PHOTONAUTS

Probably to piss off the camel

My last post was an angry, bitter rant. Hopefully this one will be a little calmer and more structured. 

I’ve realised that I haven’t filled in on Kevin passing away - grief does all sorts to you, plus I was pretty much too busy supporting my mother at home and helping with the funeral arrangements. Even writing this is hard - while I haven’t shown it as much as possible, I’ve cried myself to sleep at night sometimes. I do cry pretty much every time I think about him still. I’ve seen five rainbows this week - some might call this clutching at straws, but it feels to me that he’s still leaving his mark on the world. It breaks my heart yet lifts me up at the same time. 

Mum and Kevin were married at 2pm on 14th August, 2011 at Scarborough Registry Office. I was the ringbearer - shitting myself, naturally, I stood there and watched them exchange their vows while desperately reminding myself not to cry. While I wanted to out of happiness, the reason why I held back was because it was mostly out of desperate sadness - knowing that my mother would soon be widowed after such a happy occasion, an occasion they’d planned for for five years. And my mother has never been married - to this day, I feel so fucking angry for her. Almost betrayed. 

The wedding was simple but beautiful. The registry office was decked in plain pastel and green colours, with a fitting picture of Her Majesty above the Registrar’s entry book. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and everyone was relaxed and happy. It wasn’t a headless chicken ‘bridezilla’ affair - it was simply a group of people, friends and family, come together to see two people stand and declare their love for each other. My mother made her own outfit - a lovely silver top with a white knee length shirt and silver low heels. She did the traditional something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. 

Kevin arrived not long after in a smart grey suit, though he was struggling to breathe all the way through as he had been for a while now. His legs had swollen to the size of tree trunks - so much so that he nearly couldn’t lace his shoes up. Hats off to him, I have to say - he was absolutely determined to be there, and he even stood up all the way through and gritted his teeth through all the people and picture-taking. I think, in the end, that’s what took it out of him. But I think he passed a very happy man. And to him, that was all that mattered - that they were married, and that they could finally seal the love they have for each other. 

I was still reeling from the split from the first love of my life. I went home the evening of the wedding after raucous laughter owing to my mum getting sozzled on Bollinger champagne - a very funny sight by all accounts - and went home with my aunt feeling happy but uneasy. The next few weeks were going to be tough on my mum especially, as well as the rest of us. I knew that the next big event was on its way, and it wouldn’t be a happy one. 

That day came only a few days later, a lot quicker than we had feared. My grandmother rang me first. 

“Ellie — Kev’s going into the hospice. It’s not good - I think this is it.” 

I honestly didn’t know what to say to that for a little bit. It was all so quick, so hectic, and as my family goes, we all expect each other to know what we’re doing - something we’ve never learned isn’t possible unless you possess next-of-kin telepathy. 

“Are you going to come to Scarborough?” 

“… well, of course, yeah. When are you going?” 

“In the next hour. Your aunt will come and pick you up. Just throw a bag together - I’m not sure how long we’re going to be there for.” 

“Okay. See you soon. Love you.” 

“Love you too, darling.” 

My aunt rolled into view an hour later, as promised. I’d chucked together a bag of supplies, not unlike an army mission really - nothing unnecessary was in there. From there it was a slow journey to hell. My mood was shot and my appetite had rocketed - a bad mix. As we stopped for petrol, I thought ‘fuck it’ and bought all the unhealthy junk food I could find. Who gave a shit right now, anyway? I was hungry, I hadn’t eaten all day and I didn’t care who criticised me. My grandmother, in her own sweet but unhelpful way, was the first to point this out. I quite blankly replied that I didn’t give two shits about the calorie content of this, that or the other, to which I got: “No, of course not, dear.” She knew not to fuck a wounded bear. You just have to be firm with her sometimes. 

My mum was in bits when I got there, though only in fits and starts. She’s always been a strong, resilient woman - something I feel I should have inherited, but haven’t. I’ve always admired that about her in particular as well as my family. She just gets up and gets on with it. I didn’t know what to do other than to give her a cuddle and talk to her. In a later conversation, she said that’s all she wanted me to do and could’ve done short of her asking me - she knew that if she’d ask, she’d receive - no hesitation. But I still felt somehow like I wasn’t doing enough. I ask multiple times that ultimate British question, “Cup to tea?” (My mum drinks tea like it’s going out of fashion) and I get the “No, I’ll do it” reply. Everything I offered to do she brushed off with that reply. Even things like washing the dishes warranted that reply. I suppose she wanted something to keep her busy, but all the while I just wanted to take the weight of the world off her shoulders. It was a double-edged sword really. But I didn’t want to challenge her; this was her call, not mine, to make. 

I went out with my best friend, Alex, in his car on a night. This was met with criticism by my grandma who, by both mine and my mother’s accounts, was doing our heads in despite her obviously good intentions. She was miffed that I was going out with my friends for a couple of hours on an evening while my mum was at home. I don’t think she understood that my mum and I had an understanding that we’d gone through in detail - she didn’t want me to stay indoors all the time and actually actively encouraged me to go out and see people I usually wouldn’t otherwise see. Plus, my friends were my urban family - my source of support outside my blood relatives who were perhaps a bit more impartial. It was still hurtful, however, that the matriarch of the family who happened to be the mother of the bereaved, was challenging my behaviour that my mother and I had agreed was more than okay. I felt like I was betraying her, no matter how much my mother protested. But she reassured me it was okay. So I kept doing it - a couple of hours on an evening, down the seafront, seeing my friends. It kept me sane, I guess. 

My mum was drunk and happy on the evening of the wedding - we looked over pictures, laughed riotously, talked at length with family and bid farewell one by one. I didn’t know that it would be the last time I saw Kev, and I’m glad that the last thing I ever said to him was “Congratulations again.” The last time I saw him alive, he was in pain but he was happy and contented. He had married the woman he loved - his last earthly mission was complete. 

Two days later, my mum came into my room at 11:30am, crying. 

“Ellie - Kevin died at 7am this morning. He’s in a better place now.” 

We hugged and cried at the news. Seeing my mum cry is one of the worst pains I’ve ever experienced - I’ve only seen her really cry a handful of times, and it makes me break out into a cold sweat thinking about it. 

It only seemed right that he passed away two days after he was taken off the anti-cancer medication - his body was just screaming, “that’s it - I’ve had enough.” And I honestly believe that he was saving up his last strength to marry my mother. I don’t think he would have let himself pass unless he had committed that last act. 

The grief has only really hit me in the last couple of days. Of course I cried about it before, but now I can’t handle the mention of the word cancer or of Kev’s name and not cry whereas before I could - I don’t think I’d truly accepted that we would never see him again. Now, it’s hit me like a pile of bricks. 

As I’ve said before, it makes you very aware of your own mortality - that we will all die someday. We’re all doomed to the same fate, be it in different ways, a lot in extremely unfair and painful ways, emotionally and physically. We’ve not got long in this life. But watching someone die before your eyes is like dying yourself - just without the ultimate expiration. You soldier on, trying to live normally. My mood has been so up and down that I’ve been volatile with friends and family, collapsing into tears the next instant, varying from optimistic positivity to absolute pessimism. 

Like my mum, I’ve been just getting on with it - using work, uni, the gym and fresher’s week to keep me occupied. I know that if I’m left with spare time, I’ll just spend it thinking - something I’d really rather not do right now. Speaking to my mum is hard - something in her voice has changed. I know why, of course, but she puts on this voice like she’s okay, she’s managing - but I’m quite sure her heart’s breaking slowly. Her tone of voice is almost that of someone who’s lost - not quite aware of where they are or what’s going on. She completely compos mentis, of course, but I think her loss has affected her like the equivalent of a limb. Ghost pain included. 

What angers me is that there’s nothing else I can do to make her happy. My grandmother said something very poignant which makes me feel uneasy for the years to come, yet I completely understand: “You never get over a loss of a loved one; but you learn to live with it.” She’s going to have to live with that and the unfortunate circumstances in which it happened for the rest of hers. I don’t understand people who aren’t close to their family - mine is like a tight-knit tribal clan. You fuck with one - you fuck with all of us. Not all my family knew Kevin but they still rallied together and even offered to visit him, to spend time with him. Sadly, that idea passed away when Kevin did. 

I’ve seen five rainbows this week. 

I think he’s doing just fine. 

Have you met Miss Jones?

Okay. I’m fucking sick and tired of this bullshit. 

I’m fun, likeable, sociable, caring and compassionate, voracious in bed might I add. Put that in my fucking Lonely Hearts ad. But as I look around me, so many of my close friends and family for that matter not much older than me - 2, 3 years tops? - are moving in together, getting engaged, and having children. But not me. Not Lola. 

Apparently, according to a relative, I don’t want to get engaged until I’m 30. Really? When my fertility begins to decline? You really think I’m that unattractive that I can’t have a meaningful long-term relationship until I’m running out of eggs? Nice. Really nice. All the while, two of my cousins are at ‘that stage’ - one is getting married tomorrow at the age of 21. The other has just got engaged at the age of 22. I’m 20 - and I feel like I’m losing the race. 

It’s not a question of beating people to it - it’s the fact that I feel like I’m not keeping up. And that the reason why I’m not keeping up is because there’s something wrong with me. I don’t understand why I always attract men who aren’t right for me - victim mentality, egocentric, commitmentphobe - it always seems to be me. I don’t deliberately seek these guys, but they seem to come to me like a fucking homing missile. I’m sick to fucking death of being the girl that is heard but not seen - yes, that’s right, I switched things up a bit - I’m sick and tired of not being taken seriously as a girlfriend. I may not be fucking Megan Fox when it comes to looks but I’m not ugly. Although by current male standards of what constitutes ‘beautiful’, I’m not so sure. I’ve been dieting and exercising like a dervish trying to put this right. My cousin’s engagement was the last straw - I’m tired of feeling like the ghost at the feast. Nice girls finish last - too fucking true. 

I’m not going to be single at 30. I don’t want to be. I want to be married, I want to have a husband I adore and who adores me, I want to have a house and children. It’s not fair that I can’t have that and other people can. Why do some people seem to be so fortunate yet people like me who may have more to offer in the romance stakes (no offence) are stuck in the perpetual singles limbo? 

As far as why my past relationships have ended, I’m certain it’s my weight that’s caused the majority of the trouble. I’m quite sure my recent ex-boyfriend, although he was gracious enough not to mention it, was put off by my shape. Just the way he’d (not) look at me was testament to that - the fact that he gradually stopped telling me I was beautiful, not evening noticing when I did radical things to my hair in an effort to get him to notice me. It was painful. I wasn’t good enough - and I never will be for him. Just gotta be good enough for somebody else. But apparently, he’s not anywhere near here and may never be, according to some. 

And Justice For None

(c) Unnamed photographer - found at http://www.eveningnews24.co.uk/

From Saturday August 6, the United Kingdom has seen the worst violent public disorder in many, many years. London, Greater Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham and West Bromwich have seen shop windows smashed, looted and vandalised; cars burnt out; buildings razed to the ground; homes, businesses and livelihoods ruined. 

What this may represent is an onus in the ill-feeling towards the government in this country. The promises of the Con-Dem government have been flimsy and generally unfulfilling. While the rioting is condemnable in every sense, we must ask ourselves: why did this happen? And what are we going to do to prevent such an overspill of ill-feeling happening again? 

The riots supposedly starting due to the shooting of a man in a taxi by police, though I don’t think that’s the issue anymore. I agree that it is largely hooligans with nothing better to do searching for recreational violence and destruction - the crucial outcry is coming from the victims of the riots rather than the perpetrators. Why couldn’t the police do more to stop them - are we too afraid that we’ll violate their “rights”? One political figure that I can’t remember the name of said in a news interview that in this country we want to police with our community and not lose the trust of said community - however, rioters are no longer part of such a community the minute they decide it’s okay to smash, burn, loot and vandalise. So why weren’t the Army called in? Why weren’t the water cannons deployed? I can hear one resounding answer: because we’re too soft.  

These riots are a sorely prevalent example of the tougher, more robust policing we need in order to restore public order and to let people know that they are safe. Politicians in the UK are so consumed with public image that democracy has taken a very unhealthy extremely-PC turn for the worse. The public sector cuts have acted out their disadvantages in some miraculously ironic sense of deja vu - not enough police officers and not enough money. Could you blame the riot police for not doing more when they, in smaller numbers than those they faced, armed only with riot gear and shield - against hundreds more violent thugs with bricks and other large damaging objects, small and large? 

Dissatisfaction has come to a head; let’s see how the government deals with the debris. 

The two types of goodbye we will all have to say eventually

If there is a god, he/she is mocking me. And my loved ones.

I start off on a selfish note (don’t worry, I redeem myself later). The week started terribly as my boyfriend and I split - he had drifted away from me for whatever reason. I spent two days crying and sleeping mostly - crying is better than keeping it locked up, and sleeping - well, if you’re asleep, you can’t feel shit, can you? But then, you wake up, and you inevitably experience those blissful couple of seconds before you remember why you’re world-weary.

This guy was my first major “it”. If you asked me why I liked him so much, I couldn’t give you a straight answer. That’s how you know you’ve found someone really special - you can’t tell why you like them. You just do. The problem is, it wasn’t quite the same in return. I wasn’t “the one” - and while that really, really fucking hurt to hear, I was glad of the honesty for a final time. Many people I spoke to, mostly close friends and family, gave me the obligatory “you don’t need someone like that” and “he’s a bastard” - but to them I said “no, you’re wrong.” While this guy isn’t exactly bang on the money when it comes to making the right decision at the right time, that doesn’t make him a bad guy - it makes him human. If there was such a thing as a perfect time to break up, we’d all be sheltered people - and love wouldn’t be nearly as wonderful, scary and excruciating experience as we know it to be. And as aforementioned, even though it literally broke my heart when I slowly and excruciatingly unravelled the insecurities about our relationship he hadn’t told me about for fear of hurting me a second time, I needed closure that neither of us was willing to give for differing reasons. Him - being too afraid to tell me. Myself - being too afraid to hear it.

I cried and slept for two days, Monday to Wednesday morning. I didn’t leave the house - I collapsed into tears whenever I spoke to anyone I was close to. I wondered whether I would ever find someone I had such passion for ever again, whether someone would want to invest in me as much as I wanted to invest in them. My mother told me there would be - of course. It’s a mother’s duty to console her child, especially mothers and daughters in this respect. Deep down, I know it’s true; my despondence was telling me otherwise. The trampled voice once known as self-esteem tried to speak up from under the weight of my insecurities, not too much unlike the bluebird - he’s singing a little in there, still. Occasionally he tries to tell me nice things, like how special and pretty I am - but my moral compass and impulse to destroy my pride tells me otherwise, and it usually wins. I think Nat King Cole sang it best: “The best things you’ll ever learn is how to love and be loved in return.” It’s a base instinct and sounds childish even, but it’s all I want; to love and to be loved. Money and career, to me, are secondary. Not because I validate myself on a relationship, but simply because I love investing in a man I feel is worth investing in. I also love the trimmings of a relationship - emotional and social bonding, to touch and be touched, comfort and security - someone who thinks you’re wonderful just as you are. Even if you don’t think so.

Two days.

Then I stopped crying.

When your mother calls you in tears to tell you her partner is dying, you give yourself a major reality check. The thing about splitting up is that the person who has been told the relationship is over treats it as if the other person has died - it’s  a classic process of denial, anguish, anger, grief, and acceptance. Knowing that you’ll never feel their touch again, never experience their scent again, never be kissed by them again or hear romantic words from them again makes you feel like they may as well have shuffled off their mortal coil long ago. You wonder how they can feel okay without you, when all the while you’re dying inside. But they’re two-way streets - if one’s not happy, the relationship is doomed to fail. But when you have spent five wonderful years together and just got a house and became engaged, only to have your happiness cut short by terminal cancer - well, my problems felt miniscule. I very quickly learned how to handle my grief at the relationship ending and focused on supporting my family. With such a bleak prognosis, the wedding has been moved to two weeks away. What made me put my life into perspective is that my loss was trivial compared. I’ve still got plenty of time for “the one” to come along - and I’m absolutely heartbroken that my mother found hers, only to have him taken away in such a short space of time. Having your wedding only to have to plan your new husband’s untimely funeral not long after is something I can’t bear thinking about. The fact that he will not survive his elderly parents is also heartbreaking - you’re not supposed to bury your children. They’re supposed to bury you. It’s just not how nature intended.

Cancer is a horrific disease. Seeing someone you care about deteriorate before you, watching all the things they used to love become too much to cope with and seeing them fall into that deep pit of pessimism at the impending diagnosis is hard to bear. Knowing that person is in the next room and may not be there for much longer is frightening. I can’t imagine how it must feel losing your one true love to something so unfair and unyielding, especially after planning a long, happy old age together.

I hadn’t cried about the breakup since those two days until now, when I write about it. I suppose it’s my own form of grief and mourning, something that’s been cut short of sorts. I understand my grief is somewhat superficial compared, but it doens’t mean I shouldn’t complete the process, even if it’s relegated to private grief. But, at the end of the day, I know where my priorities lie. And that’s with them until the time comes when I get the next and final tear-filled phonecall.

The obligatory weight and body image rant

Yes, it’s that time of year again, guys. 

I’m one of these people that is what I affectionately call a ‘part-time dieter’ - i.e. I decide to correct my eating habits when I’m having a particularly merciless ‘fat and ugly day’ or when I see a woman who has what I want, seemingly with little to no effort. When you’re like me, who’s what’s called an endomorph - a person who is naturally prone to weight gain and generally quite short and stocky, who finds it hard to keep the weight off - it’s a real knock to your confidence. Especially, wait for it, when these women say, “Oh God, look at me today, I’m so fat.” 

Rosie Huntington-Whiteley said that she has days where she doesn’t like her body. 

For fuck’s sake, she has nothing to worry about! Anyone who has been on the cover of Vogue magazine has nothing to worry about. I hate these women who claim to have body issues where there is clearly not enough fat on their skinny arses to even possess an iota of worry about. Get a grip, woman. 

I’m about 20lbs overweight and I need to shift it. Health is a factor, but since I am only mildly overweight I feel I am allowed to let my rock-bottom confidence take the reigns on this one. I like to think of myself an intelligent, sensible young woman with her head screwed firmly onto her shoulders. I also like to think of myself as caring towards others and generally a nice, sociable person. However, I can’t think of one woman who is not in some way or another focused on their appearance. It governs our everyday lives, particularly women’s in my opinion - I don’t mean that at all in an ‘all men are bastards’ way. Not at all. You guys are generally stand-up blokes, actually. 

What I mean is - for women, appearance is a first impression more than anything else, and beyond that, an attitude and a projection of confidence. Women judge appearance in both men and women - in men, how well they appeal as a partner, as a partner they can show off (I say this unashamedly, everyone wants to show off their partner to say “he/she is mine. He/she is with me. I must be awesome to get such a great boyfriend/girlfriend.” Everyone does this to some degree or another), what it might say about their hygiene habits, what their job might be, etc. For women, it’s the alpha-female phenomenon. Women who take care of their weight and appearance are participating in a rat-race for top woman. They want to assert to other women that they are confident, know what they want, and get it easily. It puts the rest of us to shame, basically - hence the amount of women who feel inferior, especially due to the media onslaught of unrealistically skinny models and celebrity. I hate Topshop for this reason. Topshop is one of those clothing ranges that intentionally limits their demographic to fit only what they deem ‘acceptable’. Kind of like Abercrombie and Fitch. Bastards. 

I’m getting back on track with losing weight. The thing is, I know it can be done - in fact, I was doing well up until March of this year - guess why it took a nosedive? I met my boyfriend. No offence to him obviously, but we bond a lot over food - and so, when a new relationship unfolds, you tend to forget your weight loss ambitions and they all go a bit tits up. A few months on, and I’m starting to feel self-conscious again. 

I do want to start eating healthier - I know that my current mood and general aches and pains can be vastly improved with a proper diet and cutting out the sweet stuff. Again, this is one of the things that I have done before and I know it works - it’s just getting back into the swing of things which is the killer. The one things I’ve always wanted but never had which I believe other women take for granted is a flat stomach - I mean completely flat. There have been times in my life, including very recently, where I have stood in front of a mirror, sucked my stomach in, and though, “boy, I bet that’s nice. Wish I could have that.” What really, really, really annoys me is the fact that I have to work exceedingly hard for such a figure while others seemingly don’t. It’s a hard fact of life to accept, but some women are just fucking lucky. I’m genetically predisposed to being a bit on the lovehandle-ish side, and while this is a very annoying trait to have, something can be done about it. And when they eventually do disappear, I can own it while being proud of everything I’ve done. 

Am I happy with the way I look? No, and I can honestly say I never have been. I’ve never been model material, not that I really want to anyway - but I want and deserve a body to be proud of. That will hopefully make me feel better about the things I can’t change too - such as the big nose, thin lips and unreasonable hair - and lead to changes in other things not directly to do with weight loss, such as my skin looking brighter and my energy levels going up. I know that I won’t be able to achieve my own goals until I’ve learned to like myself - and if a little self-improvement through weight loss is what will cause that to happen, then I’m all for it. The challenge starts tomorrow with food shopping. 

Why the fuck not? - An epiphany

Apologies for the rather depressing posts before. But hey, you need to let it out sometimes. 

Anyway, time for the good stuff - I have a new mantra. And it is: 

why the fuck not? 

(I believe the hair illustrates this. I’ve been umm-ing and ahh-ing for ages over whether it would look good, maintenance, price, etc. - and I just thought, ‘fuck it, I want this, I’m going to do it.’ I think it worked out okay.)

I’ve always been a very careful person when it comes to actually doing things I want to do. I overthink and overwork the bare bones of it, and eventually I talk myself out of it. There is so much I’d love to do but just haven’t because I’ve convinced myself whole-heartedly it’s a bad idea. But they’re not really. I’m just scared of failing. But in the end, I forget who said this - failure is the first step to success. If it fails, so what? I’m not losing anything particularly vital, it’s just something I did that didn’t work - it’s how not to do it rather than a complete balls-up. I think Thomas Edison said something along those lines - he didn’t fail at making a lightbulb a hundred times, he just learned how not to make a lightbulb a hundred times. Fair play to you, Edison, fair play. 

I’ve been feeling down lately because I haven’t felt complete as a person - just generally not being very good at this whole ‘life’ business, if you know what I mean. I’ve just had a conversation at length regarding self-esteem, self-perception and positive attitude. All a lot of talk fodder. I’ve never felt comfortable in myself, and a lot of feeling comfortable in myself comes from how I believe others perceive me. Now, I’ve not had the best start when it comes to making friends - classic mediocre school-life; socially awkward, hung out with the nerds (don’t regret that for one second, nerds are tight for life) and had the unfortunate experience of living with 6 people that hated me (disputes with bills, generally they were arseholes, etc. - I will never live in an all-female house again). That lasted 6 months before I told one of them to “go fuck herself” and marched out the door. I must say, that’s one of the times in my life when I acted with such conviction in the righteousness of my own actions that I actually didn’t hold back regarding how I felt on the matter or holding back in how I acted (within reason, of course. Even telling someone to go fuck themselves is usually a little bit beyond me.) 

Anyway, I’ve decided to start designing t-shirts. I’ve not got all the tools yet, but fuck it, I want to do it. There’s so much you can say that can put you off doing something - but a failed idea is a failed idea. It’s just how not to do something. It’s not going to scar you for life, nor should it convince you that you’re shit at what you’re doing - you’ve got to give things like this time. Love and attention, and so on and so forth, etc. A project is like a plant: it needs constant and continuous attention in order to grow and flourish. 

I think doing this will help me realise that I am a person capable of doing many things, something that I have a hard time coping with. I feel very limited at the moment in terms of what I can actually do, whether that’s due to cashflow problems, low estimations of self-worth, and just seeing whether something floating around in the old noodle can actually come to fruition. Why let it sit there when you can be putting it into action and making something of it? 

Exciting times. I feel much better for it.