Dealing With It: Part One.

I should have done this a long time ago. I've been putting off, thinking that it would make everything worse. But a wise friend told me that, if these things have already happened, then they can't get any worse. They can't drag you any further down than you already are. They can't hurt you any more than they are now.

I need to face things. I need to deal with things. I've never known how to do that. What I'm attempting to do is write them down, in my words, and essentially own them. Hold onto them, and look at them, with two hands. To me, they've never seemed like very much, these boxes of stuff that I push to the back of my mind. They sound fickle when I glance at them, lying there in the dust; they seem like nothing. But I need to be okay next year, I need to know who I am, and I have to start somewhere. It feels like the pipelines of my senses are clogged with emotions and thoughts that I can't make sense of, and I can't see properly. I can't feel properly. But it needs to stop now, because I'm tired.

I'm even putting it off now, thinking of more things to write to fill the space, saying to myself in my head that there isn't really anything to write about. I just need to do it.



1. This wise friend I mentioned earlier. Every time I see her she brings this issue up, and I always used to get a bit frustrated because to me it really wasn't that big a deal. But I understand now, it kind of is.
    At the beginning of my first term at university, amidst all the other changes and upheavals going on in my head, I dislocated my knee during one of my first training sessions with the women's rugby team. Not only was it completely humiliating (seriously, it was like my second training session, we hadn't even played a game yet), I was also sent to the hospital, and made to wear a cast on my leg for a month. I couldn't walk, I had to use crutches for the first time, and I still had a skin infection as well. I was stuck in a new place with people I'd only just met, and I had to rely on them to do these simple things for me. Anyone who knows me well will know that I struggle to ask for help from friends and family I've known all my life, so this was hard for me. I'd just gained some independence, and now I was leaning (physically and metaphorically) on others again! I'd also lost the one thing I'd committed by time to, and now I had nothing to do but hobble to lectures and sit in my room all day. It wasn't very fun.
    That was a tough time, but I realise now that I lost a lot more that day than just my independence for a term. In fact, it actually made me much stronger in hindsight. I had to learn to how to talk to university staff, fight for what I needed, and it helped me to develop some lasting friendships that I'll never lose. But, in reality, I couldn't play sport anymore. I couldn't even run or exercise properly. I still can't.
    It wasn't until during my revision at the end of the summer term that I began to notice the consequences of being unable to participate in sport. I missed the social side of being part of a team, where I function so well; playing sport was the only environment at school and outside of school where I felt like I could be myself, and felt like I fitted in. Most of the time, my teammates were of a similar mindset to me, with the same goals and an innate understanding of how a team works. Loyalty, respect, encouragement, perseverance, unity. I liked going through the motions and challenging myself with others doing the same; it gave me a sense of who I was and what I could achieve. Now I couldn't be involved in that sense of team, despite still being a member, because I was physically unable to keep up and be relied upon as someone who could pull their weight. I really missed it.
    However, there was another downside to my injury. I'd never realised how much energy I had, most of it nervous energy. Sport gave me the best outlet for it; I loved pushing myself, wearing myself out, giving everything I had, and if I hadn't done that then I wasn't working hard enough and I wasn't performing at my best, which was essentially what the team needed. I could channel that energy into bettering myself and staying fit. Without the ability to do this, where was the energy going to go?
    Sitting in my room all day, trying to revise and moving from my chair to the fridge and back again, I could feel it. I could feel the constant need to move and do stuff itching at the ends of my limbs, whirring in my mind, and restlessness became my permanent state of being. I couldn't sleep because I didn't need to, I wasn't tired - until the next morning, of course, and then I'd be unable to revise properly. I began to stress, not specifically about the exams I had coming up but just little things, things that I'd worry about anyway but now that anxiety was amplified in my mind because the energy I usually spent on exercising had nowhere else to go. My panic attacks became more frequent and violent, and I couldn't control them anymore. I was going crazy, simply because I couldn't expel any of this agitated energy anywhere else.
    That's why I tried to fill my time with other things. Meetings, campaigns, social events, coursework, anything that would make me exhausted and help me to sleep. Those things also provided distractions for other emotions that I'll go into later, so it seemed like the perfect solution. But this was different to playing sport; now, I was draining myself mentally, and this had a really negative impact on my mental health. The panic attacks didn't slow down - they only became a burden I conceal more wisely because I spent all my time in the company of others.
    In retrospect, it makes sense now. All of this, just from one slipped knee cap during a rugby training session in my first term. Of course, not being able to exercise had an effect on my weight too. I have stretch marks everywhere, so much so that I can't wear shorts or tank tops in public (it's been a long summer), and going swimming is excruciating (except in a wet suit). My mum reminds me constantly that I eat too much, and I've gone up a clothing size. I feel like I can't be the gender I should be either, because I don't have any muscle mass anymore. All because of one stupid knee cap.
    I know I need motivation to get up and do stuff; just because I can't run anymore, I can still do other stuff, right? I'm just scared it's going to dislocate again. Maybe that's an excuse, but its true. It's not even the pain that's the worst part; it's the feeling of something being out of place, not where it should be. It makes me feel physically sick. I don't want that again.
    I'm looking into having on operation to sort this out, but my parents don't want me to have it and I understand why. Why have an operation if you don't necessarily need it? What if it doesn't work out and you're worse off than you were before? Honestly though, after realising what this has done to me, I don't think it could get much worse. At least I'll know that I tried.


So that's one thing I've kept in a box. That's enough for now, I think. See what I mean? It's nothing really, compared to what other people are going through in this world right now. I thank God that at least I have working legs, that I can still get around, that I still have that liberty. But I think it's my lack of ability to deal with it that makes it such a big deal, so that has to change.
 
 
   

Suited and booted.

So as of yesterday, I am now the proud owner of two suits. I could not be happier. I have a smart black tie number, and a blue one that I'm hopefully going to wear to the weddings I'm attending this summer. Yes, I am a woman, and yes, I wear suits now. Even though that shouldn't be such a big deal, some people seem to think it is. But it feels so, so right.

I've never felt comfortable in dresses, for as long as I can remember. I shunned the primary school summer dress as soon as I could speak and decide for myself what I wanted to wear, for the main reason that you simply couldn't play football properly with a dress and white knee-high socks on. As I moved to high school wearing school skirts was the norm, so I conformed, as the majority of teenage girls did in many ways at that age where you're trying to figure out how to fit in. It didn't help that the trousers were hideous, and I think they were made like that on purpose. I continued to wear a skirt in Sixth Form and when I became Head Girl because I thought I'd be taken more seriously if I dressed in such a way, and I believed that I was expected to demonstrate a certain kind of femininity to set an example to the rest of the school. I wore dresses to most things, and I even managed to build up quite a collection that I'd alternate for different events. But it never felt like me. I'd be parading this image of my self that didn't reflect who I was; it reflected what people wanted to see, what was expected of me as a woman dressing up for a formal occasion.

Now you might be reading this thinking that it isn't important at all, that how I dress is a completely minor and irrelevant issue in my life. But since having my eyes opened at university, I've come to acknowledge that in a world that is obsessed with appearances and materialism, how one dresses and presents themselves contributes to the way that society is constructed in similar ways to how we act and speak. Specific modes of masculinity and femininity are so entrenched in how we perceive and understand the world around us that we don't notice that that particular binary that we all adhere to completely dominates our lives. It starts when we're young: boys wear blue, and girls wear pink. This simple colour assignment then transforms into what activities we should and shouldn't like, how we dress, how we talk, what career paths we follow and even how we interact with each other. Thus, men wear suits, and women wear dresses.

Because this distinct gender binary is implemented as soon as we're born, what society seems to ignore is that actually, we all start as blank slates. A person is a 'tabula rasa' as Aristotle might postulate; their gender doesn't automatically define how that person expresses themselves, and it doesn't determine the choices they make. It shouldn't, anyway. Where does it state in this life manual that the general population seems to be carrying around that I'm born to wear dresses and love pink and hate blue? Where does it state that men consequently have to wear suits and hate pink and love blue? Somebody needs to point this out to me if I'm missing something, but I don't get it.

Personally, I love suits, and the colour blue, and you know what? I'll leave wear the odd pink shirt or sock every now and again. To me, this is what makes me feel comfortable. Yet, when I walk into a room at a club wearing a suit, where the football has just finished and people are drinking, hundreds of pairs of eyes follow me across the room because I make them uncomfortable, and for some reason that matters more than what makes me feel comfortable.

Women can be feminine. Women can be masculine.
Men can be feminine. Men can be masculine.

And you know what? The world isn't going to end because we don't all conform to the stereotypes we've been forced to comply with. People should feel good, and look good, in whatever they choose, and that's exactly what I plan to do.

The fact that I wore a skirt when I was Head Girl even though I hated every second of it because I thought I'd be taken more seriously, and because I had a role that I thought I needed to play is a travesty. My belief before I knew any better just shows how this world sets some young people up to fail; I felt as if my masculinity wouldn't be accepted or respected, and I couldn't be myself. Furthermore, the way I looked on the school prospectus photographs was more important to me at that time than everything I achieved in that year. Maybe we place such a high value on appearance because as a society we're scared of what might happen if people stopped giving a damn about fitting into these gender roles that dictate how the world is supposedly meant to function. Well, I for one don't give a damn about those people that all did second takes when they saw me in a suit, and if they felt scared on threatened then maybe they should consider why.

Even though she's been incredibly supportive and is coming to terms with everything, my mum still thinks I want to be a man, and that the term 'androgynous' is a synonym for intersex. Bless her, she's getting there. At least she's trying. That's all I'm trying to ask of myself and the world around me at the moment: not to suddenly throw caution to the wind and personally stop conforming to these gender roles, but to simply understand that they're not for everyone. Tolerance is the first step, acceptance comes next, and then maybe we can get somewhere in this binary-manic world.

For now though, I'm just going to wear my suits and be happy. I finally know what it feels like to be me. 

My contribution.

Here's something I wrote for a mental health awareness website that my university is setting up - I'll post a link when it's finished. I'm submitting anonymously, but if anyone puts two and two together, yep this is me!

It was really strange, writing it. I never thought there was anything wrong with me before, I was just a bit weird, you know? But writing it down makes it a bit more ... real. Keeping it to six hundred words was a struggle too; I have a painful relationship with word counts, as all of my seminar tutors have had to find out this year. Here goes.

Living with a mental illness is like living in hell a lot of the time. But actually admitting to yourself that you have a mental illness, and forcing yourself to get help – that’s the hardest part. When I arrived at university I knew I wasn't okay, but I’d grown up with the mentality that if you put your head down and get on with things, then the issue will go away. You’ll get used to it. You will get settled, and you will be fine.

I’d tell myself these things constantly, but every time I had a panic attack or spent hours trying to get to sleep at night, it would just feel like another failure. I wasn't getting better, I wasn't coping with the big change that everyone who moves to university goes through, and I was weaker than everyone else.

That’s what my head does. I think constantly, I worry and worry and it never stops. Sometimes, if I don’t close all the doors in the house or put everything in the right place before I go to bed, then the voice in my head gets louder. My own voice, over and over again, telling me that I’m not doing something right; I’m a stupid, worthless person who never does anything right. It’s like that feeling when you’re just about to fall off a chair, or drop a plate – it feels like that, but all the time. A heaviness on your chest, a hook in your throat. You’re going to mess up, you’re going to let someone down, maybe you shouldn't even be here. It never stops.

Suddenly after moving away, it became very easy to shut the whole world out and very hard to motivate myself to do simple things. I also felt guilty, incredibly guilty – all the people around me were handling all the things I was perfectly, so why was I struggling?

The more people I got to know, the more commitments I gained. I’d make myself as busy as possible during the day so I could drown out the angry voice, and collapse into bed at night so I wouldn't lie awake for hours. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't please everyone. The pressure I had placed on myself kept building, and I didn't know how to be in control of what I was doing. It’s not like I could tell anyone either, I didn't want anyone else thinking I was pathetic – my own voice was bad enough.

When my trichotillomania started to pick up, and thoughts about hurting myself entered my head again, I knew it would get harder to stop. I sent in a self-referral form for a counselling session. It took a while, but I kept my head above water until that point when the counselling service contacted me. It was a target that I’d set myself: get to that meeting, don’t give in. I didn't even know what ‘giving in’ meant at that point, but I didn't want to find out yet.

The counselling service have helped, a lot. I still have panic attacks and dark days, but at least someone knows now. At least I know that my struggles aren't abnormal, and the help is there. It’s so easy to think that you’re on your own, but this university can put you on a path to find the means to feel stronger, and hopefully they’re getting better at it too.

Living with a mental illness is like living in hell. But it’s not a weakness, so don’t let it stop you getting the most out of life. 

I'm trying not to, anyway.

One regret.

It was my secondary school's presentation evening last night. After my mum made me wear a dress, and then told me that said dress was too tight and I needed another one, I wasn't in the best of moods when it started. But it didn't turn out too badly. I saw a few old friends, a few old teachers whom I now consider to be friends, and my old school chaplain gave me a kiss on the cheek for the leaving present I got for him last year. He's an incredible man.

It was nostalgic, but not as much as I'd anticipated. On the one hand, it felt like I'd never left; yet on the other, everything had changed, and it seemed surreal to think I'd ever spent seven years of my life there. It made me contemplate who I'd become, what I achieved, and what I hadn't.

I've come to the conclusion that I will now have one regret in life - on the premise that I don't have the intention to make any more, because they aren't much fun. I'm always going to imagine how much different, or better, my life could have been had I applied to Oxbridge. I've voiced this regret to several people, and each one has replied in a similar fashion: "You wouldn't have enjoyed it, it would have been too much for you." Implying in the very least that, although academically speaking I would've been fine, mentally I would have struggled to cope under the pressure that such institutions are famous for placing on their students to push them past their potentials. Now don't get me wrong, I think the people that have said such things are completely right, as they all know me better than I know myself. But I still feel incredibly sad about that.

The fact that I often can't understand my own thoughts and behaviour from a subjective point of view scares me so much; I had no idea that I'd be this bad. I have frequent panic attacks, my trich is getting worse and I battle against anxiety with every decision I make. The feelings and judgements of the people around me echo in my head and haunt me through night and day, to the point where I can only just make out the words of self-depreciation that repeat endlessly. It's a bloody good thing I didn't go to Oxbridge, and I think God knew that too. But how weak am I, knowing that I wouldn't be able to cope in an environment where, had I been stronger and more together, I could have excelled and made people proud of me.

Mental health isn't a joke; it's a nightmare, and I don't even know the worst of it. I'm far from it, so many people experience it in ways that I'll never know and that scares me even more. If I struggle to reach God on dark days, then what chance to others have who fall even further from clarity and security? And if God remains silent, then what are we supposed to do?

It seems to me that mental health is the largest issue of human nature that we're having to face in today's world, and we don't appear to be making a lot of progress. Not from where I'm standing anyway. Science might be developing, but the stigma surrounding various mental illnesses is standing its ground in the face of people suffering and recovering alike, making life even more impossible than it was before. People remain ignorant and all-assuming, to the point where in such a society it feels like having the mental illness is the least of a person's problems. We aren't learning from the same mistake we've made for years regarding physical disability: clearly, a person's surroundings are what cause them to disabled, not the physical impairment itself. I learnt that when I experienced being unable to walk during my first weeks of term at university with a cast on my leg; despite the fact that provisions were made for disabled students, I still found myself stuck in faulty lifts whilst trying to avoid stairs on several occasions, and wheelchair-friendly ramps were rendered pointless when I realised that they required me to push uphill for a solid five minutes. The same restrictions apply when we discuss mental health, and they are vast.

So until I live in a world where academic ability doesn't have to be shamed and impeded by one's mental state, and the success and quality of life that most people enjoy is attainable for those whose strengths and talents lie in different areas, who may not able to walk or talk but can still think and reach their goals - then I will continue to be sad. I have one regret, but others have many, and not by their own limitations but the ones forced upon them.

Wake up world, people are drowning. It's time to change.

Thorns in their sides.

So, I just saw Noah.

Not the actual man, I'm not having mysterious dreams or anything. None that involve him in any case.

No, the film, with Russell Crowe and Emma Watson. It was really, really good - it was an interpretation, and I don't know how I feel about the angels that looked like talking rocks and the CGI babies, but aside from a few tiny things, I really enjoyed it. It made me relax, which is something I'm having trouble with at the moment. But it also made me think, and that's never good.

It made me think about why I'm here. Why I'm me. Why God, or the Creator as He's been referred to as this evening, made me the way I am.

What purpose could I possibly have as a gay woman? I know that I was born like this, I'm certain of it. I can't change that, either, and at this point in my life I can honestly say that I don't want to change.

However, watching the film tonight and the issues that are involved, it seems clear to me that God created women, and men, for a reason. They are compatible, they are suited, they make sense. Even without the purpose of procreation, there's a sense of a 'clean fit' between them. So why on earth did God create gay people?

Now gay men and women have relationships that are just as healthy and fulfilling as heterosexual relationships. Is that the only reason that we exist as we do, though? To have and share and enjoy relationships, that's it? 

Maybe that's true, actually. Maybe I just needed to write my thoughts and doubts down so that they make sense. That is the only reason we're here, isn't it? To share in happy, healthy relationships with people, all kinds of people. 

There is no place for me in Noah's story, and maybe not in the entire Bible. But if the Bible did show one thing, it displayed the diversity of human kind. I believe that my type of diversity was hidden underneath verse after verse, and behind characters like an anonymous slave or an ambiguous thorn in the side of a well known protagonist. 

There was little room for Ham in Noah's story, too, but he was still in God's plan. So that must mean I am too, right?

God must be okay with the fact that I was paying more attention to Emma Watson than Logan Lerman this evening, or else I wouldn't be here. Whether or not He has a life planned for me like I presume He does for every straight person in the world is another thing entirely, though. 

The foundation of our human existence that is heternormativity will continue to make me struggle with things that I feel I need to understand. But I guess only time will tell what God has in store for me, and whether being gay even matters to Him at all. I do really sometimes wish that Jesus had just mentioned homosexuality, just once - it'd make our lives so much easier! And part of me wishes that one of those many biblical protagonists had a named and gendered thorn in their side, but even if they did, we shall never know.

For now, I'll just keep smiling when Emma Watson (have I mentioned her yet?) appears on my screen, and be content with the simple side to human nature. Enough thinking and pointless rambling for one night. 

Precipice.

It scares me how easy it is to let everything go, and 'go off the rails' as they say. Literally, it would take me a few weeks at best to turn my life completely upside down. I could do that. I have the power to do that. Its probably just about the only thing I have the power to do right now.

Thinking about it, it therefore doesn't surprise me why so many young people do take a nose-dive in life. Personally, I could get totally wasted every night on not a lot of money and without walking for more than five minutes. If I wanted drugs, I know exactly who to talk to. I can pinpoint every bridge or tall building I could jump off. I could quit my university course in a day. I could lock my door, and if I disappeared I doubt anyone would think anything of it for at least two days.

All of these things, and the amount of times I think about them, absolutely terrify me. It seems like we have to climb a mountain every day to achieve things in life, sometimes even just to get out of bed, but ruin our lives completely? Barely any effort at all.

That's where I feel like I am now. I'm on an edge. I'm peering over a precipice, and I could lean one way or the other. I have expectations and the people I love pulling me one way, but the colossal amount of fucking mistakes and bad choices I make and the lack of motivation I have and the worthlessness and the darkness and all the shitty pain and insecurities pulling me the other way.

Some people would laugh. I've been through barely anything compared to other people, I have a great life, I have nothing to complain about, and they're right.

But there's this pit. It's dark, it's cold, and it's sucking me in. My vision is turning to grey, and I'm struggling to sleep without nightmares each night. Breathing hurts, and the people who can support me are too far away, or I've pushed them that far because I keep doing stupid fucking things. I don't know how to change, and \i don't know what to do.

So the other side of this precipice, it feels closer.

And I'm so, so scared.

Michaelmas to Lent.

I feel as though I have an immense amount to fill you in on! I haven't been very proactive in maintaining a regular interest in this blog, so I apologise. I'll try and get better at it.

But I do really mean it, a lot has happened since my last post. More than anything, looking back on my rather eventful first term (a skin infection, a dislocated knee, a subsequent leg in plaster and a slight case of concussion - thank goodness God was with me or who knows what else could've happened!) I've come to notice that intertwining my sexuality and my faith within my lifestyle as a student at Lancaster has been much harder than I'd anticipated. The gulf between the two worlds is still incredibly large and very visible; so much so, that I've heard members of each respective 'side' criticize the other, and in some cases I can hardly argue against them. Not all cases, of course, but I have yet to challenge any comments made. I feel cowardly and stupid, for these aspects of my identity are crucial and of so much importance and relevance in my life. But what kind of reception would I get? In my mind (which is prone to jumping to worst case scenarios now and again) coming out within my church community might ostracize me and provoke comments and opinions that, quite frankly, I'd rather not hear again. On the other hand, if I was to state my religious beliefs amongst the gay and feminist communities that I'm part of, I'd probably receive an equally frosty and challenging reception. Clearly, I might be exaggerating, and completely underestimating the people I've gotten to know over the last few months. However I believe that my position on this only more vehemently indicates the ongoing conflict between the two communities, and highlights the pain and anger that has been caused in the past by this conflict that is still very present and active in the lives of young people in particular.

Despite this issue, it hasn't stopped me enjoying the opportunities I've had in getting with involved with these groups and societies. Unfortunately, the knee injury that I mentioned before has prevented me from rejoining the women's rugby team, and from playing contact sports entirely for the foreseeable future. This has been quite a blow for me, as anyone who knows me well will know how much I love participating in sport and being part of a team, so being told I can't do this anymore has been crippling. Nevertheless, with my gym membership now active, I've been trying to get down and use the (oh so amazing) facilities that the university's sports centre has to offer, in the hope that I might be able to strengthen my knee joint and play again some time in the future, whilst also trying to get my fitness back to what it was (although it wasn't very impressive in the first place, let's be honest - maybe I can make some progress beyond what I'm used to!). Just this week I've also managed to secure a job at the sports centre's swimming pool, assisting in swimming lessons like I used to do back at home for so many years. I haven't got any regular hours yet, just filling in wherever they need me, but I'm hoping it will lead to something permanent in the future. It's a job, anyway; I'm definitely not complaining!

Instead of throwing all of my energy into sport, I've had the chance to get involved in other things that I otherwise wouldn't have had the time to pursue. I've been trying to get to church every Sunday morning; the church I'm currently trying to make a regular commitment to is called Moorlands Evangelical Church, and I've already made several friends have that supported me through my turbulent last term. It has a lot of provisions for students, and even though the church itself consists of a mixture of families, students and older people there is a lot of emphasis on helping students make the best of their time at university, and encouraging them to live as Christians within student culture. The bible teaching each week is incredible, and although I sometimes find it hard to stay awake due to a late night beforehand, I still learn a lot! It's refreshing to be able to listen to a new perspective on aspects of the Bible that I've never heard before, which is something I appreciate about having the freedom to attend the church that appeals to me the most. Not that I'm knocking my own church communities back at home - you're all wonderful! But as I've had to understand through moving to new a place, different is nearly always good.

I'm also currently involved in a production called the 'Vagina Monologues'. For those of you who don't know what it is, I've enclosed a link above just in case my description doesn't do it justice! Basically, it is a play constructed in the form of a series of monologues, written and compiled by Eve Ensler and a number of women that she interviewed. The common theme is, of course, the vagina, and different experiences that women have had surrounding their sexuality, and each monologue conveys a different experience, ranging from rape to birth, from heterosexual to homosexual to transsexual experience, and just mere appreciation of the vagina and female sexuality. It is funny, harrowing, emotional, and above all a celebration of the female gender and identity. Not only it is a play, though; it has also led to the V-Day campaign, a global movement that campaigns around issues such as violence against women and girls, and female equality. In support of this cause, Lancaster does a performance of the Monologues every year using the monologues that originally Ensler compiled, and has done for twelve years previously, and fund-raises to support a local organisation that fights or provides for women's rights.

At first I thought I'd missed my chance to be a part of this inspiring movement this year, due to my injury, but I was lucky enough to have a conversation with one of the directors during a LGBT workshop (a society that I've also been getting involved in) on a day that one of the performers dropped out, so I got a part! Having never even seen the play being performed before, I feel incredibly privileged and excited to be so directly involved this year, performing alongside many amazing and wonderful women. Now I'm definitely no actress, and learning my lines has been quite an experience, so I hope I do them the justice they deserve! But, as someone said a few rehearsals ago, this play isn't like any other play, and any imperfections that we make only contribute to the imperfections of women themselves, imperfections that we're celebrating, because we're know we're not perfect. So that takes the pressure off a bit!

In terms of my studies (yes, I'm doing a degree as well, I forget that sometimes), it's going okay. English is good, the lectures are really interesting and the materials we're studying are so rich and wonderful! But, because our first year is just an 'over-view' year to ease everyone in, we never really get the chance to explore a specific topic before we move onto the next one. And don't get me started on the department; one thing I've learnt at university is that as a kid you think that adult institutions and businesses operate so smoothly and are so incredibly organised, but in reality they're really not! And my tutor is cute, he's a Swedish guy called Johan and he attached packets of Haribo to our first essays when he gave them back to us - but have I learnt anything from him? Probably not. Oh well, I guess it's a learning curve for him too!

My minor subjects that I have to do this year are going a little better; EPR (ethics, philosophy and religion for those of you like my dad who keep forgetting what it is) is enriching and challenging, to an extent that I really have to concentrate to understand half of what the lecturer is saying most of the time! But it keeps me on my toes, so that's good. Gender Studies is less challenging in a way but just as interesting, and continues to add fuel to my feminist ideals through our exploration of how gender affects different elements of the society we live in.

I've started sharing meals with my housemate Alex this term as well, to make surviving a bit easier for both of us. I thought I'd attach a photo of when I made shepherd's pie for us whilst she was at a lecture, as it was my turn to cook - the mince was a bit frazzled, and there was definitely more cheese than potato, but overall not a bad first attempt!

So that's my update, really. I'm sure I have lots more to tell you that I'll think of later, so I'll be back soon! Much love and stuff.