St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel - Kings Cross.

Monday, 29 June 2015

It is a Monday afternoon like no other.
June has finally arrived, sun speckled spots float through the glass onto my face and I cry. 
I stand, shaking with awestruck disbelief at the bedroom before me, turning on my heels to peer at the bathroom once more and try as I might I can't collect enough reasoning for what good things I must have done in a past life to be here in this moment. 
'I saved twelve babies from a burning building,' I settle.
Surely, that must be it.
If only for a moment I manage to harness an iota of composure, after flattening down my nightdress onto my bed for the evening and taking a quick shower, I run down the medieval halls to begin my first sampling of the Renaissance Global Day of Discovery. 
The Booking Office is filled with a sophisticated bustle, crisp white shirts and patterned ties parted straight down the middle by a hoard of London and Parisian bloggers.
As plates fly off waitresses hands, confit pork and artisan burgers take centre stage for all of several brief minutes until they are devoured lens first by excited mouths who wash them down with an expensive trickle of champagne cocktails. 
I was always so certain of what it was that I'd order unrestricted as my last meal but I now know several readjustments will have to be made - I want Booking Office chicken salad and I want twelve servings.
We eat, we drink, we jump into a cab and head straight to Carousel in north London to catch a secret SoFar Sounds gig in the basement. 
Thrown into a whirlwind of adventure in my own city, there is a smile on my face that had been lacking for so long - no unsolicited social anxiety, no '...or I could just jump back into bed',  simply a fever and excitement that lacked such obvious parameter I could only see this feeling for days. 
I giggle with my friend Olivia, Snapchatting arrows and hearts around a beautiful bassist, fifth summer-cup cocktail in hand. 
Arriving back to my new home for the night, we kiss-hug goodbye's until the early morning and I call Adrian to come and check out the strange fairytale I've fallen into. 
"You really are a Baroness now..." He splutters at 2:30am, as I slide around the bath bigger than my own bed at home. 
The St.Pancras Renaissance Hotel is that of my wildest fantasy. 
I want to get married here. I want to have parties here. 
I want to move in and write novels here. 
Instead, all I have time for on this trip is to read a good book in the early morning glow and pack my bags for a 7:30am Eurostar that is conveniently, just underneath us.
The adventure continues on tomorrow's blog post... 

Talking Therapy

Wednesday, 3 June 2015

"Why can't you write about something positive?" My friends and family have jovially thrown from one occasion to another upon reading another "Oh god, my life is filled with so much grief." article that I've stashed and later posted.

I think about it often, querying what it is that seems to make my literary intentions jut out so morbidly from my other internet professed pals- those who deliver exciting travels and clean eats, the ones that epitomise earth shattering hope and frivolity from a single instagram caption.
In all of its glorious irony, I would love nothing more than to explore why it in yet another heartache dribbled essay for all of your eyes to see but tonight I have decided against my own creative will and thrown a curveball at my judgement to write these few lines instead.

I, like you, am a perpetually lost individual giggling and whimpering my way through a crisscross path of adolescence and unsurprisingly it is pretty fucking difficult, so do it unapologetically.
It is beautiful in its romanticised nature but as a topic to examine, it would make an ultimately dull, smug and useless piece of documentary to share if it simply highlighted the manic insomnia of getting off with Z list sons of actors and receiving the odd hefty paycheque from a Z list singers record label.
"Today I got a new job and I'm on top of the world!"
"I slept with a ten last night!"
- Are the lines for my diary. The bits I have to read occasionally to remember it's not all empty medication packets and missed trains and unpaid invoices.
I didn't know how important those parts were to share.
I never realised how much impact and responsibility I'd have to take on by posting my inner most dark corners of my brain online, as naive and as idiotic as that sounds, I just wanted to help.
I thought by stripping my psyche naked I might help some other girl from across the pond on the brink of a break down call a doctor or put down the scissors and know she wasn't alone.

The truth is, it has also opened up a different pocket of the internet that whilst I had always dreamed of finding, was suddenly being forwarded to me.
Every week for the last eighteen months I have received harrowing tales from young people.
Stories that correlate almost impossibly with my own and ones much worse. 
It has in many ways opened my eyes up to the prospect that I'm not the most hurt, unhappy individual to walk the planet post Morrissey from The Smiths which has been hugely helpful in an incredibly selfish light, but it's also forced me to realise how serious and important it is that we keep this topic open and up for forum.

I honestly am not the right person to plea to, whilst I am slowly trudging along a path to what hopefully has sanity signposted nearby in a few years to come I am irrefutably not there. 
I'm still in the middle of the road with my thumb out praying for a lift.

There are however people who are.
Doctors, despite their schoolmaster authoritative demeanour can variably be tiny fluffy sparkly rainbow filled angels that have landed in your gaudy 1960's GP office to shed some light on why things will get better. 
Friends, despite their own issues and hang ups are even more important - whether you've met them online or happened to fail the same maths test together. 
Reading up and understanding your feelings and condition, despite a little daunting, will also help you understand why you are doing what you are and why you're crying in the shower even though there feels like no resolute reasoning. 
You are not defined by these moments of desperation, you are defined by how you come through them, and you can. - This is coming from someone who three days ago sat on her kitchen floor and thought 'don't fancy this anymore' at life, I'm still not all the keen but my god do I realise how glad I am that I want to give it another try.

I write this now feeling hugely overwhelmed, like I found some broken twigs in my brain and set them into an all encompassing fire on a desert island which people mistook for me sending out a 'LET'S ALL HAVE A PARTY OVER HERE!' flare.
I don't have many answers, but have learnt more so than I knew possible in the last few days that talking to people you know is the most important first step into any kind of physical recovery. 

Now get off here, go and call your mum.
Or your best friend.
Or your doctor.
Or your old boss who seemed a bit mad when you worked for him.
They really, truly can help you make sure you get back to being you again. 

Samaritans - 08457 90 90 90

Crisis line - 775-784-8090


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