There are people in my life that inspire me, lift me up and make all my fuck ups the most hilarious stories ever told. My buildings are strong because of them.

And just like buildings I take them for granted. I don’t think about how warm or safe I am. How long it took to build or how strong it is. I just come and go as I please.

Just like they do…

What a wonderful home we have built



I steal hope from my memories.

As if the present would still be as it is if the past was still alive. It’s loose screws. It’s creaking floorboards; it’s old familiar scent like an old book’s. It whispers gently through strands of my hair and in between the hours of the day it offers sweetness from your good soul.

It must mean something if the ache is so swollen.It must mean something if the thought still dances behind my eyes. It must mean something if despite everything the craving still fits neatly in between two fingers.

It must mean something.

It must.


I tell myself everyday.


And I wish for it.

I wish for it with every fibre of my being; the wallpaper; the road we would turn off; the light through the cracks in your curtains. The memories click and judder into movement, spitting hot ambers as they remember how they were and how to encase me in a spiralling past. At their centre I sit cradling myself in my arms.

It must mean something.

It must.


I tell myself everyday.





Life is senseless.

I can not tell myself that everyday.

A hysterical PMS squeal for a hysterectomy… honestly I just want a pill.

I’ve been on a new contraceptive pill to deal with my mood swings. My PMS has at times made my life fucking hellish and now at the gloriously teetering age of 29, I have fucking had enough.

I don’t believe PMS and periods are taken seriously enough. I mean they’re women’s problems and revolve around the downstairs department so it’s no wonder. It wouldn’t be proper to talk about anything relating to the (hushed time) vagina just like it wouldn’t be proper to talk about what a prostate examination really entails.

How are women ever going to feel comfortable talking about their periods when our history derived the word hysterectomy from hysteria.

Hysteria was a mental disorder almost exclusive for women. We were lucky enough to even have our femininity attached to the name. May I introduce you to ‘female hysteria’. A mental disorder. And the treatment… You guessed it! A fucking hysterectomy. They would cut the uterus out of a woman because they believed it to be the reason for a perceived lunacy. Associating the condition of a person’s mental health with a particular body part of one sex is the lunacy thank you doctor dumb dumb. If this was still common practice I would have been locked up uterus- less years ago.

So there has been progression but not enough for when it comes to talking about it. This ridiculous ‘time of the month’ culture that instantly belittles and dismisses a woman is still very much prevalent in this day and age. It seems to have bred a bragging culture too between women having the worst period. It’s almost like you’ve told someone you’re tired…

What with both women and men negatively responding to periods it’s no wonder we don’t talk about it. It’s so much easier to shy away from the topic that suppresses you than to address it.

My PMS has led me to quit jobs, end relationships, self harm, isolate myself to the point of crippling loneliness and be an all round awful decision maker. I had no self esteem, I couldn’t commit to anything and I was bat shit anxious about everything.

I mean driving to the shops and not being able to get out of the car.

I mean having to get off the tube and go outside several times because you feel you’re going to faint.

I mean crying uncontrollably when a gathering switches venues.

I mean holding your piss in for hours and when finally building up the courage to go to the toilet not being able to piss anyway because you’re too tense.

I mean fabricating a mouse living in your kitchen. (True story. I was convinced it was living in the concrete floor and I stopped eating properly for a few weeks)

I mean having sleep paralysis

I mean spontaneously spending money you didn’t have in the first place

I mean becoming so irritated that you squeeze your arms because the tensions match and bring fleeting relief

I mean not being able to control your weight

I mean so many things and more…

It has governed my life for most of it and I only now know the extent because I’m on a different pill.

I take Yasmin now and I’m still equally as emotional and sensitive as before. I actually cry more now. But I feel in control. Yasmin has just filed down the rough and jagged edges enough for me to function a lot more easily.

Society’s inconceivable shyness around the woman’s reproductive system has cost me years. So if you have a slight inkling your periods are messed up, don’t listen to the digs or the woman who’s period is worse than yours, go to that one lovely doctor you trust at your GP surgery. There are so many contraceptive pills, one will fit.

Life is too beautiful to not be able to enjoy it so find a way.


We all get so caught up in the immediacy of things
We forget about how it spills out in all directions
Granted it’s easier to think abruptly
But if we constantly think like that then we are painting the world in black and white
Hiding its beautiful and descriptive colours
Black and white is so hard
If you think in such stark thoughts
then you miss out on so many colours

I’ll help you diet- I’ll eat that cake

I’m boycotting the media. I’m fed up of seeing the body misrepresented like it is. It doesn’t help knowing these ‘beauties’ with that particular shine sitting on their skin, are in fact airbrushed. It still says to us normies ‘this is what you should strive to be, it might be doctored, but it’s only doctored because this is what we want, and it’s what you want’.
I definitely have brought these insecurities on myself because being a person who likes to get enthralled in things, I have been reading and looking into people who spend their lives chasing that perfect body. You know the ones who eat egg whites for breakfast. I can’t imagine they have no life, though for someone like me who can’t juggle getting a hair cut and making a sandwich in one day without getting confsued, let alone work, a social life, exercise AND diet all at the same time, I breathe in this alien concept and choke on it.
It’s not the people that choose to get buff and possess the strength to throw cars around if they wanted to that upset me though, that was just a tangent. We have different priorities- if they don’t eat the cake, there’s more cake for me (: It’s this horrible pressure society puts on people without realizing. I can’t speak for everyone, but I certainly feel when everything is going down the shitter, it wouldn’t be half as bad if I was thinner.
We live in a world where the rules of weight are warped. The skinny girl will get the job over the larger girl. Adele is ‘curvy’ not overweight and an anorexic supermodel who has spent the last few years bringing awareness to the disease DIES and hardly anyone knows.
Isabella Caro was 28.
We should all know her name.

Thanks fashion
Thanks media
Thanks society
Thanks a fucking lot