set you free. I call bullshit. The truth is a kick in the teeth. It’s what you do with the truth that determines your freedom from whatever shackles your lie locked you in.

Truth isn’t freeing. Truth has you believing that you will never put your complete trust in another human ever again. Not even your own mother. Turns out that’s utter nonsense and if your mother is anything like my Mummy Manda, you’ll lean on that woman more than you could ever imagine in the weeks that follow having removed that lie-ridden wool that was pulled over your eyes for six months.

Crying is certainly more cathartic than the truth. So is getting angry. And punching pillows. Just don’t go to town too hard on your decorative cushions or the stuffing will escape and that’s a hell of a mess to clean up. Although you can add it to the list of reasons why you despise the person who made you punch your pillow. You also now have a legitimate reason for retail therapy, so it’s not all bad.

Reaching milestones is absolutely better for confidence building after feeling insecure or unwanted or less than. The truth sits there loud, obnoxious and unfaltering. Realising you’ve gone a whole day without crying or checking your phone or obsessively looking at their social media accounts as if somehow those will give your answers that counter what you know to be true is a much stronger sign that you’ll get past your hurt.

And sitting on your boyfriend’s bed telling him the shit show that you thought would break you happened a whole year ago today only to hear him responding that “We should thank him” is 100% more freeing and affirming than any truth or version of it that was stuffed down your throat by those who didn’t care enough about you to matter anymore.

We’ve all been through something. We’ve all been hurt by those we considered closest to us. We’ve had things said that, no matter how many apologies or excuses we hear, we’ll never truly get over. We’ve all learned things about people we thought we knew that turned our opinions on their head. It’s how we deal with those moments after those truths that free us.

 

I’ve cried. I’ve stalked social media profiles. I’ve punched pillows. I’ve necked a bottle of prosecco naked because I was told it wasn’t socially acceptable to get drunk in my pjs (how’s that for logic). I even wrote letters that would never see an envelope or stamp. I’ve catharted all over the place. The truth has nothing to do with me rebuilding my confidence or ability to trust in people or have faith in myself that I was worthy of love. It was facing those insecurities and doubts and pushing through. It was surrounding myself with those who truly matter and leaving behind those who don’t.

 

So, no – the truth doesn’t set you free. It’s just the vessel that gets you to the place that you need to start rebuilding from. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither will your faith be, but perseverance, tears and people who love you are a good place to start.

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