Little Girl, Found

For various reasons, I haven't posted a blog post for months. Other than the fact I've been ridiculously busy, I've just not felt it.

I've written lots of things. I've even started to write a book. But I wasn't ready to share any of it with the world.

Tonight, however, I am drawing a line under 2013 and the fear that came with the unknown and the hidden memories that I wasn't prepared to deal with until recently.

Tonight, after 15 months, I will be seeing my counsellor for the very last time.

I don't know what to say now. I guess I don't know what to expect. Maybe I've forgotten something important, some repressed memory, that will one day jump out to surprise me and push me straight back to square one.

Or maybe I'll be ok.

Who knows?

I suppose no-one really knows, do they? Otherwise where would be the fun? We can make plans and assess risks as much as we like but, as a wise woman once said to me, whatever happens is going to happen for a reason. Plans are good, but things rarely go to plan. You just have to learn to go with it.

I'm talking in clichés again. Sorry.

So I suppose what I'm trying to say is this is me. This is where I'm at. Am I ready to let go of my safety net? Absolutely not. But is there ever going to be a better time to let go? No.

Letting go is hard and scary, but I have two choices. I can cling on to this, and the reminder of all the negative things, or I can let go, knowing that I am never going to be in this exact place at this exact time ever again in my life.

So tonight I am letting go. Letting go of little girl, lost.

At this moment, I am little girl, found.

Onwards and upwards.

(OK, enough of the clichés. I'm done now).

World Mental Health Day

Today is World Mental Health Day. I don't know who decided that 10th October would be the day we think about mental health. Maybe it's because, here in the northern hemisphere at least, it's the start of winter; a time when many of us start to really feel the strain of dealing with a mental health issue. Or maybe it was the only day that wasn't already the international day of something or other.

Either way, today it is.

And so today, I am thinking about my own mental health.

Perhaps, before I get too deep into the grey cloud, I should remind you where I have come from. Earlier this year, I had an epiphany, got a tattoo and accepted my 10 year relationship with a black hole, quit my job, rediscovered a bit of me I forgot existed (the part of me that is actually a valid human being, rather than just a shell of one filled with self deprecation and pent up stress), found a new job (which I love, by the way) and finished an MSc.

Long story short, I have depression. But this year I have realised that although I have it, it doesn't have to define me. Just like my eyes and hair and hips and boobs and tummy and brain and everything else individually do not define me. ‎It's just another part of who I am.

So it is probably fitting that I have spent the last hour sitting in a counsellors room (in the foetal position through choice rather than necessity) having another epiphany, which I would like to share with you.

Over a year ago, I started to see a counsellor for, what I thought would be, a 12 week stint of 'fixing'. First thing I learnt - it is impossible to fix a lifetime's worth of problems.

My counsellor is lovely, but it took me a long time to just be able to speak. By about 10 weeks in, we started to realise that maybe I would benefit from a few more sessions. Then Christmas happened and he went away for 6 weeks.

January 2013, back to square one, but with a lot more awareness of just how many problems I have. By now I could at least speak. But the more I spoke, the more the problems came, faster than either of us could deal with all at once. It was beginning to feel like maybe this process wasn't working when I headed off to the UN for two weeks.

Cue epiphany. 

The problem with having an epiphany is the initial burst of energy/ motivation which is eventually followed by a cloud of self doubt.

And so ‎f‎ast-forward 6 months.

‎Today, I realised that a lot of my issues are interlinked and repetitive. Without boring you with the gory details, my negative opinions of myself, my relationship with food, and my very unhealthy relationships with people are not, infact, separate issues. They're all related.

When I feel good about myself, when I'm happy and let myself be me, and don't let myself take the downs too seriously.  I let myself eat. I want to eat. And I want to spend time with people because I enjoy their company, ‎not because I feel I 'should' or because they might give me the attention I can't give myself. 

I think many of you just face-palmed. No shit, right?

But maybe some of you know what I'm saying. It's very hard to feel good about yourself, to let yourself be happy, when you don't eat (for fear of what food might do to you, or of getting it wrong, or simply because the effort of having to make yet another decision is just too big and overwhelming and exhausting) and don't let other people in to help (for fear of judgement, or of getting it wrong, or simply because the effort of having to act like everything is ok is just too big and overwhelming ‎and exhausting). 

Unfortunately, sometimes that fear is so huge, that the 'simple' act of eating or seeing a friend becomes such a chore it's easier just not to. And there begins the slippery slope. 

So now that I've made the (seemingly obvious) connection, what am I going to do about it?

Right now, nothing. I'm going to get out of the safety of my car, walk up four flights of stairs to my flat, give my lovely boyfriend a hug and thank him for being here, and then I will ask what's for dinner. And if there is no plan, we'll buy (another) takeaway. 

Surely it's better to just eat something than to eat nothing at all, right?

Tea

Tea is a wonderful thing.

A good cup of tea on a rainy day can make the world just a little bit brighter.

Whenever I travel, wherever I am in the world, a good cup of tea can bring me back home, even just for a few minutes.

Tea can mend broken bodies at the end of a hard day, and broken hearts at the end of a relationship.

What more do you need at the weekend than a friend, a plate of biscuits and a good cup of tea?

Tea may be the real nectar of the gods.

So when my cup of tea let me down, I'm sure you can understand my devastation.

This is my story.

Mornings can be a dangerous  time in my house if I've not yet had a cup of tea. 

It was a Thursday morning. A particularly perilous day as I rush to get ready for a counseling session (not something to look forward to first thing in the morning) followed by a day at work and my return to aquafit (dangerous at the best of times, but no less if you haven't done any exercise for 3 months)‎.

Ten minutes late getting out of bed. Off to a bad start. I can't find my swimming kit. This is unhelpful, but I'm going to have to stop looking and accept defeat. No exercise for another week.

Finally, my morning cup of tea. Ingredients: A large, white pint mug, caringly 'acquired' for me by a university friend (he flirted with the coffee guy)‎. PG tips. Soya milk. Hot water. In that order.

I settle down on the sofa to check my emails, laptop carefully balanced on one knee, cup of tea cradled lovingly in my lap.

All of a sudden, I feel a pain in my leg. There is tea everywhere, burning through my pyjamas, scalding me for not paying it the attention it rightfully deserves.

And before I acknowledge the pain, I notice my laptop. Drowning. Suddenly, my cup of tea is the enemy. My loyalty is torn. 

Slowly, carefully, I lower the offending item to the floor and carefully wipe milky tea from the keyboard, praying to the gods of technology that it will survive this traumatising ordeal. What will I do with no access to Facebook, emails, the outside world?!‎

My cup of tea has failed me. My laptop still functions, but only just. As long as I don't need the letters m, v or b. Or the space bar. 

So dear reader, take heed of my advice. A cup of tea can save your life. But it should not be combined with the morning rush and your laptop.

Recovery

Dear Diary

I've been trying to write this post for the last three weeks, ever since the day I handed in my dissertation.  But try as I might, I just couldn't work it out.  Something wasn't right.  No, nothing was right.  I'd lost the ability to do words.

You see, no-one told me that the hard part of finishing a degree wasn't the dissertation.  It was the recovery period that follows it.  I never thought to ask.

For months, I'd spent every evening, weekend and spare minute at lunch time thinking about my dissertation - about what I needed to write, about what the graphs and tables should look like, about how to format it, and about how to thank everyone who'd helped me with the process.  And then, all of a sudden, it was all gone.  No longer could I hide away in the library or squirreled away in my sofa-nest of blankets and journal articles.  I was expected to return to the world as a "normal" person, to be able to pick up where I left off - a time when I couldn't use my dissertation as an excuse for being permanently exhausted and just a little bit distracted.

The problem was, I'd forgotten what that was like.  Without warning, an empty space had appeared and "free time" had reared its ugly head. 

"Free time" and I don't really get on very well.  I don't trust it and I don't know what to do with it.  I live in constant fear that I've forgotten to do something, and that someone is going to come looking for it, forcing me to find an excuse for not doing it.

So the past three weeks have been just a bit empty.  I guess the reason I've avoided blogging is because I didn't want to have to tell you that, actually, I was feeling a bit crap. 

I spent a lovely three days "doing the Festival" with a friend from school (yes, I'm very aware that I promised you reviews and observations of the Fringe, and that hasn't happened.  They'll come, eventually), and it was great to have her here.  But apart from that, I've just been a bit lost.

While I was busy avoiding real life, I failed to notice was that the elephants in my head were secretly growing, hiding being my dissertation getting ready to pounce when I least expected it.  Have you ever seen an elephant pounce?  I understand they're generally not known for the element of surprise, but the elephants in my head are different.  They're sneaky.

To cut a long story short, the "lost" became "miserable", which became "depressed".  Although I still see myself as "having depression", I've not been "depressed" for ages.  So when I realised that was how I was feeling, it hit me a lot harder than before.  The problem with discovering emotions is that I now feel stuff, and that can hurt.

The hurting, as the result of thinking, as the result of not having a distraction any more, all came to a head two weeks ago - a Saturday.  I spent the day at a training session for Girlguiding Trainers, up in Stirling.  On the way home, I began to think.  Thinking and driving can be dangerous - I found myself in Glasgow, which is definitely not on the right side of Scotland for me to be a) not concentrating, b) feeling miserable, and c) exhausted. 

As I dragged myself across the M8, I realised that I didn't want to be there.  I didn't really want to be anywhere.  And I particularly didn't want to be at home.  These new-found emotions were confusing, and I didn't know how to deal with them.  I was scared, and I needed to find a way out.

Since starting to see a counsellor, I've found ways to deal with feelings that don't involve crying and retreating into myself.  So, I looked for options.  What I came up with was possibly not the best advice for anyone feeling the same way:

1.  Talk to someone.  Find a friend - except at 6.30 on a Saturday night in the middle of August people generally have plans.  I didn't want to interrupt them.  And I was probably miserable enough without having to drag myself off to the crisis centre or to call the Samaritans and be patronised for the rest of the evening.

2.  Alcohol.  For various reasons, mostly naivety and stupidity, alcohol has get me into some pretty ridiculous situations in the past, so I don't really drink a lot.  But I do like red wine, and sometimes it just takes the edge off.

3.  Pizza.  For the record, I'm aware this sounds like a bizarre "way out", but bear in mind I'm quite severely lactose intolerant - half a dairy milk bar makes my face erupt, and you don't need (or want) to know about the other side effects. 

I found my respite in Sainsburys.  I hate supermarkets, especially on a Saturday night.  If you have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than go to Sainsburys, you need to get a new hobby.  But you can guarantee that there will at least be other people there, making it a "safe place".  And Sainsburys sells both wine and pizza.  Double win.

My poor attempt to make myself feel better by giving myself a hangover and some particularly unhappy dairy-induced-side-effects pretty much failed.  Mostly because I fell asleep after the first large glass of wine and woke up on the sofa at 3am.  As angry as I was with myself at the time ("I can't even do miserable right"), I'm glad this is the way it worked out.   

I guess what this has shown me is that life isn't always happy all the time.  Sometimes, it's spectacularly rubbish.  But learning to accept that, and being able to question why we react in the way we do, is the first  step to making it a bit less rubbish. 

I've spent the last two weeks letting myself feel rubbish, but the difference between this time and the previous ten years of feeling rubbish is that I was aware I felt rubbish, and I was aware of why.

Today, I'm done feeling rubbish.  I've had words with the elephants and they've shrunk just a little bit.  I've filled my "free time" with friends and Guiding and books and all of the other things I've neglected over the past six months (except washing up.  I'm not that desperate).  I've started eating vegetables again, and I'm looking forward to not having to do any more studying.  At least for now.

So that's my excuse for neglecting you over the past few weeks.  I'm not going to apologise for my disappearance - it's just a thing I needed to do.  But now I've stopped feeling sorry for myself and hopefully normal service will resume. 

*grins*

Rosy x

Rosy Burgess, BSc (Hons)... MSc...??

When I was 17, in my penultimate year of Higher Education, I was told I had to start applying for university.  There was no real discussion about what I wanted to do with my life, or where I wanted to go.  It had always just been assumed that I would go to university and get a degree which would get me a good job.

At 17, I had absolutely no idea.  I thought I might like to go travelling, to volunteer in Africa for a while, to explore the world.  But I was told that this wasn't an option.  That if I took a gap year, I'd be throwing away my education and would find it really hard to get back in later on.  And I accepted that.

I accepted being told that I had to go to a top twenty ranked university.  So of course I compared that list with a map, and pinpointed the six universities that were furthest away from home.  If I wasn't allowed to travel, I might as well get as far away as I could, even if it was within someone else's limitations.  Despite being told this was not a good reason for picking a university, I couldn't see any other reasons or way to decide, so this would have to do.

Long story short, I ended up getting the A and two B's in my A-levels, needed to accept a place at the University of Edinburgh (at the time ranking in the top 10; now ranking number 18).  So on 11th September 2005, I jumped in the car, my belongings in the boot, ready to head off on what people told me would be the biggest adventure of my life so far.  After getting out again to say goodbye to my family, I finally settled down for the five hour drive, with my dad, up to my new home.  Although I wasn't allowed to call it home.  Home was in Wales.  Edinburgh was just where I went to university.

Fast forward four years to June 2009.  I had survived first year - depression, anorexia, only just scraped through exams, didn't really know anyone I felt comfortable with; Second year - got promoted to Bar Supervisor, met some people I'm still friends with, just about scraped through exams; Third year - moved in with an awesome flat-mate, got promoted again, felt more comfortable around people, met the boy who is still my boyfriend, did slightly better in exams; Fourth year - moved house again, realised I hated being outside (a problem for someone doing an Ecology degree, which I was), messed up my dissertation and final exams (apparently slating the subject you are studying in your final exam is generally frowned upon), graduated with a 2.2, knew I never wanted to see trees or grass ever again. 

Basically, looking back, I'm about 98% certain my undergraduate degree was a complete waste of time. 

So when I decided in August 2011 that I was going to take on an MSc, I was determined this time to do better.  I'm not stupid, I could totally get a distinction.  And this time it was on my terms.  None of this top-twenty rated nonsense.  I wanted to go somewhere where I felt like a real person, where tutors knew my name and I wasn't just a statistic.  I also wanted to go somewhere I knew had a good reputation for the course I wanted to study.  And this is how I ended up at Edinburgh Napier University (currently ranking at number 98 in the UK, if you really care).

Today, I have become a lot more realistic about my own abilities and my expectation of myself.  Ok, maybe I could have got a distinction.  If I hadn't been working full time, been to the UN HQ in New York to represent WAGGGS, been battling major depression and the resultant months of counselling...  So now I'm not expecting a distinction.  Infact, even if I only just scrape a pass it will be enough (as long as I get more than the 53% I got for my undergraduate dissertation).  Knowing that I made the decision to come back to studying, at a time in my life knowing it wouldn't be great, and that I stuck with it, that is enough.  Having a Masters degree is something I never thought four years ago that I would ever achieve.  So to have come through it so spectuacularly (I'm thinking a bit like a bull in a china shop) is a huge achievement.

And this time round, it doesn't matter that I know I don't want to work in the field relating to my degree.  That's almost not the point.  I survived, I don't feel guilty and I have a job.  And soon, hopefully, I will be able to call myself Rosy Burgess, BSc (Hons), MSc.  If I want to.  Which I don't.  

I do still want to go travelling though.

--
NB.  There's nothing wrong with the University of Edinburgh.  I am really proud to have studied there and to be part of the alumni.  I just prefer Napier. 

Edinburgh Festival Fringe

You may or may not know that I live in Edinburgh. This beautiful peaceful city in stone-throwing distance from the sea and close enough to the country that I can see it from my bedroom window (living on the fourth floor does have its benefits!)

This is the magical city which, for most of the year, reminds me of an old bear that's consumed slightly too much caffeine - a bit slow but buzzing and not really sure what to do with itself.

And then August happens. The bear suddenly forgets its age, brushes off the cobwebs and replaces its lattes with jaegerbombs. And it brings all of its friends with it. The festival has started.

Edinburgh has about nine million festivals throughout the year, but none of them compare even remotely with the fringe. What started out as the younger brother of the festivals, bumbling along trying to be cool and artsy and a bit alternative, has become a massive event in its own right.

This year is the first year since moving to Edinburgh that I've been in the city and not been working in one of the main fringe venues. It's been a bit weird knowing that somewhere in my city there were posters, stages, even a big purple cow, but I've not been part of it.

I've missed the weeks of preparation, the mad panic to make sure there are enough people in the right places, to order and unpack thousands of crates of wine and kegs of beer. The long nights of setting up pop up bars and theatres, and the mass influx of thousands and thousands of people. This year it's all sort of snuck up on me.

I quite like it!

But I love the festival, and I’m really excited about being part of it as an 'outsider'.

And since I've started this blog, I figured I can share my experiences with you. So keep an eye open for my reviews and observations, and if you're in Edinburgh, share your stories - tell me what you think, what you've seen, and what you absolutely wouldn't see again!

Crisis - because I am a girl

So recently I have noticed that my attitude towards myself and the world around me has shifted. Years of working in pubs and clubs taught me that, maybe, to succeed in life I needed to act more masculine. To dress less like a woman and wear more suits. To be tough and hide my emotions. 

Clearly that wasn't working. So now, thanks to nearly a year's worth of counseling (not all because of working in pubs and clubs I might add) I have a new, different perspective on life. 

I have a new job, I've nearly finished a masters degree (which I have actually enjoyed, for the most part), I have friends who actually want to be my friend, and I seem to be doing ok at this life thing. I've even stopped wearing suits and started to feel human in a dress and heels. Not because that's what society expects of me as a woman but because it's what I want, as a woman. 

I've even found myself having opinions and thoughts of my own. Again, not because society tells me what I should think, but because it's actually what I think, as a woman. I've talked before about my views on feminism. I don't see myself as a feminist, but I'm not scared of the word any more. 

Which is probably good, because this week I've found myself in a number of situations where my inner female (yep, aware that sounds a bit odd) has screamed and shouted at me to do something. Let me tell you about them.

 --

"You go first; you're a girl"

Heckles rise.  Clench my fists.  Grit my teeth.  Slide past him.  Don't say anything.  He doesn't know me.  Maybe he's just trying to be polite.

"You're a girl, you must like this music"

Heckles rise.  Grit my teeth.  Ignore him.  Carry on.  Maybe I heard him wrong.  Pretend it didn't happen.

"Awrite love!  I'd have a bit of tha'!  Aw, you're the quiet type?  Well, I'll see ya later, yeah?"

Heckles rise.  Clench my fists.  Grit my teeth.  Walk faster.  Don't say anything.  Dive into the nearest shop.  Find somewhere safe.

--

Right.  None of this is cool.

The first, and probably most innocent comment rattled me. It's so hard to know whether the guy saying this was just trying to be polite, not knowing me and my ability to over analyse and to over react, or whether there was more to it. Either way, it made me feel uncomfortable because I don't want to be treated any differently to anyone else, be it because I am a girl or for any other reason. I'm still just a person. Don't label me then give me 'special treatment' (it doesn't feel special and will just make me angry). By all means let me go first, just not because of my gender.

The second comment just irritated me. Just because I have boobs and hips and a different chromosomal structure to you does not mean I automatically like different music to you. Actually yes, I do like the singer in question, but I also like AC/DC and Rammstein and Chase & Status. I grew up listening to Simon and Garfunkel and Joan Baez. Mumford and Sons are playing in my car. And when I'm stressed I like a bit of Handel or Vivaldi. So don't base my taste in music (or lack thereof) on the fact I am female. If you have to judge me at all, do it on the grounds that I have pretty cool parents who encouraged me (and my sister AND brother) to open our ears, to explore and to appreciate all forms of music. 

And the third comment. This is the most inexcusable of them all. I'm raging at myself for not telling this man how I felt. But I have learnt to pick my battles. Outside a pub in the middle of the afternoon when I am on my own, and he is not, is not a battle worth risking, even if I am raging.

I know a lot of my friends, mostly guys (not stereotyping, just saying), would happily dive in and introduce this man's face to their fist. I was pretty close. But that's not going to help. Guys, you'll probably just get hurt and I'll feel more useless that, as a girl, I needed a man to fight my battles for me. That's not cool.

This week, for the first time in a very long time, I have felt just a bit useless. I have all this anger that a handful (and it is just a few) men still have the attitude and the belief that its ok to treat women any differently, but I don't know what to do with it.

I don't want to go round complaining that 'all men are dicks', because they're not. Some men are dicks, as are some women, but I'm not going to change that by being angry and preaching at them. If anything I'll just make it worse.

So tell me, what do I do? Do I just sit here and just take it? Do I write about it and hope that the rage comes across strongly enough to make people just stop? Do I stop being feminine and start dressing in my “safe” jeans and hoodies again? Do I become a black belt in some complicated martial arts and beat their sorry asses?

I just don't know.  But I know I need to do something. 

Centenary... 100 word challenge for grown ups

For the one hundredth 100 word challenge for grown ups, this week's prompt is "the Big C".  The challenge - to begin each line with the letter C.  To make it even more challenging (ha!) for myself, I decided to start each sentence with the letter C. 

Centenary

 

“Careful. Careful my dear. Come along. Come along my dear. Come along with me. Come along and see. Celebrate. Celebrate my dear. Celebrate with me.”

Carrying the cake, I stumbled through the garden as my grandmother encouraged, mumbling in her way. Chuckling to herself, her mind taken by the disease of age.

“Count the candles on the cake. Celebrate. Carefully my dear.”

Crying out, I tripped, catching my foot on the edge of my grandmother's walking stick. 

Cake flew everywhere, decorating the garden in a sea of pink frosting. 

Candles, one hundred, counting her centenary, burning the grass.

Hymns and Arias... 100 word challenge for grown ups

I really enjoyed the prompt  for this week's 100 word challenge for grown ups - it reminds me of a time when I sang in choirs and the rush of adrenalin I'd get standing on stage preparing to sing.  

 ... the air was expectant...

Hymns and Arias

 

The air was expectant, filled with anticipation. Standing alone, she looked out into the darkness in front of her, bright lights shining in her eyes. She caught the eye of someone in the dark and felt their excitement rushing into her, like a river through the valley.

As the music started, she took a deep breath, feeling the air rushing into her lungs. The tempo intensified, the sound taking over her body, becoming part of her.

Opening her mouth, she felt the sound flow out of her, filling the air with an aria she had heard a thousand times before.

A letter to my ten-year-old self

Girlguiding recently ran a campaign to "tell Sophie" - encouraging us to think about advice we would like to give our ten year old selves.  I've been thinking about this for a while, and have decided that one thing isn't enough.  Here is what I'd like to tell my ten-year-old self.

Me, aged ten

Dear Rosy

Are you Rosy yet, or are you still Rosemary?  I can't remember.  At some point soon, if you haven't already, you will finally settle on the name by which you will be known for the rest of your life.  You will go through a range of spellings, but you will finally decide that you want to be called "Rosy" - spelt with a y, not ie, because it's unusual and you don't have "ie" in your name. 

You are ten years old, so you must be in Year 5, still in primary school.  You feel grown up - in September, you will be moving into Year 6, and after that you will move up to high school.  Enjoy feeling grown up - high school will be fun, but overwhelming. 

You are starting to realise that maybe you don't fit in any more - you are the tallest person in Year 5, and you started your period last year.  Adults told you it was perfectly normal, but it didn't feel normal when you realised that you were the first, and everyone knew it.  You don't enjoy it now but believe me, you will grow to appreciate it in time.  And enjoy feeling tall.  Next year, you will stop growing and you will suddenly become the shortest person in the class. 

You don't like the way you look.  You think you are fat and too tall, and you wear a bra even though none of your friends do.  You are not fat.  But you won't realise that for a long time.  You will try dieting, and one day you will realise that something isn't right.  Realising it will be the first step in dealing with it.  People will try to help you, although it might not feel like help at the time.  One day you will understand that they are doing it because they love you and want to make you feel better.  They are not trying to rule your life.  Only you can do that.

But now, you already feel like you spend your whole life feeling like the odd-one-out.  Sometimes you will hate it, and you will think everyone else thinks that way too.  On those days, don't take it out on yourself too hard.  You will grow to realise that everyone is just a bit weird.  Some people are just a bit weirder than others.  That doesn't make them any less allowed to enjoy being themselves.  You are allowed to just be you.

You have already started to be aware of boys, although you think they're just a bit rubbish (you won't grow out of that for a while)!  You have already met the boy you will share your first "grown up" kiss with.  I'm not going to tell you who he is, but he was lovely (and still is), and even though you will lose contact for a while, you will get back in touch when you are older, and you will be friends.  Don't rush to grow up too quickly.  Being a grown up is scary, and the older you get, the less qualified you will feel to be one.

You have crazy hair.  I know it well - although your hair will be every length, style and colour you can imagine over the next few years, you will end up giving up and accepting that it is curly.  There's a girl in your class whose hair goes all the way down her back and she can sit on it.  You are jealous.  Don't be.  Your hair is yours.  You can do what you want with it (although one day, I promise, you will have hair that you can sit on.  It will be crazy hair and you will spend ages trying to get rid of the frizzy bits at the front.  It will drive you insane, and you will wish you could just cut it off.  But you quite like having long hair.  You can't have it both ways!)

See that picture?  That is you, aged ten, on the day you took your promise as a Guide.  You will struggle in Guides, but you will stick at it because you are determined to prove you are as good as, if not better, than the girls who laugh at you and call you names.  Stay determined.  It will get you into trouble sometimes, but stick to your guns - it will save you one day. 

Even if you don't enjoy Guides, you will make it.  One day, you will be asked to go to the United Nations, in New York (that's in America!), to represent ten million Girl Guides and Girl Scouts at a conference all about women and girls.  You won't believe it now.  I still don't believe it.  But it will change your life in so many ways that you can't even imagine now.  Don't try to imagine, just know that whenever life is tough (and it will be), things will get better.

Girlguiding (as it is called now) will be your lifeline.  You will make so many friends in so many countries all over the world - some in countries that you don't even know exist yet (has Dad started trying to teach you all the capital cities yet?  If not, that's something for you to look forward to!)   Keep in touch with them - you never know when you might see them again.  But you will. 

Oh, you decided last year that you wanted to be vegetarian.  Well done for keeping it up!  Mum is probably still trying to make you eat nuts and weird food like tofu (you'll learn to eat it.  Eventually).  No-one thought you'd make it this far, did they?  Well you will surprise them all!

You live in Wales, in a village in the middle of nowhere.  You find that tough sometimes - all your friends live miles away and you don't get to see them as much as you'd like.  One day, you will live even further away (I'm not going to tell you - it'll be a lovely surprise), and you will see even less of your friends from school, but you will keep in touch and when you do see them, it will be like you'd never been away.  But you're not even friends with those people yet, so I'm not going to tell you who they are.  They are wonderful though.  Don't lose them.

I wonder how much of this you think about.  You are happy as a ten year old.  You have wonderful friends and family (they are still wonderful) and you like school.  You have just started to learn to play the violin and the clarinet - they will take you to exciting places. 

Enjoy being ten.  I'm glad that you don't know any of the things I have written about - at ten, you aren't thinking about the future.  You don't need to.  What will happen to you is going to happen anyway.  Just go with it.  Sometimes you will hate it, and sometimes you will love it.  That's life.  It's normal.  As normal as "normal" is, anyway.

One day, a few years from now (a whole lifetime away), you will sit down and think about being ten.  That day is today.  See you then!

Keep smiling.

Lots of love,

Me
x

Science... 100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups

 So, three and a half weeks until D-day, but my brain may have melted in this heat.  Writing 100 words is a lovely way to take a break from the 15,000 words of my dissertation (6,000 still to go) though.

This week's prompt for the 100 word challenge for grown ups is a fun one:

 

 Science

Pulling into the driveway she spotted two figures hunched, poking at something on the doorstep.

Looking up, the smaller figure jumped up excitedly.

'Mummy! I wanted eggs but Daddy said I could only have them if I found out how to make eggs and he let me use Google and it told me loads of boring recipes and then I found this one and its great because you don't need to do any washing up Mummy, except your spatula, but Daddy said not to tell you... oops'

As the child paused for breath, she cursed the day she married a scientist.

Let's do a rain dance

Or: 5 reasons I'm not enjoying the summer

Just a few weeks ago, I was thinking how lovely it would be to get on a plane and spend a week sitting in the sun somewhere exotic, sipping cocktails and listening to the sea gently lapping against the sand.

Ok, anyone who knows me will know that this is exactly not  how I would spend a week abroad (I'm more likely to be found running around a city trying to see ALL of the things listed in my guide book before returning to work to recover).  But for some reason I thought it would be nice to get some sun.

Boy am I regretting that now.  And here are five reasons why I am not enjoying this glorious weather:

1.  Clothes

I've talked before about how I feel about the way I look.  As someone who feels most comfortable in jeans, a hoody and doc martens (I have 7 pairs!), summer is a nightmare.  If I could wear my pyjamas all the time, I would.  During the summer, I adapt - jeans just get a bit shorter, and DMs are replaced with flipflops, so weekends are sorted.

Then Monday happens.  Getting dressed is way more stressful than it needs to be.  After last week's disasterous shopping trip, I found the courage to take myself back into town and buy a dress.  Well, I ended up buying two, albeit the same style in two different colours.  I don't hate them.  This is good.  However, they are quite short, and there's quite a lot of leg on show.  So although I've bought two dresses which make the perfect summer work outfits, I accessorise them with thick grey tights and cardigans.  Cue abnormal levels of dehydration.  I might as well just wear jeans and hoodies.  Or my pyjamas.

2.  Sweat

Just uuuuurgh!  My sweat, other people's sweat, it's all just gross.

3.  Hayfever

The competitive part of my brain finds hayfever, or any illness for that matter, particularly difficult to deal with.  While I want to scrape my eyeballs out with a blunt teaspoon just to stop them itching, others around me are suffering much, much more.  Although I sympathise with how they are feeling, I find myself trying to out-do them, telling tales of the time I got heat rash so bad I ended up in hospital, or the time I sneezed twelve times in a row and pulled all the muscles in my back so I couldn't walk for a week.  I hear myself speaking sometimes and wish the hole I'm digging for myself would just open up and swallow me whole.  I don't know why I do it, but I really wish I could make it stop!

Anyway, hayfever is that really annoying ailment that makes you feel like death, and the only way to just take the edge off it is to take the world's tiniest tablet, one a day, which doesn't actually make anything better, it just makes you so drowsy you forget that you feel horrendous.  Not only this, but it forces you to sit inside, with the windows and doors firmly locked.  So you can't even enjoy the glorious weather, unless it's from behind a layer of double-glazing, which you would be able to see through if it wasn't for the condensation, the result of it being TOO HOT!  

For those of you suffering, here is a view to make you feel better!

4.  Flying things 

A few years ago, on a rare occasion when I decided to clean through choice (rather than by being forced by an impending flat inspection) I lifted the toilet seat and came face-to-face with a hornet that was literally the size of my thumb.  Traumatised by this experience, I realised recently, I now check under the toilet seat every time I go into the bathroom.  Even if I'm just cleaning my teeth.

It's not just the huge increase in flying insects that I hate about the summer.  I'm sure the heat makes birds go insane.  For example, walking home today, I watched a seagull meticulously tear open a discarded bin bag, remove its contents one piece at a time, and line them up along the pavement.  What?!  On Saturday, I went for a walk with my friend and her one-year-old son, Peanut*, who is just starting to walk.  As we toddled along through the park, we came across a flock of pigeons.  Of course, Peanut decided it would be hilarious to chase them.  I'm sure I saw a flicker of something evil flash across the eyes of the fattest pigeon as it swiftly avoided the grasp of an over-confident toddler. They're plotting revenge.  

(*he's not actually called Peanut)

5.  The fact that everyone keeps talking about it! 

Right everyone.  It's hot.  It's sunny.  We're all melting.  I get that.  The thing that bugs me isn't so much the ordinary person on the street.  It's the weather reporters.  15 years ago, we might have been able to justify the daily surprise that was the weather.  But technology has moved on.  The weather people, of all people, should know better.  Technology can help them work out that it's going to rain a week next Tuesday.  It shouldn't, therefore, be a surprise a week next Tuesday when the heavens open.  So, BBC, please stop sending your presenters off to the glorious caravan sites of Great Britain to marvel over the fact that the sun is shining. Again.

The other thing that bugs me is people constantly "blaming" Global Warming.  Let me get one thing straight here. Global Warming Does. Not. Exist.  It's not a person, it therefore cannot be blamed.  Just like Santa and the Easter Bunny, Global Warming has been created by people to make them feel better about something people have caused.  Instead of being surprised on a daily basis that "today is the hottest day of the year so far", let's think about why the weather is "so unusual".  Just think.

Done?

Good.  

So, here are just five things about the summer, or, more specifically, the heat, that I just can't deal with.  There are more things - the fact I can't enjoy an ice cream without getting ill; the fact I haven't had more than 5 hours sleep for about the last 6 weeks; and the fact that I have to spend the next 4 weeks indoors writing my Masters Dissertation rather than enjoying being outside.

Or maybe I'll sit in my substitute library!

But who am I to complain?  I live in the UK, I will enjoy the sun while I can, while gritting my teeth and carrying on until, undoubtedly, normality resumes and the flood warnings return.

Broken

I don't normally watch Panorama - I watched it once and didn't stop crying for three days. But, I may have accidentally ordered take away and I accidentally happened to be sitting infront of the TV when this evening's episode started.

It's also not very often that I blog about things I see on TV, but the topic of tonight's Panorama Special episode was one that really interests me - the high rate of (unreported) suicide in British veterans.

In this documentary, the reporter meets families of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) victims, many of whom were afraid to ask for help and felt their only option was to take their own lives.  Many of these men returned from Afghanistan where they saw their friends, colleagues and innocent civilians die in horrendous situations.  Many of these men left military service soon after returning home.  All of these men showed signs of PTSD although, as the documentary points out, these signs often don't show until years later.

The reporter met one veteran who had been diagnosed with PTSD and was given counselling.  Three sessions.  Half an hour each.  That's one and a half hours.

I don't even know where to start with how angry I am right now.

ONE AND A HALF HOURS?!

I've been seeing a counsellor for over nine months now, and I've never been in a combat zone.  I've never seen someone die, horrifically or not, and the only time I've seen a corpse was in an open casket at a funeral in south America (and she was old).  In those nine months, I've only just finished scraping the top off my issues and have only started tackling the actual problems in the last couple of weeks. 

My point - which genius decided 1.5 hours was enough to "fix" a deep-rooted issue like PTSD?!  Give them a knighthood...  Oh wait, they probably already have one.

To make it worse, the reporter met families of victims whose medical records were "lost" en route to the NHS, who weren't given the correct mental health risk assessments (a direct breach of MoD procedure, by the way), whose medical records (when they weren't "lost") said repeatedly that individuals were showing moderate risk of suicide, followed by delays to inquests and no compensation because PTSD "was not diagnosed during service".  So basically, "thanks for going and doing a hard job in a country where we put your life on the line every single day, now go away now.  You're someone else's problem now.  Bye."

AND there is no record of what happens to veterans after they leave service. 

Wow.
  
Now, I know a few people who are, or have been, in the military.  I don't pretend to know anything at all about what being in the military or in a combat zone is like, and I really hope I never have to find out.  But I do have an incredible amount of respect for those men and women who do know what it's like.  I really hope that, if they ever do need help, someone will take the time to actually listen and to support them.


If you can, watch the documentary here.

Please support my sister running for the Stroke Association on 14th July

On Sunday 14th July, my little sister and her boyfriend will be running the BUPA Great Edinburgh Run 10km to raise money for the Stroke Association in memory of our Grandad.

Our Grandad, Alan Fennell, was an incredible man.  He was involved in designing and building most of Manchester, he taught thousands of people to swim, and he was passionate about learning everything he could.   

In January 2013, our Grandad suffered a stroke and he spent two long months in hospital.  The support given to him and our family by the Stroke Association during that time was incredible.  Their research meant that he was able to try a new treatment, the "clot buster", which helped to save his life.

Just a few days after leaving hospital, Grandad was able to celebrate his 60th wedding anniversary with our Grandma, surrounded by family in his own home.

Unfortunately, not long after this, he became ill with a bug he caught during his stay in hospital, and he passed away at the end of April 2013.

Grandad was incredibly supportive of all of his grandchildren, and I know that he is probably up there somewhere, talking to himself, making himself a cup of tea or pouring a glass of red wine (for medicinal purposes of course), laughing at us as we struggle through our daily lives.  But I hope that he is proud of my wonderful little sister for taking the time out of her busy life to commit to raising money for a charity which will help to give other people a little bit longer to spend time with their families.

I know I am proud.

If you would like to sponsor Sarah and Ryan, please visit their fundraising page.  And if you're in Edinburgh on Sunday 14th July, please come along to cheer them on.

Thank you.

Happiness is not found in Topshop. Or New Look. Or even Primark.

Over the past few months, I've done a lot of soul-searching, dealing with the elephants in my head and slowly but surely starting to feel like the me I want to be - the 26 year old, happy, confident, comfortable-in-her-own-skin version of me; not the 16 year old, insecure, miserable version of me I've been clinging on to since I was, well, 16.

One of my biggest, most stubbornest elephants is my issue with the way I look.  I genuinely dislike the way I look - from the super-frizzy mat of hair that spends most of the time looking like it's been knitted into an elaborate headpiece (rather than just not brushed for a week), to the flabby arms (which the USA was subjected to a few months ago... *cringe*), squidgy middle and disproportionately large hips (good for birthing, supposedly...  uhmm... yeah). 

For as long as I can remember, I've been painfully aware of how I look, and despite (or, probably more likely, because of) the numerous diets, exercise regimes and magic pants (NB - they're not magic.  They're just so uncomfortable you couldn't actually eat if you wanted to, which you don't because your insides are so squished you couldn't fit anything in there anyway), I still can't come to terms with the body that stares back at me whenever I look in the mirror.

Anyway, over the last few weeks, I've realised that I don't want to change my body - I've tried that and I ended up weighing half of my current weight and being miserable, even though I could fit into a pair of size 6 jeans.

Nope, not doing that again.  What I really want to do is change the way I think about the way I look.  I don't want to feel like I have to hide behind jeans, hoodies and baggy tops any more.

So yesterday, I did something that terrifies me.  I put away my dissertation notes (due in 5 weeks - eek!) and went out to do something just for me.

I went shopping.

Yes, I am very aware of the following facts:
a) I just bought a new car, and as a result owe my parents a LOT of money
b) I haven't had a salaried job since April, and I won't get paid again until the end of July
c) I haven't paid my credit card bill yet this month.

However, I justified my decision by explaining to myself that:
a) I haven't done something just for me since I can't remember when
b) I will be paid at the end of July - the credit card can wait
c) I'm 26.  I shouldn't be freaking out about saving every single penny for the future, about paying my bills on time and about being a grown up.  It's ok to be a little bit reckless occasionally (and the fact I see shopping as reckless probably tells you everything you need to know about where my head's been for ...  a while...!)

So, the sun was shining, I was in town meeting a friend for coffee, I had no other plans for the day...  There was just no excuse.  Do it.

Filled with excitement, I headed to:
  
Shop 1 - Pepperberry/ Bravissimo
"I have a voucher, so I don't even need to worry about my credit history", I justified to myself.  Also, the great thing about Pepperberry is that the clothes are designed for women with boobs and hips, and all those other body parts that, apparently, people who shop on the high street don't have.  Excitedly,  I rushed around, gathering dresses like a child in a sweet shop.  In the changing room, I whipped off my sack-come-summer-dress and prepared myself to be amazed by how incredible I looked as I wriggled into dress number 1...

... hmmm...  so maybe frills aren't my thing...  Maybe the next one?

... ok...  I don't like spots anyway...  The next one?

... love the style... really hate the pattern...  Right.  Dress number 4 has to be the one, surely?

Turning round, I looked in the mirror...

OH GOD!!  When did I turn into my mother?!

Ok.  Maybe starting at the expensive end of town was a mistake.  Pepperberry - thank you, but I think I'll wait a few years before I come back.

Now, on to:

Shop 2 - Topshop

I can't remember the last time I went into Topshop, but I can guarantee it hasn't been in the last five years.  However, with my new found perspective on life, my determination to look like someone my own age, and the sun in my eyes,  I cautiously walked in, waiting for someone to realise I didn't belong there.  After a few minutes, I started to look at the clothes and stopped freaking out about being escorted off the premises by the burly security man I'd snuck past on my way in.  Well, this was definitely more down the route I was looking for (disregarding the shocking pink crotch-length denim shorts) - there were definitely a few potential dresses!

I found myself starting to almost enjoy this shopping malarkey!

Wandering round, I picked up a few items and stood in the queue to try them on.  Looking at the people queueing around me, my heart started to race, as I realised they were all tall, blonde, can't have been bigger than a size ten, clinging on to beautiful, colourful, summery tops, dresses and skirts, while I, I realised, was clutching three grey dresses.  Grey.  Even as I tried them on I could feel my heart sink.  I knew this was a mistake.

Damn.

Oh well, I never liked Topshop anyway.

Needless to say, I ran out of the doors, head down, past the security man I'd so sneakily avoided on my way in.  On to:

Shop 3 - H&M

I've had mixed experiences with H&M in the past, but it's a shop I know people my own age shop in, so I decided to give it a go.

AND the sales are on!  Within five minutes, I'd grabbed three lovely dresses (ok, they were black, but ideal for work and not made of material that made my skin itch).  After wandering round, looking at all the beautiful summery clothes and collecting things to try on, I headed to the changing rooms.

Slipping into a blue skirt, I really thought my luck was about to change... IT FIT!  I spun around a couple of times, before stepping out into the corridor to take another look in the full length mirror with better lighting.

Ok, maybe it doesn't look quite so amazing...  And, wait, what's that pattern??

Oh GOD!  It's completely see through!  I really wish I hadn't worn cartoon-character pants today...

The next two dresses I tried on were just depressing.  The first was a size 12 on the wrong hanger.  By the time I reached the second, I swear I'd added a couple of inches to my thighs in the last hour.  PAH!

Right.  Do I give up now?  I could hear my dissertation calling...  There's still time to get to the library...

NO!  I have to persevere.  And look:

Shop 4 - BHS

Ok, I know this is where parents shop.  But, in my defense, they do have a Dorothy Perkins sale.  Surely I could find something here?

DP had lots of lovely things.  Nothing in my size, but still lovely.  Wallis had a lot of animal print stuff (why?!).  Evans - doesn't do anything in my size.

Right, maybe I will have to look in actual BHS.  They have a petite section - maybe I'll find something there...

Yep, maxi-dresses.

DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON MAXI-DRESSES!

If I wanted to make myself look any shorter than I already am, I'd dig myself a hole.  Actually, maybe that's what I should've done about now...

No.  BHS, you may have failed me.  But you do have a cafe.  And cake.  I like cake.  Cake will make it better.  Yep, cake.  That will totally help.

So I ate cake, and sat staring out of the window, trying to regroup and convince myself that the best was yet to come.  I can NOT let a BHS scone (a dry, burnt one at that) be the highlight of my day.

Buoyed by the cake, I left BHS feeling a lot more confident, and walked straight into my nightmare...

Shop 5 - Primark

Again, I should have known better than to expect much from Primark.  But, you know, the clothes are cheap, so at least I couldn't feel guilty for spending money I don't have.

On the cake and caffeine high, I buzzed my way around both floors of women's clothes, collecting armfuls of dresses, artfully dodging the rampaging children, stick-thin teenagers and aisles of maxi dresses, before queuing for the changing rooms (avoiding eye contact with anyone and staring at the floor until it was my turn to be directed to a cubicle).

I knew the chance of actually finding something I liked was slim to none, but I persevered.  After countless "wrong" attempts, I surprised myself by finding something that, actually, I thought looked ok...  but I still wasn't convinced. 

I'd realised by now that changing room mirrors are deceptive and generally evil, so should not be trusted.

My only hope of making this decision was to get a second opinion.  That meant asking for help.  We don't do that.  We especially don't ask the opinion of a girl wearing leggings without an ounce of visible cellulite and a t-shirt that was cut somewhere further north of her tummy button than I would ever dare wear, even in the dark.

Oh god, I'm old.

Of course, I didn't ask for a second opinion.  Instead, I put my own clothes back on and fled the cubicle faster than Usain Bolt on a caffeine kick. 

Having a meltdown in Primark was not how I envisaged this day. 

By now, you'd think I'd have realised that the day was pretty much a disaster.  But no, I was determined that I was going to do something for myself.  It didn't matter that I was miserable, that I'd burst into tears in the middle of Edinburgh's biggest flagship clothes store, or that I was actually melting in the summer heat.  Nope.  I kept going.

I'm not going to tell you about the next five shops I went to, but they were pretty similar to one or more of the above scenarios.

Five hours after arriving in town, I was kicked out of Debenhams (because they were closing, not because I was getting tears all over the beautiful ball gowns), and I stood on the pavement feeling lost and dejected.

What a failure.

--

Ok, my first attempt to do something for myself could be considered a bit of a disaster.  But, a few hours later after a couple of glasses of wine and the chance to reflect on the day with an understanding friend, I did start to see the funny side.

I realised that I was trying to lump the whole day into one emotion.  Life doesn't work like that.

The reason the day failed wasn't because I'm rubbish at doing something for myself, it was because of the way I was letting myself look at myself.

In retrospect, I'm proud of myself for trying.  Maybe next time I'll take someone with me, to tell me I look amazing, or to laugh at the ridiculous things I try to squeeze myself into.

Or I'll do something for myself that involves sitting in the dark for a few hours.  Cinema, anyone?

Growing Up - 100 word challenge for grown ups

I've missed a couple of the prompts for the 100 word challenge for grown ups over the last few weeks - what with trying to keep on top of my dissertation and starting a new job, I've been pretty busy!  

But this week's prompt, "...pink nails?" she cried..., gave me some great ideas, so now I'm back!

Growing Up

"Pink nails?!" she cried, glaring at her mother. 

"But you promised I could have my nails painted like Katie.  Pink nails are rubbish. I can't believe you don't know anything!" 

How could her mother do this to her?!  Didn't she know that her favourite pop star always had her nails painted blue with little sparkly bits?!  This was such a stupid birthday present.  Why was her mother so useless?!

"Darling", her mother pleaded with her, "this was the colour you chose".

"But muu-um!  This colour is stupid.  I hate pink.  It's just not fair!" 

 It's hard being seven years old. 

--
Visit Julia's Place to read the other posts from this prompt.

In the words of Whitney...

A friend of mine recently invited me to enter a competition she has been running through her blog at the Speak Out, Reach Out, Camp Out project. The aim – to speak out about something you are passionate about.

Anyone who has followed my blog over the last few months may have worked out that there are a lot of things I am passionate about – ending violence against girls and young women; talking about depression;  volunteering; Girlguiding...

But I've written about these things already, so instead of repeating myself, finally after weeks of brain-dusting, I found my inspiration.

Whitney Houston.

I'm not passionate about Whitney (although there is something about The Bodyguard that I can't quite get over... Probably Kevin Costner).

No, the thing I have realised I am passionate about is the power of young people.

(Bear with me for the, albeit tenuous, link).

When I was asked to attend the United Nations as a youth delegate with WAGGGS earlier this year, I had no idea how I, one person from the UK, was going to be able to stand up and represent ten million girls and young women from all over the world. And even if I could do that, how on earth was I going to convince global decision makers that what we had to say was worth listening to?  Somehow, and I'm still not entirely sure how, as part of an incredible team of young women, we were listened to. The voices of ten million girls and young women were heard by world leaders, and as a result we were recognised internationally as a force to be reckoned with.

This experience really made me think about the power of young people.

This week, the Scottish Parliament voted to allow 16 and 17 year olds to vote in the 2014 Scottish Referendum – the first time ever that young people will be allowed to vote in a national referendum in the UK. I think this is incredible and awesome; firstly, because a lot of young people in Scotland got involved and pushed forward the campaign for votes at 16, and I really think they showed just how passionate they are about having their voices heard; and secondly, in the passing of this Bill, Scotland recognises that young people are worth listening to, and is really leading the way in doing just that.

Over the last few months, it has dawned on me that, as young people, we do have the ability to actually influence decisions, and I hope that more young people start to get involved. As adults, we need to provide young people with the safe space and the confidence to realise that their voice is as important as anyone else's.

In the words of the late great Whitney, “... the children are our future; Teach them well and let them lead the way...”

Need I say any more??

---
Update: Click here to read all of the other entries to this competition.

You can vote for your favourite entry here - voting closes at 10pm (BST) on Sunday 7th July, so please vote now!!

What would the Baden-Powells think?

Last night I discovered how bad the world is at keeping secrets.

At 17:08 on Tuesday 18th June, just as I was getting ready for our last night of term Brownies barbeque, an email pinged into my inbox.  No big deal, I get emails approximately every 7 minutes, 90% of which are spam.  But this one was different.  It was from Girlguiding.  And the subject: Confidential.

I didn't manage to read the email properly until I got home after an evening of protecting a barbeque from 16 small people (yes, it was that way round), but I had an idea what it was about.  Earlier this year, Girlguiding carried out a consultation with all of its adult volunteers, youth members and other related organisations to find out our thoughts about the promise.  The promise is really at the core of Guiding, and underpins everything that we do.  Pretty important I'd say...

As a member of Girlguiding, I have promised to "do my best, to love my God, to serve the Queen and my Country, to help other people and to keep the Guide Law".  This promise has, whether consciously or subconsciously, guided (haha) me through my life since I joined this fantastic organisation as a five year old Rainbow, 21 years ago.  I love Girlguiding.  I love the opportunities it has given me - to travel, to meet loads of wonderful people from all over the world, to learn new skills, to grow and become more confident, to inspire girls to become incredible young women, and most recently, to go to the UN!  But I do grit my teeth whenever someone tells me we're a religious organisation and when I'm expected to say grace before a pack holiday meal.        

So, with trepidation I opened this secret message.  And it was a secret.  Well, it was secret, until the press broke the story and all of a sudden social media went crazy, with members talking about "the thing we can't talk about", and non-members totally misunderstanding (I'm not even going to start telling you how angry I was reading the comments on the Daily Mail article.  There's a reason we don't read the Daily Mail).  

As I opened my email, I knew that exciting times were ahead.  Following the consultation, a new promise has been developed and will replace that which I have lived by for the past 21 years. 

"I promise that I will do my best; to be true to myself and develop my beliefs; to serve the Queen and my community; To help other people and to keep the Guide Law".

There are some parts of this new promise that I love, and some bits that I love slightly less.

As a Guide, I struggled for a long time to accept the "love my God" element of the promise - I'm not religious and don't consider myself to have a belief - but I came to realise that "my God" could mean whatever I wanted it to mean.  It could even be the tree at the bottom of the garden if I wanted it to be.

The spiritual element of Guiding has always been important, from day one when it was grounded in Christian beliefs, to today when all girls from any background are welcome, no matter who they are.  So, even though I don't have specific religious beliefs, I do think it's important to understand and appreciate other people's beliefs and to explore our own spirituality, whatever that means to us as individuals. 

The replacement with "develop my beliefs" scares me a little...  But my problem isn't with the removal of "my God"; it's with the word "develop".  I'm pretty happy with the beliefs (or lack of) I currently have, thank you very much.  But I understand why this is more all-encompassing, more welcoming and more accessible than the previous promise.  So I can live with it, although in my head I will probably replace "develop" with "explore"...  Either way, by changing the promise, we are showing the world that we commit to welcoming everyone, no matter what they believe.  I think that's freaking awesome. 

The thing I love most: "to be true to myself".  Over the past few months, since accepting depression and seeing a counsellor on a regular basis, I have started to realise how making time and space for "Rosy" never comes at the top of my list.  As a Brownie, I promised to "think of other people before myself and do a good turn every day".  Clearly this message, that a "good girl" looks after other people before herself, has stuck somewhere in my subconscious.

Me, aged 7, the day I became a Brownie

As I've started to think about what I need and want from my life, I've started to re-evaluate my interpretation of this part of the promise.  I'm so excited that the new promise encourages girls to remember that they are as important as other people.  I hope that this will remind me that I am as important as other people, and that to be able to really help other people, I need to help myself first. 

So, although I think it'll take a while to get used to (after all, having one message ingrained into my thick skull for 21 years isn't going to be easy to change - counselling is teaching me that as well), I'm really excited about exploring this new promise and what it really means for girls today.

I wonder what the Baden-Powells would say.  I hope they'd approve.

Just don't read the Daily Mail.  Please.


[NB.  This post is totally my opinion and does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Girlguiding or its members.  I understand that others may disagree with me, and that is fine.  Please respect my opinion and I will respect yours.  Thank you.]

Happy Fathers' Day

Sunday 16th June 2013

Today is Father's day. I don't really do Father's day, it's like Halloween or Valentine's day - just another money-making Hallmark cards day.

But today, I am thinking about my Dad. I'm really bad at telling people I'm thinking about them. Take Christmas for example. I know it's nearly Christmas because the shops tell me (although, saying that, Christmas could be any time from August onwards. I spend most of the year in a permanent state of confusion). But despite the glorious/ vulgar reminders, do I remember to send cards or buy presents? No. Not because I don't care. Mostly because I forget.

Anyway, today I'm thinking about my dad, and what better way to tell him than to show the world how awesome I think he is?!

I remember how he rescued me the day I fell in a pond just after my brother was born. Ok, I don't remember the actual rescue, I was pretty concussed, but I remember standing on the wobbly paving slab and him telling me to be careful, and I remember him being with me at the hospital after I cracked my head open on said paving slab.

I remember when he got a car phone in his red car, in the early days of mobile phones. Think brick, with an actual wire connecting it to the car!

I remember the day we went to check on our neighbour's house while they were on honeymoon and we disturbed the burglars who had quietly been packing up all their belongings for two days previously. I mostly remember dad chasing them down the street and thinking how brave he was.

Since we moved to Wales, I remember my birthday when dad broke his skull playing rugby so he and my mum spent the whole day in A&E while I sat at home on my own playing my brothers' Nintendo64.

I remember watching him watch rugby. It didn't matter who was playing, he was so passionate about the game you could feel the walls shaking on the other side of the house. I used to think it was hilarious. Now I know where I get it from.

I remember when dad got really ill and could've died from some really rare disease, but he didn't, and that's pretty awesome.

I remember listening to all his vinyl albums over and over. I'm glad I inherited his awesome (terrible?) taste in music.  One of the most played songs, on one of the greatest albums - I dare you not to cry:

Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water

I remember the day I auditioned for the Welsh national youth choir and had to sing in the cathedral because the rehearsal room was being used, and I was terrified but dad sat at the back and he cried. Not because I was terrible (despite what I thought), but because he was proud of me. 

 

I remember when he broke his leg, but walked round on it for a month before driving himself to get it x-rayed (and that was only because he'd taken me to the doctors when we thought I'd broken my arm. I hadn't.  I'm starting to see a pattern - I think I can work out where my accident-prone-ness comes from...)

I remember the day he drove me to Edinburgh when I started uni, and he showed me where he had lived when he was an undergraduate.  And I remember the day I flunked my degree and I phoned my dad and cried down the phone for what felt like ages. But at the end of it, he pointed out that he got a third from Edinburgh, so it wasn't all that bad!

I think my dad is pretty damn awesome. 

I am proud of my dad - for believing in himself and not being scared of it; for singing the harmony louder than the choir, the congregation and most of the village put together; for the care and compassion he shows for others, no matter who they are; for owning a million and one books I'm not convinced he's ever read but that he can tell you exactly where one is in one of his many bookcases/ piles on the floor; for his attempts to teach me chemistry even though I didn't have a clue; for giving me his high pain threshold but driving me to the doctor/ hospital/ A&E anyway; for giving me his love of rugby, even though I support Wales; and most of all, for believing in me when I don't believe in myself, which is a lot more often than I tell him.

I know my dad reads this, so I hope he doesn't mind (and if he does, he'll tell me soon enough), but today's post is dedicated to him.

Thanks Dad, for being awesome. Happy Fathers day.

Love you.

Rx