Resolute

Yes - believe it or not, it is that time of year again.

Christmas isn't long again, and already we are being bombarded with messages of detoxing, resolution making and self improvement for the new year. .

This Christmas, I've been particularly reflective. Last Christmas (refrain from singing Wham, I beg of you), my life was very different. Very different indeed. It's been hard for me to discern whether my life is different now because of luck, fate or simply my bad actions.

Like most other people, I've lost a lot this year. On the more insignificant end of the spectrum, I'm now single. On the other end, I lost my wonderful grandmother. It was one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, and it affects me more daily than I could have ever imagined. She had an incredible impact on my life, as well as everyone else's. Her presence was sorely missed at our dinner table this Christmas.

I've been through two jobs this year. I'm aware that people are in much tighter situations than me when it comes to my finances (shout out to my parents, my own personal bailout fund), I find it extremely difficult not having a safety blanket. I went from living relatively cheaply working a well paid job, to scraping by in Dublin. I don't like the fact that my parents are under pressure when it comes to housing and feeding me during college, especially when they have a stack of other bills on top of that.

It's a pity that amongst all this loss, I couldn't manage to lose a few stone.

Despite this, it's obviously that I've gained more this year. I've mentioned my Leaving Cert in previous posts, so I'll resist from going on about now. I've also written about getting into college, of which the experience has been a dream. I've gained an incredible new set of friends from all across the country,  who laugh at my jokes and make me feel like the world isn't as heavy on my back. I was short-listed in this year's Hot Press Write Touch competition, in which I was featured in the magazine, as well as my piece being published on their website. I've gained invaluable PR experience, and earned a press internship at 9 Crow Street as a result. I have had a fabulous Christmas, and I look forward to going to Birmingham in March with my gorgeous mother to see one of my favourite bands in the entire world.

It's not all about gain and loss, mind. What about what we still have? Often, that's what's overlooked. I still have my family here in Cobh, my school friends, my childhood friends and a roof over my head.

Some people haven't been as lucky or worked as hard as I have this year. Sometimes, I forget that. It's easy to lose perspective.

This year, I decided to do the Christmas Day swim with my sister to raise money for the hospital where my nan stayed in her final weeks It was extremely important that I did this. My sister and I considered dropping out as struggled to open the frozen doors of my dad's car. But we couldn't. We wouldn't let ourselves.

The swim was easily the most painful experience of my entire life. The steam rose as an assembly of clothed bodies descended into the waters of Cuskinny. My body felt like it had been set alight; my internal organs like they were being weighed down. I managed to stay in the water for half an hour thought, and I was proud of myself.

This year has allowed me to grow as a person in so many ways. I've made poor decisions, but I can safely say, I've learned from them all. Last new year's, I did something pretty horrific and cruel. I took this decision out on people who didn't deserve it. But now is not the time for self-loathing. Now is not the time for wishing things were different, or that I'd tried harder or that I was a better person. It's time to move forward - without regret and without anger.

Things have happened. Things will always happen. No matter how many resolutions you make, you stick to or otherwise. Now is the time to realise that  are great - you deserve your life, and this year is yours.

Your gains. Your losses. Your happiness.

Legacy

"Oh, you're the one who puked all over herself at Christina's!"

While I was doing my best to cheer up a girl I barely knew in the bathroom of a club at the weekend, she quickly remembers how it is that she knows me - being an absolute mess.

I have written about said-puking experience before - if you haven't read it, allow me to redirect you.

What she said got me thinking. You're probably aware having read previous posts that I am extremely conscious as to what people think of me and it affects me a lot. I stopped and asked myself at that moment - what will I be remembered for?

The saying goes that the good you do is never acknowledged, and the bad you do is never forgotten and I can't help but feeling this applies to me. I obsess over the things I have done wrong or am doing wrong. The good pales in comparison to the bad.

Didn't Beyoncé sing something about 'leaving footprints in the sands of time'? I mean, that's all well and good if you're Beyoncé, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not actually Beyoncé. What about me?

Will I be immortalised as 'the girl that puked all over herself at an 18th she was invited to solely because of her boyfriend'? 'That girl that kissed too many boys in one night'? 'That attention-seeking girl who asked about ass tattoos on Twitter'? 'The one who bit that girl in Senior Infants, who broke someone's heart on New Year'a Eve, who constantly told lies, was an awful friend and who laid her dignity on the line for the sake of being liked by shallow spiteful people'?

Maybe not. Maybe I'll be 'the girl that got the highest results in her Junior Cert that one time'. Or 'the girl who loved people to the point of no return'. 'The girl who would do ANYTHING for her friends and family'. 'The one who sang Ave Maria, made stupid Batman impressions and never forgot anybody's birthday'.

Maybe.

Maybe it would just be better to be forgotten.

'The girl that never was'.

My Life In Pictures #1 - My friends are scumbags

Restored (*)

At last. It was hers.

Never had she coveted something so much and for so long as she had this magnificent piece. It had been calling for her from the wall of the gallery for many a year, and after a hard-fought auction she could finally call it her own. A beautiful oil painting set in a gilded frame. A portrait of a man and his wife from the 1800s, in period dress. She counted herself lucky to have found such a rare, unique work of art. Perfection.

Well, that is not entirely true. Art is not without its flaws: artists, collectors and auctioneers alike know that. Tragically, her painting was no exception - exposure to daylight and general wear-and-tear had lead to its condition being less than mint by the time it had made its way to her.

Not that that was going to stop her. She believed she had all the qualities to bring its beauty back to life. Love, affection and plenty of patience were all that were required. How hard could it be? Granted, she had never restored a painting before, but she was committed to the cause. "You were worth the wait, Lord knows you'll be worth the time and effort", she thought to herself.

She dove into the project. As she lacked the first-hand experience, she relied foolishly on the poor advice of others, who knew as little as she did, As well as that, she read a countless number of books on painting restoration. Despite her youth and lack of experience, she believed whole-heartedly she could do her masterpiece justice and give it what it deserved.








She tried. No one could deny her that. Not even the man and the wife in the painting. It became the ultimate labour of love. It is unclear as to where the emphasis lay: 'labour' or 'love'. She had underestimated the necessary investment in restoring such a damaged, but high quality painting. Weeks and months slipped away like paint on canvas. She began to see people less and less. Her own work suffered. Relationships fizzled out. Her devotion to the cause was unquestionable - enslaved by her love for the thing. How could she not be? She was overcome by its beauty. She adored it. She was the envy of all her friends for having it. Only once in a blue moon would you stumble across such a fantastic piece. She refused to give up on it, despite the hardship. They had said it would be hard, so it must have meant she was doing it right. With a heavy heart and her pupils drowned, she persevered.

Where love grows, so do feelings of inadequacy. After faltering on numerous occasions, and feeling she was simply ruining the painting, she grew disillusioned. She no longer felt worthy of owning such a fine piece when she couldn't even restore it. She grew sad at the thought of the man and wife's displeasure of being poorly restored, of being forever hidden behind a sheet never to be admired or desired again. She grew jealous of other artists with their delicate strokes, their perfect ways, their knowledge. Their eyes were filled with love and their blood filled with beauty. She had neither of those traits and she never would. Doubts permeated her weak mind. Was she not cut out for this?

The paintings hold on her was unshakeable. She agonised over its every feature. Any moment not spent painting evoked feelings of guilt within her. Any moment spent painting never felt like enough. Every mistake burned her retina and burrowed its way into her long term memory. Feelings of inadequacy continued to manifest in her mind. Slowly, she began to accept that she was not capable of restoring this priceless painting. She was not the best thing for this. The promises she made could not be kept. Tortured, she made a decision, for better or for worse.








As the furnace flickered in the dark, she thought of how happy she thought it would make her, as if she hadn't before. She had never pictured such a grim ending. Had she loved the idea more than the reality? Her love, time and effort, had it been for nothing? If so, she was entirely to blame. The heat was unbearable.

She watched her tarnished love smoke and burn and her heart ached - but not half as much as it had when she was with it.

Little

I've made no bones about the fact that I have no idea whether I want kids or not. 

I go through phases when I do - when a family member has a baby and it's cherub-like features tug at my maternal heart-strings.

I go through phases when I don't - when that same family member's little angel turns in to an absolute little shit and progresses to ruin its own life and everyone else's. 

I mean, how could you live with that? 

Children themselves put me off really. I pass a primary school every morning on my way to school. I witness, first-hand, as mother/fathers send their little darlings off with kisses, cuddles and 'I love yous', only to get nothing in return. Not a goodbye. Not even a wave. Off they scamper into school - the ungrateful little prats. After that man/woman just woke you up, dressed you, wiped your cereal off your manky face, made sure you had all your crap for school and that you weren't late, and you basically give him or her two fingers at the gate. I don't care if you're four or five and can barely form a sentence: you tell your mammy or daddy you love them! Every single morning! There's many a child I have wished to kick for their cheeky behaviour - just think what I'd be like if one of my own did that!

The toys would wreck my head too - the noises, the flashing, the small parts which 'may be a choking hazard'. It's all well and good running around a toy shop when you're five or six or seventeen pressing all the 'Try Me!' buttons on every single toy in sight to annoy the shite out of every employee and customer. I can't imagine how amusing it would be being on the other side. I mean, there's only so many times you can hear Elmo sing a song before you want to punch him repeatedly in the head.

Little kids are strange. And grubby. Realistically, I'm not exactly one to talk here, as my clothes seem to attract stains, (and my hair food), but they really are dirty horrible creatures. A former friend of mine once had a three year old stick a lollipop in her hair. Having said that, she was manhandling the child like it was some sort of handbag, so, in hindsight, I don't really blame the little thing. She deserved it.

Scenarios have played out in my head of my little son or daughter having miserable lives. Being friendless weirdos and myself being able to do nothing about it (it's not as if I could be their bestfriend - can't imagine that would do much for their 'street cred'). I'm perfectly aware that I wouldn't be able to live their lives for them, but when I imagine circumstances like that, I almost wish I could. It would honestly kill me, and I would hold myself utterly responsible. When it boils down to, it is this fear that holds me back ultimately. 

But then there are other things ...

It's the little crayon house with the little crayon windows, proudly pinned to the fridge. Little crayon mammy and daddy stand outside, holding the child's slightly disproportional hands. Smiles on all their faces.

Little laughs, at the things you now consider insignificant. The 'peek-a-boo', the 'aeroplane', the bizarre children's TV shows with their cringey presenters. The very first joke they tell that isn't all that funny and makes little or no sense. You'll still laugh. Even when they say it over and over and over again. 

The ones that say those four little words that make you feel like the best person in the world - "I love you mammy".

Little hands. Little fingers. Little feet. Little toes. 

Little tears stream down little cheeks. Little smiles light up little faces.

Watching them go from 'little' to 'not-so-little', collecting memory after memory as you go.

After all, it's the little things in life that matter most, isn't it?

G-string (*)

You don't realise how good you are when you play.

That's probably not very reassuring, coming from me - someone who likes shit music and can't recognise any of the songs you play. But you are. Trust me.

I love how passionate you are, and how much you immerse yourself in it. You fit the image of 'broody musician' to a tee, (I think you're aware of that yourself though, you cocky bastard).

I wish I could afford to buy you a new guitar, or your own piano to play when you've had too much to drink and you think you're Beethoven/Peter Griffin. They're bloody expensive though - I'll have to set up some kind of fund for you, my impoverished musical prodigy.

I'm about as useful to you as a guitar without a G-string -  but I'll always be listening. Always.

Guidance

I need you to do something for me.

I know I ask a lot of you as it is. I can only hope that you will oblige me this on top of everything else.
I need direction. I need you to tell me - no, I need you to show me what to do, until I start getting things right. Until you do, I will only continue to falter and struggle with my decisions and actions.

It frustrates me that I have to ask for help; that I can't do things for myself without disaster following. I feel as young and naive as my short years. I would love to be as independent and sensible as I make out to be. But I'm not. Far from it.

You know what the most frustrating thing is? When I don't even realise that I'm doing things wrong. Which is almost all of the time. I continue to offend and hurt people with the decisions I make, and I am oblivious to the extent of the havoc I cause. I'm the idiot at the end of it all wondering why the hell everyone hates me.

I need you. You always know what to do and what to say. Always. You make good decisions. You have managed to navigate your way through life thus far without ruining everything you touch.
Is it really that easy? Is there something I'm missing here? Was I born without common sense? This elusive thing known as 'street smarts'? Greatly lacking in intuition? I am truly at a loss.

Some people flounder without guidance. I am one of those people. Show me the way, before I drown.

An open book

I've been told that my mood is infectious.

In some ways, this is a very good thing: I've been told that I'm funny, and that I have a knack for cheering people up in their times of woe. I need a license for my laugh - very loud, boisterous, often left hanging in the air long after the conversation has ended.

However, my sister made a point to me the other night that, when I am upset or angry, it is apparent. Not only that, but it affects the people around me and rubs off on them, to the point where they are put in a foul mood. Infectious? Sounds more poisonous to me.

It is not my intention to labour people with my bad moods and my issues - not at all. I can't help it. I wish I wasn't so bloody transparent. Sometimes, I'd much prefer just to be left stewing with all my angry, hormonal thoughts, unbeknownst to anyone else, without disturbance,

There are benefits, mind. Even my least intuitive of friends knows when I'm sad or pissed off, (sometimes just by how I text them back), so they can talk to me and attempt to cheer me up, as opposed to the other way around. It's reassuring to know that I don't have to struggle with whatever anxieties I am dealing with alone.

Ever since I can remember, I have been a sensitive, (some may say 'overly'), soul. It doesn't take a lot to upset me. I have a bad habit of taking other people's problems to heart and trying to rectify them as though it were my own personal mission. Prioritising is most definitely NOT one of my strong points. I am easily stressed, and, admittedly, a lot of the grief I deal with is brought entirely on by myself. It has a dominoaffect - I try to help others, leads to me getting upset/stressed, which leads to me infecting everyone else in my household with my bad vibes.


 So technically, it's everyone else's fault I'm such an open book. Haha!