'13 Reasons Why' and its Utterly Poor Representation of Mental Health

*If you have not finished the show and don't want to read spoilers, click away now*

13 Reasons Why has been repeatedly slammed for its misogyny, graphic rape scenes and graphic suicide. It has also been criticised for its depiction of mental health. I'm going to jump on that bandwagon too, but hear me out.

The show has also been widely praised for fighting the stigma of suicide, rape and bullying on screen and for raising awareness. Whilst awareness is always good, it is the concept of the tapes, the way in which Hannah blames others and the reaction of her classmates to her death that make this representation of depression very wrong. Watching the series personally affected me and frustrated me, especially since I had gone through a bad period of depression and self-harm at secondary school. Don't take this the wrong way; I'm not saying that I am all knowing because of that. But, it certainly misrepresented my own experience of the mental illness.

One of the many reasons why this show makes me feel uncomfortable is the way that it allows people to romanticise it. The concept of the tapes brings about a dualistic interpretation of depression where the students that Hannah blames are the bad guys, whilst Hannah and Clay are the good guys. Clay Jenson egotistically believes that his love for Hannah could have prevented her suicide, as though a relationship could cure her. It's like thinking that someone with a broken foot will be cured if you tell them that it'll get better eventually. He also thoughtlessly went after those who 'let down Hannah' without considering their feelings and their stories as well as Hannah's. Clay became the bully by sending a naked photo of Tyler round the school. Yet, he is still celebrated by fans as the 'good guy'.
Whilst what led Hannah down a spiral of depression and suicidal thoughts began with shame and guilt, Clay relentlessly pushes shame and guilt onto those who 'let her down'. He seems to want to stop what happened to Hannah, happening to everyone else but he is unknowingly increasing the chances of those who were the subjects of the tapes, slipping into depression themselves.

"Did I Kill Hannah Baker?', asks Clay to Tony just before he listens to his tape. Reluctantly, Tony replies yes. In this case, not enough credit is given to Mr. Porter, who tries to reason with Clay that we are all imperfect people and perhaps, taking responsibility for Hannah's death isn't quite the right thing to do. Suicide is not anyone's fault, nor is depression. Clay preaches that we could all treat people better, which seems to be the message of the show. This is true, but again, it paints the picture that mental health can be solved by being nice to each other. The classmates that Hannah blamed were, of course, flawed. But, in some of the situations, what would you have done? Admittedly, a few individuals were a little more than flawed - Bryce for example. Other examples were things that happen everyday because of human nature.

Each of the individuals who Hannah blamed also had their own difficulties, which are largely brushed over. And yet, our sympathies are almost entirely with Clay and Hannah. It seems as though, because they had their flaws, their troubles and feelings weren't as valid as Hannah's, especially according to Clay himself who the story is told through.

Again, when it comes to depicting depression itself, the series does not do anything to help any viewers who might be suffering themselves and might be seeking something to relate to. The show does not mention depression once and even seems to encourage the idea that suicide is the only option. Hannah certainly thinks so in the last episode, and throughout, characters such as Justin and Clay suggest that they think it might be too. For Alex, it was.
Hannah did 'give life one last try' in the final episode, and she went to a councillor, who, she says, helped her confirm that suicide was the only option. Surely its better to encourage the idea that councillors can actually offer quality support rather than showing Hannah dismissing Mr. Porter's hard efforts. It was disappointing to hear Hannah talk about how she wished that Mr. Porter had run after her once she'd left his office, and therefore putting him partially at blame for her suicide. Was Mr. Porter really in the wrong here, for not running after a girl whose plight he had very little knowledge of? There is only so much a teacher can do. For someone struggling with depression, it is perfectly legitimate for Hannah to have felt that way. However, the show left it with the viewers considering Mr. Porter to have been at fault, when the real 'baddie' here was depression itself. Again, as Clay said, everyone could have done better. But, it's always easier said than done.

Again, by showing the suicide itself, it romanticised and idealised it. Twitter fans of the show have condemned this criticism, failing to understand why seeing a girl slit her wrists could possibly be encouraging or romanticising. If I had seen that 7 years ago, I would have romanticised it all. When you're in that mindset, its hard not to. If anything, it shows people how they can do it.

Overall, the series places all the emphasis on individuals and nothing on the way that depression skews your sense of reality. It preaches that Hannah's feeling of emptiness was a direct consequence of what had happened to her, not that depression had anything to do with it. After watching the show, it is clear that this was meant for an audience with already very little awareness of what depression really is and it merely confirms what they think they already know.

An Ode To Lost Interests

At the tender age of 17, I prided myself in my 'cutting-edge' music taste and how my favourite literature included the beat poets and Lolita. On The Road was my Bible, Alt-J were just so cool. I wrote blogs on thought-provoking topics and worshipped Wes Anderson. I adored American Beauty and the Virgin Suicides and read the classics to expand my cultural knowledge.

Nearly four years later, I no longer have time to read two classics a month, write a blog post a week or take an hour out of my day just to look for great new music. My Netflix consumption consists largely of Disney movies, Gilmore Girls and Stranger Things. I haven't watched a classic movie since god knows when and I've even started listening to old Avril Lavigne again. I'm not afraid to enjoy Little Mix.

I no longer fit in with the kind of crowd who gather at the Philosophy Bar at King's, full of English Literature students in turtle necks, discussing Ulysses over a fag.

But, it's not that I really want to.

I still love Lolita and The Grand Budapest Hotel remains one of my all time favourite movies. I never stopped liking those things. It's just that I never moved on.

There are still so many classic movies I haven't seen, stunning books I haven't read, beautiful music yet to be discovered. I can still be cultured without resorting back to my pretentious idealistic phase.

Whilst I feel that I've sobered up a little, that I'm less afraid to immerse myself in the mainstream, I'm not really embracing all that I can. Have I given up? Have I become too much of a boring adult to enjoy an intellectual book?

If I had the time... that phrase repeated over and over. I, a busy and responsible final year student, do not have time even to read the shortest novel.

This is an ode to all the things I wish I did and hope that in the near future, I will once again embrace.

Confessions of a To Do List Addict

I can't get through a day without checking my to do list several times - or..er...lists plural. I have a list on my phone, a list on a little board in my room, a list in my notebook, a list on my laptop and a list written down on a post-it on my desk. I even bought one of those pretty Paperchase pads that say 'To do' in floral lettering on them.

When I've completed half of my to do list, I start another one so the page looks a little bit tidier and a little bit clearer. I'm not uptight, I'm not a perfectionist. I just have a lot on my plate and I can't relax until I've written it down.

I keep my phone by my bed at night so I can quickly get down what my brain inevitably will remember at midnight rather than during the day.

There's just something kind of soothing about a list. It makes me feel a little more relaxed knowing that, away from them, I can just forget about my responsibilities. When I finally get round to opening up my notebook, they'll all be there to remind me just how much I've been putting off.

I said it was soothing right?

As a thoroughly modern and internet literate woman who will click on any article that claims it can help de-stress or show me "8 Ways You Can Boost Your Productivity", I've seen all the other ways I could write down what needs doing.

"Instead of writing a list that says 'To do' at the top, just write 'I can...'."

I've tried it and trust me, it makes me feel like a middle aged woman running her life on the advice of a trashy self-help book.

Mass to-do lists are most likely one of the most stress-inducing things I could do to myself. But, the humble to list is probably the only way I can keep my life together without relying on the help of a Pinterest board or taking inspiration from a skinny, tanned lifestyle blogger with a secret death-wish claiming that a banana-only diet is the answer to life, the universe and everything.

1. Un-bookmark all those Buzzfeed self-care articles
2. Get your life together
3. Write another list

Part of my problem is this damning need to constantly be productive. I panic when the lists get under 5 points. Where is my life going? Am I doing enough to be successful? I should create more unnecessary tasks to make this list more satisfying. I absolutely need to enter this writing competition. Come to think of it, my room needs a hoover. 

Maybe I should write a list of steps I need to take to achieve this thing? Like a sub to do list. Then I'll have more to tick off. 

My bin is full of post-its with a list of five things from my 'big' to do list that I'm going to complete that day. It's infinite.

I feel guilty about watching Netflix. I procrastinate all day and stop myself from watching a movie in the evening or going out because I haven't done all 5 things, when realistically I've probably done a lot of things that I never even bothered to write down. 

4. Write another blog post

5. Buy more post-its

6. Scrap the last list and write another one

Me? Addicted? Never. 

Displacement

Today, I arrived back home after more than two months away. It's longest I've ever been away from home and I'm only here for one night.

I have realised that home isn't quite where I feel the most comfortable anymore. After all, almost every one of my most loved possessions remain in Southampton. The room I have at university is something which I have made my own and it is full of things that I have bought with my own money.
There is no sign of childhood rag dolls, gifts from distant relatives, certificates from my grade 2 piano. My bedroom walls at home are still adorned with self-painted green spots - a very non-aesthetically pleasing brainwave of my 13 year old self. At 20 years old, it feels childish.

In the right frame of mind, I do enjoy sleeping in my childhood room once again. The nostalgia is warm and welcoming. Yet, I'm at a crucial time of transition from student to employed adult and the lure of full independence renders me giddy with excitement and sometimes nauseous with nerves. My desire to launch myself into a journalism career fills every crevice in my brain and when memories of full dependence gets in the way, I'm irritable.

After all, my university bedroom is where I plan everything for the university paper. It's where I write all my applications, finalise my CV and flick through post-graduate prospectuses. Naturally, I've come to associate it with the place where I can safely look at my future and know that I am heading in the right direction.

Home is where the heart is and my heart is set on something other than a place where there is a power shower and Dad's bolognese.

In addition to that, what was home has changed. Since my brother now lives with my mum during the week, and I live in Southampton, my Dad is usually alone in the house apart from an attention hungry cat and a geeky lodger who works for a rice company. After one cat dies and a lodger moves in, dynamics change. Thus, predictably, it starts to feel less and less like home.

And so, I feel as though I am heading towards displacement. Once I graduate, I highly doubt I'll be renting straight away. I'll probably move back home for a little while and find my feet as an unemployed graduate seeking any kind of grounding.

Father John Misty @ Southampton O2 Guildhall

On 21st May, I saw Father John Misty in Southampton.

The support act from Texas set the scene. Khruangbin, a soulful, funk, guitar band, were smooth and sexy. The frontman and frontwoman were beautiful sights to behold for the typical Father John Misty fan - one very well dressed bearded guitarist and a glittery faced bassist with a black bob and killer lacy culottes, who moved her hips perfectly to the beat. Father John Misty himself even came on for a few songs to play bongos at the back of the stage.

From the very beginning of his set, Father John Misty was mesmerizing to watch. This man is not only a musician and song writer, but a true performer with remarkably fluid hips and a way of moving that is somehow simultaneously camp and ridiculously sexy.

Thrusting and gyrating his groin in every direction, floor to ceiling, left to right, it is not surprising how much sweat this man could produce - distinctly noticeable when, twice, he came into the audience. Father John Misty was a mere two inches from my face. A famous and sexy man no less, I refused to stroke his beard or grab his hand like every other member of the audience felt the need to do. He was a liquid mess, a true rock-star.

During 'True Affection', Father John Misty's silhouette, in a flashing neon pink light, truly danced as though no one was watching with gesticulating arms and a torso that moved like a snake. Such a distinct way of dancing simply takes you away to another place, another dimension, to Father John Misty's world.

Despite a real lack of chatter in between songs, Father John Misty communicated to each and every member of the crowd through his lyrics and through his movement. Most notably during 'Bored in the USA', he sang the lyrics as though he was telling a story. He is an actor as well as an artist. There were laughs and cheers after each lyric he sang, as he paused for effect.

'By this afternoon, I'll live in debt. By tomorrow, be replaced by children'

He sang, with a careless kind of melancholy. We all laughed at the truth behind the words that he sang - despite not being in the USA at all. We all sang along as though we really were bored in the USA.

This artist pulled out all the stops. This is genuinely one of the best gigs I have ever been to. Father John Misty didn't rely on just his music to excite the crowd. He really performed with energy and an electric personality that charmed each and every member of the crowd.

I Don't Know Where I'll be In Ten Years Time, But, I'm Excited.

It's mission impossible to know where I'll be in ten years time, let alone five. In 2021, I will be at the young age of 24 and close to thirty in 2026. I don't know the rest of the story.
My focus is on the near future. In fact, I lead the kind of busy, spontaneous life that means I only really know what the next two weeks hold for me.

I know a few things for sure. From this coming July until next July, I will be the Editor of Wessex Scene magazine. This time next year, I will be reaching the end of my final year at University. In June, I'm celebrating my 20th in Copenhagen. In September I will move in with several new housemates - 3 of which I am already close to.

Spontaneity excites me. Truly, it does. But, the uncertainty of my future is terrifying. It's terrifying to consider a life after university. Despite being constantly bombarded by employability advice, CV workshops and work experience, the prospect of not being in full time education and working in an actual full time job makes me want to crawl into a duvet fort and read Louise Rennison books like I did at 14. I would like to deny the death of the late author. I would like to deny the passing of the Starman himself, David Bowie. Alan Rickman lives on, as does Harper Lee.

Nostalgia really is all that it is made out to be; escapism to a time where the future was certain and your life was in the hands of others. I am no one woman show. Although, I am independent and I suppose that is what should stop me from worrying. I am the architect of my future and whilst I cannot control external factors, at least I can steer myself in any direction I see fit.

The scary parts are all the external factors, the decisions of others or the natural progression of the life cycle. One of my cats died a few weeks ago, reminding me of the fragility of the here and now. Before next Christmas, it's a real possibility that my family home might be sold.

I am determined to constantly remind myself that it's really not all bad. This time last year, I would never have considered that I'd be so close to some of the people that I am now, I had no idea I'd even be running for the position of Editor of Wessex Scene. My brother might get his first girlfriend within a year, I might have a job lined up for when I leave university, I might go travelling. Who knows?

Perhaps, my reason for writing this, is that I am feeling a little lost and a little uncertain. As Tumblr post cheesy as this sounds, I'm simply on a journey.

So, let it all happen and bring it on.

Feminists Are Not All Fat and Hairy

I often avoid the very general topic of feminism when I write. A lot of people have very warped views of feminism and the definition even more so. I have avoided it because I am well aware of my own fallibility and the extent to which people will fight for their opinions on gender equality.
This is also why I have chosen to write about this on my personal blog rather than for a student or national publication, online or in print.

What drove me to finally get my opinion out there was merely half an hour of watching Reggie Yates' documentary 'Extreme UK: Men at War', which showed men attacking feminism and complaining about male issues. I had to turn it off half way through for fear that I could not contain my anger and disgust. Many of the men on the programme seemed to think that feminism was going beyond equality; an attempt to turn the tables by asserting themselves and making men inferior. In many ways, these men seem to feel threatened by women fighting for gender rights and seem to believe that women have become superior already.

I'm fairly certain that women still have a long way to go before we reach full equality let alone superiority. Feminism should stand for equality, not for women's superiority.

Ultimately, I have reached a state of exhaustion where I am fed up with being objectified, not taken seriously in situations, cat-called and asked if I am on my period when I am legitimately angry about something, all because of my gender. These are only some of the ways in which I feel women are still not equal to men. We may have rights legally, but socially it's a different matter.

Cat-calling and street harassment are my worst fears. Stopping harassment is not about suppressing male sexuality and desire simply because it can be offensive, but for the general safety and comfort of those targeted. Not all men are rapists but enough are to strike fear into me as I walk past a man alone just on the off-chance that he might have horrible intentions. Whilst I could tell myself that most men won't take it any further than a comment, it doesn't decrease my anxiety or the feeling of violation. This is especially relevant since the attacks in Cologne and other cities in Europe on New Years Eve. I heard a story of a British girl whose clothes were ripped off her in Paris and she was violated. The fact is, these incidents were very clearly men targeting women and not the other way around.

Unfortunately, feminism has gained a bad name for itself. Many women and men say that they are not feminists but believe in equality of the genders. What they don't realise is feminism and equality are the same thing by definition. Yet, perhaps the movement has made such a name for itself that the definition has changed. This is a real shame because the word 'feminism' is distrusted by so many and may hinder the growth and development of gender equality. The men on the documentary were describing feminists as fat and hairy because they don't groom themselves for men. I mean who cares? We have the right to do what we want with our bodies whether men like it or not. This is just another example of the way that feminists are portrayed.

It is highly important than men gain equality too. Of course it is. There is no doubt there men face social issues in every day life. However, it is very worrying that some men want to slate feminism because they think their issues are more important. Historically and presently, women still face more dangerous and more serious issues based on their gender that are far less menial than the issues that were raised in Reggie Yates' documentary. They may argue that in today's society women do have far more rights than they used to. This is only true when we focus on the west, and there's still a long way to go. All around the world, places outside America and Europe, women suffer far more than men.

These are just a few of my opinions in brief. I am no way informed enough to make a fully infallible statement on the matter and I am open to comment.

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 4

This is the final instalment of my skiing (or not so much skiing) adventure in Bulgaria this Christmas. The following days since my last blog post were less dramatic, disastrous and eventful. However, elements of the last few days have been pretty bizarre.

Worth noting is the Garra Rufa Fish.  The spa in the hotel offered a 'treatment' where you stick your feet in Garra Rufa infested water. As soon as your feet touch the surface, the fish swarm and start to nibble at the dead skin. They supposedly exfoliate your skin and, rumour has it, the treatment also has similar effects to acupuncture. Apparently, this has been banned in some US states for health and safety reasons. Despite this, we decided to try it out. I hated the feeling at first. It was far too ticklish and I squirmed at the idea of these fish all over my feet. Eventually I got used to the feeling and I could watch the fish without wriggling. However, about five minutes before the end, a fish drew blood on my Mum's leg. I realised, I may have paid money to be devoured by baby piranhas. This may not have meant death but probably an amputated limb. Thankfully, the treatment finished before they could swallow me whole.

The rest of the holiday had a 'let's make fun of Alice' theme. It seemed everyone in the hotel knew about the night after the bar crawl and thought it was so hilarious that they had to make a joke at every opportunity. The moment I put a glass to my lips I expected someone to come round the corner and shout 'I hope that's not vodka!'.
"This is my daughter, Alice" my Mum would say to every hotel guest, to which a giggle would follow. My dignity seemed to sink lower everyday.
Even on the flight leaving Bulgaria, I passed a hotel guest Mum had befriended on the plane.
"Not feeling too hungover, Alice?"
Actually, no I am not. That was several days ago, pipe down.

Spending Christmas in Bulgaria was surreal. It didn't feel like Christmas. Yet, at the same time it did feel very festive. It was certainly a white Christmas. There were Christmas jumpers so festive they could be seen from a mile away. Decorations were everywhere and I couldn't walk anywhere without seeing a Santa Hat.

Our Christmas Dinner was in the evening. We were served five courses. The first course was a kind of Greek salad, the second was a chicken and mushroom thing, the third was roast pork, a sweet potato sauce type thing, more potatoes, bacon and onion. It was lovely but it wasn't quite Turkey. Afterwards we were given platters of cheese and salami then ice cream with a chocolate muffin. Instead of Christmas crackers we were given little rolled up pieces of paper displaying what could only be described as a strange kind of fortune.
One read: "Opportunities emerge, don't get too urge"
Another read "Don't expect too much of Christmas Day. You can't crowd into it any arrears of unselfishness and kindliness that may have accrued during".  Yes, it was spelled 'Arrears'
The bad translation from Bulgarian to English did not fill the space in my heart that lacked Christmas Crackers, nor did the Bulgarian dancing that was loudly forced upon the room by course three. Forced joy is not my forté.

Nevertheless, the reps exercised their persuasiveness once again and I was out with them that evening; until midnight this time but, far less intoxicated. A deep chat in a Mexican bar, to the sound of a Mexican guitar trio covering Eric Clapton, ended the final night of my holiday.

To my amazement, the longer I spent in Bulgaria, the less chaotic it became. Despite my bad first experience at attempting to ski, I would want to try again. Perhaps next time I'll have more confidence in myself.

Наздраве!

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 3

The morning after my alcohol nightmare I woke up still drunk with swollen eyelids. With virtually no dignity, I rolled out of bed at half past ten and missed another day of skiing. Nevertheless, I dragged myself outside and into the cold air to face the day.

We got in a cable car and ascended up the mountain through winter wonderland forestation and above snowy rocks. The half an hour ride was incredibly picturesque and the landscape seemed to go on forever. At the top I bumped into the beginners ski group I was with yesterday. I put my sunglasses on and held my head down in shame as my mother relayed the events of the previous evening. On the way back to the cable car we bumped into two of the reps who were at the bar crawl and again, mum relayed the events of the night. 

"I'm very cross with you two" She japed and proceeded to blame them for my excessive alcohol consumption. How embarrassing. But, they hugged me and we parted ways. 

A chilled out afternoon was in store since I could not handle skiing. Chaos naturally ensued. We went down to the spa and sat in the steam room for a while.  Curious, I turned on the tap on the wall. I turned it only a fraction more and cold water came rapidly streaming out. I couldn't turn it off. Mum tried too but then the tap head came off and water violently sprayed outwards and upwards. We ran out giggling while an employee tried to fix our mess. He gave us the tap head on our way out - a symbol of the madness of the holiday so far.

The evening consisted of a candle-lit walk through a dark and icy forest. Holding flaming torches, we slipped and slid the whole way to a little restaurant on the side of a road. But, before we got to the restaurant we had to walk through a mini estate that looked like a scene from a James Bond movie, set in a third world country. We were met by a barking, growling dog. Eager to get away from a rabid dog we moved on but several more growling dogs approached. It was dark, deserted and creepy and I genuinely thought I'd meet my death on this cold December evening in a Bulgarian forest.  However, as we reached the end of the estate, the dogs let us be and we approached the restaurant. It was surrounded by cats.

The meal was lovely but, my tiredness got the better of me. As mum spread around the story of my drunken mishaps, I sat in silence and waited for the meal to end. I began to realise why I wasn't a fan of package holidays. I was obliged to make polite conversation with strangers when all I wanted to do was relax. To my horror, the Bulgarian owners' daughter began to elect 'volunteers' to try belly dancing. Luckily I wasn't picked but for the next half an hour, I watched tipsy British people clad in colourful jangly costumes shake their bums on top of chairs and tables. I was glad to get the mini bus back to the hotel.

I am eager to see what madness these next few days will bring. 

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 2

Second full day started early again. At breakfast I was not only on the look out for the creepy scouser from last night but for Ellie's boyfriend who just so happens to be at the same hotel. It all feels so surreal.

Having been fitted for boots and skis, I discovered that I could not walk easily in ski boots and thus walked with a slightly odd kind of swagger. That is the only way I can describe it.
My first two hour lesson was not as comical as one would have thought. I didn't fall over once and I could successfully do a snow plough and side step up the hill. Side stepping up the hill with heavy skis and boots on was the most tiring bit.
The next two hours were to become my breaking point. I was put in a group with an old man called Harry and a thirteen year old boy called Mac. My first conversation with Mac went as follows.

'How old are you?'
'Thirteen, how old are you?'
'Oh I thought you were much older, 15 or something. I'm 19.'
'Are you actually? I thought you were around my age'

I laughed but inside I was crying.

Several times Mac was told that he could join the bigger beginners group but time and again he asked to stay with us. He proceeded to throw snow and me. Next thing I knew, his nine year old brother skiied past and shouted 'Is that your girlfriend?'. I giggled but my soul wept.

The first small disaster was when I lost my ski instructor's goggles. I put them down for five minutes but when he went to get them they had disappeared leaving only the outline in the snow.

The second disaster happened not long afterwards. I continually failed to do left and right turns. On occasion I managed and I thought I was just getting the hang of it. Then we plodded in ski boots all the way up the hill and were told to hold our poles out to make a semi circle in the snow when we turned. I immediately lost control and started hurtling down the nursery slope full speed. I tried to make a snow plough to stop like we were told. It didn't work. I dropped one pole, nearly collided with several people and only ground to a halt when I realised my only choice was to land flat on my bum. It was spectacular and when I got up my whole body was trembling. I wanted to cry.

Then came the grand finale to my day. After feeling a bit down I persuaded myself to go on the bar crawl. I took Matt along with me and I went a little too hard. With a free shot at each bar and cheeks burning from the heat of each place, we gradually got through too much vodka and stumbled onward. There were several games. If you drank with your right hand you had to down your drink, if someone put a coin in your drink you had to down it. At the final bar two volunteers had to kiss as many people in the bar as possible to get a another free shot.
At this point I didn't think I was drunk enough so I picked up my things and left. Call me boring, but, it was a good thing I left because as soon as I got back to our room I vomited. What's worse was my mum went to get Matt and his brother to help me out. I was incredibly ill and incredibly embarrassed.

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 1

I have decided I'd record my skiing adventure via multiple blog-posts. This will hopefully provide some fairly comical content for my readership considering that I am a generally unbalanced human being. I have never been skiing before in my life.
I've been transported to the Borovets in snowy Bulgaria with my mother and my brother only to discover we are all sharing one room in our hotel. There is, of course, immense fun to be had. We are staying in a resort which boasts many strip clubs, bars, and of course ski slopes (can you tell I don't ski yet?). It is a package holiday haven. Not a local in sight. In fact, the holiday reps are the closest to locals you'll find.

When we first got to our room, Mum struggled with the door key. Holding the key at least five feet from the electronic lock, she complained that it wasn't working. I came to the rescue, with the prowess of a tech-savvy youth ready to prove to the middle aged and upward, that we're fully capable. We walked into a dark room and yet again, we simply slid the key into a little slot by the door and pronounced 'let there be light'. And there was. I hoped this was not going to be the Christmas miracle of the trip.

Our first full day in the ski resort was, well, entertaining. A little tired from travelling, and rather nervous, I opted out of skiing for the first day and utilised the fully stocked spa and an 'action packed' holiday by taking a dip in the pool and grabbing a cheap massage. I can't remember the last time I went on a holiday where I wasn't intensely exploring a city or tourist hotspot. Nor where holidaying meant actually relaxing, or in this case, doing anything to stop my nerves about the snow from causing a full body break down.

The afternoon welcome meeting was an awkward affair. Four of us gathered round a table with complimentary alcoholic drinks and three of us tried very hard not to slap the man beside me.
'Where can Alice meet some people her own age?' my mother asked.
'Hey, Eassy Tiger, Eaaassyyy Tiger!' Said the scouser man.

I took a sip of my complimentary red wine.
'Is that nice?'
'Yes' I quipped; a blunt answer would do nicely.
'Can I have a sip?'
I paused for effect. 'Naa' I muttered, hiding my very British disgust at such a request.

Later in the evening, we wandered over to a bar called Black Tiger where I met a group of heavy drinkers from Cardiff and a family. I joined the drinkers from Cardiff for a round of Ring of Fire and got coerced into Karaoke by a rep. We sang Man, I Feel Like A Woman by Shania Twain. I accidentally promised to take part in a bar crawl the next night.

Already this is not quite the adventure I expected.

I Went Ice Skating and It Was Terrifying

Picture the scene. The aromas of mulled wine fill the December evening air as families, friends and lovers gather by Winchester Cathedral to pore over local arts and crafts on sale for Christmas, to feast on seasonal food, to bask under the glow of the twinkling lights and decorations, to glide elegantly on an ice rink.
Elegant? Oh please, I could not say the same for myself and it was raining.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the Christmas spirit of the night and appreciated the atmosphere. I just don't think I added to the ambience, because as soon as I stepped onto the ice, I was terrified and internally screaming.

"Yes I'll go Ice Skating" I said.
"I haven't been ice skating in years and the first time I tried it, I broke my wrist"... I also yelped before I tumbled towards my fate.

After my first step onto wet ice, I gripped the side until my hands turned blue. I giggled manically and considered that I may be on the verge of a near-death experience. I pictured my fingers being sliced off by a more skilled skater than I, unaware that I had just sent myself sprawling across the slippery surface due to sheer lack of skill or perhaps just clumsiness.

Still, my behind never touched the freezing surface, though my heart never ceased to beat as though I was on the set of Jaws. *DA-DUM DA-DUM*

Each time I felt myself begin to lose balance, my gut tightened and my arms were flailing as though I was doing a drunken version of the Macarena. I was lifted to safety by the hands of an Angel in a high-vis jacket. The Jaws theme began again in my head as I gaped at other skaters, amazed they couldn't hear it too - all the while manically giggling.

I'd like to say I eventually found my feet, but I used the pouring rain as an excuse to make a swift exit, or rather a clumsy and tentative exit. Due to the cold, I'd have made a better Rudolph than a Snow Queen. How do some people make it look so effortless? I secretly hoped that no-one really knew what they were doing. Some people are just better at making it look like they know than others.

If my plummeting confidence had, instead, sky-rocketed, perhaps my skating technique would not be so comical as it would be impressive. Is this a metaphor for life or a simple anecdote displaying my attitude to extreme sport? Take from this what you will.

Expect The Unexpected

Dressed in a Pikachu onesie, at a service station, asking for money and a lift, for the second time this year, I erase all expectations. This time I am making my way out of Southampton rather than into the city for charity and once again I try to leave myself open to all kinds of possibilities. If I expect anything at all, it should be the unexpected.

This is why my team, Jailbreak Journos, got into a car with an IT consultant who blasted out Christian Rock from an internet radio station. This is why we got into a car with three girls from Leeds who liked to play 'the market game'. We were impressed. 

"I went to market and I bought a yoga mat, a tub of white paint, a lawnmower, a foxtrot, David Beckham's autobiography, Adele's new album, a cabbage, a rabbit hutch...."

Sleeping overnight in a travel lodge and meeting some fascinating personalities on the way, we found ourselves in Edinburgh with a few measly layers and our enthusiasm to keep us warm. The icy breeze numbed our legs enough for us to make it to the top of Calton Hill and, despite missing the fireworks we had a beautiful view of the city skyline in the 7pm darkness. The view from Edinburgh castle was magnificent. Having only ever been to Edinburgh during the Fringe festival, the city's atmosphere contrasted to my previous experience. It still filled my very veins with a surge of excitement. After 30 hours of travelling, the city rewarded me. I didn't care about the cold. I cared about the adventure.

Realistically we would not have made it to the Scottish capital without the help of those who drove us and especially the last couple: A Dutch man and a German-Mexican woman who were driving from Leeds to Edinburgh. We had no luck with lorry drivers, so I had no idea where we were going or when. Little did I know three days beforehand that I'd take a tour around London at 5am on Monday morning and find myself back in Southampton by midday. I've never needed the toilet so much in my life, speed walking down Pall Mall with near frostbite and a full bladder.

I think part of what made the trip was how spontaneous each new event was. It was as though I was in a novel and each time we got into a new car or made a decision, it was another plot twist. You don't know who's car you're getting into. Using my gut instinct to guide me in the right direction, I was able to feel the thrill without putting myself in any danger. Free coffees and chocolate helped too - basic human kindness.

Last May I took part in Lost 99. Our challenge was to hitchhike back from Rugby to Southampton (99 Miles) within in a day whilst completing challenges along the way. A mere few hours landed us proposing to a middle aged woman at a service station, and at the top of a ferris wheel by 3pm. Expecting the unexpected we managed to win the competition, reducing our time to under an hour by completing the challenges.

I learned to appreciate change of scenery and plot twists. I let the current of adventure carry me out into the blue. I knew everything would be okay.

How To Lose Control

Finger tapping on the desktop. Tap, tap, tap. It feels as though each tap wastes a little more time, a little more life, a little more buzz. I picture myself as one of the sisters from The Virgin Suicides - a kind of entrapment. I have only been in my house, on my own, for a few hours. I haven't got plans for the rest of the day. The clock ticks and I picture blank space, blank time. One of the most exciting things in the world is a blank page. Or it should be.

A gust of wind picks up a few autumn leaves and I try to grab every one. I grab opportunities, plant seeds, find roots. Deep breath.

I realised I am energised by opportunities and interactions, motivated more by doing things, seeing people. In a way, perhaps I should feel less guilty for doing nothing. People don't do nothing enough. I find it hard enough to sit down with a book for too long without feeling the need to check my phone for notifications. The world can wait.

I find it hard enough to watch a film all the way through without being tempted by the flashing light of a notification from my handset. Sitting my way through a lecture, a conversation with a friend, reading a magazine, doing one thing at a time; why is that so hard? It becomes the pinnacle of multitasking. Always doing.

I repeat, the world can wait.

I admit, I use social media too much. I wait at the keyboard, scroll down the feed/timeline/dashboard in wait of the next notification, the next distraction, the next thing I can add to my to do list. Scrolling time could be used for reading, working, relaxing. Yet, as I do one thing, my thoughts turn to another.
I want to relax but I should work. I stress so I should relax - nothing gets done. If I never relax, if I multi task constantly, if I remain on the ball all the time then everything will get done, surely.
So I wait for that notification, the next thing on my to do list that will take priority before my essay. Filling up my to do list to avoid the last thing I prioritised.

Blank spaces should not limit me. I should not be discouraged by them but enthralled, fascinated. Let's just get lost and see where life takes me. Let the current guide me, because where I end up could be better than where I had planned to go. And because it's okay to do nothing.

Naked and Foreign in Istanbul

'My body is a temple'... I whisper to myself as I undress and slip on a pair of elasticated, barely there knickers I was given upon entry to the Hamam.

I mutter it under my breath lying in a pool of soapy bubbles as a semi naked Turkish woman presses her hands into knots in my back. I am being observed by another naked customer. 

I stare at the dome ceiling and count the coloured lights as my limbs are scrubbed raw and I am subjected to luxury. This is the life?

The whole experience was absurd. The main reason why it was so absurd, to me at least, was the nakedness of everyone in the room and the sheer lack of decency. Yet, no one batted an eyelid at the infinite nudity, or the tastefully lacy underwear my masseur paraded around. 

In Istanbul, it is relatively westernised and the average tourist can expect to comfortably wear semi revealing clothing. Of course, there are inevitably women who wear full coverings. In fact, there is a whole spectrum of lengths to which women cover up their bodies in Istanbul. Reasons may be religious. Reasons may be because the woman feels self-conscious or perhaps she is wary of the male gaze. On my first day here I opted to wear long trousers and a long sleeved top. Other women around me were comfortably wearing shorts and vest tops. I know I would feel slightly uncomfortable in shorts and a vest top. That is nothing in comparison to how I felt in the Hamam.
But, I think about how unperturbed I was by the other semi-naked women in the Hamam apart from my astonishment by how at ease they were. I think about how women should not be self conscious of their bodies in public because other women do not judge as much as they think. Nor is the male gaze the fault of the woman being stared at. So, we shouldn't be so afraid to wear what we like.

I have come to realise how ridiculous self-consciousness can be sometimes. Why should I be uncomfortable in the situation I was in?  The naked body is natural, and, especially in the presence of other woman with similar bodies and concerns, I should feel completely at ease. But, it's different in public and in the Hamam, even though I felt as though I was counting the minutes until I didn't have to be almost naked in a public sauna.

I suppose I am writing this in order to try and work out why it seemed to be such a surreal experience. I suppose it was a culture shock. This is part of travelling.
I felt the need to share this experience with others. I'm very glad that I simply decided to just go and do it. I was very far from my comfort zone but that's where life begins: the moment you step out of your comfort zone. Despite my discomfort, I would do it again.

When you visit another country where the culture is significantly different, you have to be mentally naked. You have to be open minded, like a sponge, ready to adapt and soak in the culture and customs and atmosphere. That may include getting naked and being washed or wearing a chador so I can enter a mosque. It's pointless getting a McDonald's when you can authentically try one of the best cuisines in the world. I urge everyone to embrace the culture wherever they go. If you don't like it, you never have to do it again.

Why I Don't Mind Looking Like a Tourist

One thing that resonated in my journal over my inter-railing trip was the way in which the people make a city; not only the locals but the tourists, not only the permanent residents but the visitors make the city. I am predominantly interested in the culture, in the way that I am almost invading someone else's home. I am fascinated by the way that I could be standing or sitting in the spot that someone had their first kiss, got engaged or found out they were a grandparent. I arrived in each city knowing only about the iconic views and the famous sights. Sightseeing is by no means the be all and end all of travelling.

On the way back to London from Paris, my fellow travellers and I read each other's recordings of the trip. I noticed that I was the only one who noted down our encounters with people.

Of course, my fascination with people watching is evident from previous blog posts and perhaps this is an extension of that thought process.

Our only unfortunate encounters were a little too frequent. As a group of three girls we had more than our fair share of catcalls or unwanted male attention. However, we were also approached by friendly male travellers. We met two Canadian boys on the way from Vienna to Prague and two slightly more than friendly Australian boys in Amsterdam (see below). I enjoyed the unity that formed when we, fellow traveller, Callum from Manchester and a German student were forced to fit into a six seater compartment where eight resided.

I was astounded at the friendliness of one traveller to another. In Vienna, we were caught in a group photo when a party of Turkish tourists lined up next to us. After meekly edging away we were invited to join the group photo and even take selfies with them. One man kissed our hands before departing. 

In Prague, a man offered to give us a free segway trial run: kindness in a different form.

Sometimes, overhearing English tourists relieved home sickness for a little time. Whilst bizarre, they made me laugh. In Budapest, walking past a violinist, a tourist behind me chirped 'do you think he knows any Dizzee Rascal?'.
A man in Berlin took a look at the Brandenburg gate and asked 'Is this where Hitler what done his speech?'.

I admired how much music brought people together. At the station in Amsterdam there was a piano open to the public to be played. Every time I walked past, someone was playing their heart out, singing at the top of their voice. A piano also rested on the top floor of Shakespeare and Company in Paris. No one was playing but the sentiment was there. I was still charmed by the knowledge of the piano's musical past.
Dancing was prominent in Paris. At the Sacre Coeur, a man with headphones was dancing on his own in the middle of the steps facing the magnificent view of the city skyline. Whilst he was gyrating his hips with added occasional thrusting, I was just glad he was enjoying himself.
On the evening of our second night in Paris, a group of dancers were tangoing at sunset opposite the Eiffel Tower. Two men in matching anoraks joined in, or at least attempted to copy the dancers. Their intoxicated bodies tripping over themselves created a new dance in itself.

Of course there are the places where the presence of others makes little difference. There are places, that I believe, have innate charm. Whilst affected by the people, they are beautiful in solitude or bustling with tourists. Shakespeare and Company held innate charm for me. I especially adored Prague Beer Garden. We sat at sunset by the river drinking Czech beer whilst music played behind us. I feel as though I would have enjoyed this in solitude or in company.

Short Letter to My Past Self

Dear Alice, specifically year 10 Alice. Age 14/15 Alice.

You do not yet know the effects of perspective. Despite your anxieties about the space you are living in, you will pull through. You are intimidated by the girls who surround you, enclosed in a ten bed dorm in boarding school. The bubble is indeed hard to pop. 

So, look at the stars more often. Try and put your life in perspective. Embrace your difference to them. But, don't rebel against the norms just for the sake of rebelling. Try as hard as you can not to romanticise sadness. 

You have just started your GCSE year. They will be the hardest exams you will take. Not because of their difficulty but because you will have to fill your mind with information you do not want to learn the way they teach it in schools. You do not like maths. You do not like science. I would tell you to appreciate your education but I still don't know how algebra will help you in later life.

I know you have your heart set on Cambridge or Oxford and you are so capable of getting there. Unfortunately you won't get there.

But, honestly, that doesn't matter one bit. In fact I believe that where I am now is better and more comfortable and much more suited to you than Cambridge or Oxford would ever be. You are going to have the time of your life at university. Trust me. 19 year old you says so. So, try not to pinch yourself every time you get something wrong. Allow yourself to make mistakes. Make glorious amazing mistakes. Even if it means dyeing your hair purple or black or keeping that awful side fringe. This is because you'll learn how god damn horrific it looks and you'll sort it out soon enough.

Please stop ironically wearing 3D glasses with the lenses popped out.

Don't fret about your body. You will not be a tall, skinny model by 19 but you will be so much more confident.

So then, your future. A lot will happen in four years so prepare yourself. You are yet to meet a couple of friends whom I'm sure you will have for life. It's worth it to keep breathing just for that. You are yet to discover how much you love reading and writing and you are yet to discover what you will go on to do as a degree (it's history by the way). You're not passionate about History yet. Well... who is? I guess you'll realise that it's your best subject and whilst that does not seem likely now, A Level will make it seem much more exciting.

Don't you worry about the hierarchy of popularity that seems to be present at all secondary schools. That tends to disappear once you get to A Levels and will be non-existent once you get to University.

Do not, and I repeat, Do not fret so much about boys. Do not ask them out by text.

Appreciate life a little more. Maybe boarding school is not the best place to discover new and amazing things but there is beauty in the most mundane spaces. Watch American Beauty and discover that even a plastic bag blowing in the breeze can be beautiful. Watch out for Katy Perrys.

Breathe because you will travel to Ghana within a year. Breathe because you will know how it feels to fall in love. Breathe because you will realise how much you value your family. Breathe because you will have incredible opportunities. I am writing this the night before I set off to travel Europe. You have that and so much more to look forward to.

Alice (2015)

Moments

Sometimes, I pause to consider a moment. 

I am lying in bed on a Sunday with no responsibilities to my name for the day; the rain makes music on my window pane. The window is open so my temperature is comfortable. I haven't moved from the position I was in since I woke. I am comfortably numb. The daylight seeps through the curtain basking my bedroom in an orange glow. My favourite song for the week repeats in my head. I couldn't say that in this moment I was completely happy but it was beautiful. I had nothing to complain about, nothing to do but lie and think of music.

A moment.

Sometimes they're more significant. I hitchhiked from Rugby to Southampton with two of my best friends for charity and the most beautiful thing I gained from my adventure was a warm heart, purely because I was astounded at the kindness of humans. The second was the phenomenal beauty of strangers. Every person I got into a car with was endlessly fascinating. I hungered for their little life anecdotes. I craved sustenance in the form of friendship through kindness.

Perhaps people were more willing to open up because of our silly fancy dress; maybe our charitable task helped others to see virtue. Maybe it was the sheer excitement that radiated from our wide eyes and smiling mouths, eager for adventure and with enthusiasm for the road. I aspired to be the modern day Jack Kerouac. “I just go along, I dig life” is what I whispered to myself each time a passer-by ignored our efforts to hitch a ride - ambitious and viciously hopeful. Each challenge satisfied our beating hearts.

The Ferris wheel caught me unguarded. At the top, I breathed in, idealistic and dizzy and truly satisfied with where the road had taken me. It was as though I had woken up from a broken heart - un-blinded and unbearably ecstatic. We had discovered a fairground in the middle of nowhere, a promise, a glass half-full. I’d collected a little glass half full of stories to tell. Moments

A baby is crying on the train. For a brief second I lock eyes with the stranger opposite me. The green eyes agree with me. We unite in mutual irritability. We reflect each other's body language. I feel like friendship is forming. It's a shame they got off the train before me.

I am sitting in my kitchen at uni with two of my flatmates giggling uncontrollably after one of them tried to eat his dinner off his plate without using his hands. Tomato sauce adorns his beard and I am laughing. We laugh together and we continue laughing at stupid things for most of the night. This was something that I didn't realise would be a memory until it was.

I like to notice moments, they make me feel as though life is worth living. 

The Tinder Test

Don't judge me. I downloaded Tinder.

I'd say it was for a laugh but I was genuinely interested. I thought I'd give it a go and see what happens. I've since deleted it but in hindsight, it was a fascinating insight into first impressions and how we judge people.

I went on two Tinder dates. Both just in town for a coffee and they were perfectly nice people but we didn't really click. I wasn't looking for anything serious however, I considered that perhaps a first date isn't enough to really assess a person. I didn't really talk to these two again and one of the reasons was because I wasn't getting the right vibes from them. Then someone recently made me reconsider that first impressions can differ a huge amount to how you might perceive them later on.

It doesn't just go for dates.  My flatmates, who I moved in with back in September last year, are not the same people I thought they were in the first week. I thought a couple of them probably wouldn't be the kind of people that I usually get on with but, now they're the closest people to me at university - physically and figuratively. I didn't even consider that we might have the same sense of humour or that we had such similar interests. Similarly, looking back on previous relationships, my first impression of those people was different to how I perceive them now and how I perceived them whilst we were together.
But, if we really took this to heart when scrolling through Tinder, we would pick out and look at in detail each potential date, studying each photo and why they decided to display this one and not another. Perhaps you'd talk to every single one of your matches, probe them with questions, even assess their use of emojis.

But, online personas are rarely totally reliable. You may get on better online than you do in real life. Maybe you think you like one person but you discover that they're different to who you thought they were. At the same time you may have swiped past someone who you would have gotten on really well with, a potential soul mate, someone you knew when you were a child but didn't recognise initially.

Strange how a simple swipe can dictate one's future relationships.

Additionally people will change in your eyes too, even if you've known them for a really long time. With the benefit of hindsight, we can so easily analyse past relationships and friendships which change our view of the person. Sometimes someone isn't who you think they are and their actions may surprise you one day.
The way you saw your parents as a child is different to how you see them now. When you realise they had a rebellious teenage lifestyle you no longer perceive them as all knowing, all good deity-like individuals.

Nevertheless, I feel like I base my friendships and relationships around people who I click with upon first meeting or people who I feel are similar to me. Yet, in contrast I have friends who are so different to me that we get on like a house on fire; opposites attract. I often people watch on public transport or look at people who are merely just acquaintances and wonder whether some time in the future we could become great friends or even lovers. I admire someone on the bus and think, if I start talking to them today, will I be planning a holiday with them in a years time?
I often look at people in my life and think, if I'd known when we'd first met what we've been through now...how weird that I had no idea at that point in my life.

The Art of Letting Go

Letting go is one of the most difficult parts of human existence. It envelops us emotionally so it can't be cured by painkillers or physical operations. Letting go is something that we all have to face when it comes to death, break ups, lost friends, lost memories or simply just leaving somewhere to move on to pastures new.
And, sometimes, letting go or having to leave something can make you feel so much emotionally that it almost affects you physically.
Some people say that the way to hack this feeling is to never become attached to anything in the first place, whether its an attachment to a person, a place or even just an idea. But, you can't control the way you feel when something affects you so fiercely. It brings out the primal aspects of our being. We follow our hearts and souls and ignore logic. Yet, looking back, feeling attached, is so human. We shouldn't shun ourselves for allowing ourselves to feel this way because it just makes us human.
Some say that letting go can be compared to taking a hand out of water. The hand slips so easily out of water, some may say because the two are not attached and yet the reason we pull our hand out of the water in the first place is because of the will power to do just that. In the process, some water droplets still remain on the hand just like a piece of the person or place you have left, still remains with you for a time. The water droplets on your hand will eventually dry, just like the way that the feeling numbs over time.

My English teacher at college told me that he believes that one should not look back, but remembering the past in small doses can be wonderful. I agree with this because looking back may mean looking back on past mistakes, analysing events, worrying and simply worrying so much that it affects the way you live now when really, worrying about the past is of no use at all. When you lose something, it is tempting to revel in the way that it made you feel and to remember the familiarity of that person, place or idea. However, it is best to think of these changes as part of a path in life. Life changes, people come and go, you move on, you change and people change. You are moving onto another phase of your life where, because of the changes that have occurred, you may have different and more exciting opportunities for experiences that you never had before. Soon, the way things suddenly are, will become part of your comfort zone and new changes will come in time. Wallowing in the past will only stop you from embracing the present.

I suppose, when you hurt so much from losing something, you can be safe in the knowledge that you have the power to love. As cheesy as this sounds, it's undeniably true. Someone who can care, may be in danger of getting emotionally hurt, but, someone who cares is a million, billion times better than someone who doesn't care at all and lives their life numbed from emotion.

Here is a quote from The Little Prince which I think really sums up what I'm trying to say:

"Of course I'll hurt you. Of course you'll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence."