The Power of Music

Do you ever do that thing of intending to watch just one YouTube video, then before you know it, it's two hours later and you've been clicking on so many links in the "recommended" section after each video you've watched, that you're not entirely sure you remember what you went on there to look at in the first place?!

That's what happened to me, last night.

It started off as a simple desire to watch Prince perform Purple Rain, after seeing someone mention the song on Twitter.  It's up there amongst my all-time favourite songs, so I decided to head to YouTube to indulge my love of it.  Amongst the recommended videos afterwards, was Guns n Roses' November Rain, another favourite of mine, so I watched that, next.  And, sure enough, in the recommended videos alongside that, there was another song I wanted to watch the video for.  And so on and so forth, until it was well past the time I had planned to be all tucked up in bed.

Pictured: Me, last night, when I should have been asleep...

One of the things I love about music is how you can get completely lost in it.  I wasn't bothered about going to sleep.  All I wanted to do was let the melodies surround me and enjoy the sensation that each song provided within me.  

Music is so powerfully personal, too.  A song that means nothing to one person, could be the song that reminds someone else of the happiest - or worst - time of their life.  Music can bring us back to moments we'd long forgotten.  Our memories have their own soundtrack and that's an amazing thing.

Last night, whilst I was on my journey from song to song, scanning the recommended videos after each one I watched and picking the one I liked best, I wasn't expecting so many memories to come flooding back.  But that's exactly what happened.

Some of them were funny memories.  For example, when I watched the video for Take That's How Deep Is Your Love, I found myself giggling over the fact that my sister used to say that the slightly odd instrumental sound just before the final chorus sounded like "a drunk owl."

Some of them were bittersweet memories.  Design For Life by the Manics just made me think of all the times I've seen them play that song live, nearly always with my gig buddy - and one of my closest friends - by my side.  She's chosen not to be in my life, anymore, as a result of a fallout I had with someone else, so the memories of she and I, arms aloft, singing our hearts out together, was tinged with an awful lot of sadness.

But then I clicked on a song in the recommended videos section, purely because I hadn't listened to it in years and I remembered loving it when I was younger.  And that was the moment that I realised that music doesn't just soundtrack our memories.  Sometimes, it envelopes them so tightly that we don't even know we have those specific memories, until we hear the song, again.

This was the song in question.

Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House was, as far as I was concerned, just as pretty song I used to like when I was around 12 or 13.  But, as I pressed "play," I realised that it held within its melody, memories I had buried deep within my psyche.

Instantly, as the song began to play, I was transported back to the bus I used to take to secondary school.

Now, regular readers of this blog will probably already be aware that when I started secondary school, I went from being a bright, bubbly girl who enjoyed attention, to being a very withdrawn, depressed kid, with no confidence.  That is entirely down to the fact that I experienced horrendous bullying on that school bus.  Day in, day out.

I had completely forgotten the association that particular song had with that particular time.  But, as I listened to the music and sang along with the lyrics, it all came rushing back.

That was the song that I would frequently play on the bus, turned up loud so that my headphones drowned out as much of the name-calling as possible.  I would stare out of the window and listen to those words: "Hey now, hey now.  Don't dream it's over... You know they won't win."

I clung to those words.  I was going through a painful time, in which I was convinced that all the good times in my life were over.  My enjoyment of life, my confidence in myself, my belief in the good in people... All of it had been eroded by the daily Hell the bullies on the bus so loved to put me through.  But I wanted to believe that it would get better.  And so, those lyrics were a lifeline.  My life wasn't over.  And I wouldn't let them win.

Hearing that song again and reliving all of those memories was incredibly powerful.  It stunned me that I could have forgotten just why the song meant so much to me all those years ago, but I suppose that some memories are just too painful to fixate on.  

But, once the floodgates had been opened, I realised just how many memories I have that are intrinsically linked to the music I was listening to at the time.  For example, I can't hear Don't Look Back In Anger by Oasis, without remembering myself as a kid of 13, bouncing around the living room, shrieking with joy, because the song was being played at number 2 in the charts and I knew that meant that my beloved Take That's final single before their split, had gone in straight at number one.

Music is more than just a pleasant sound in the background.  It can be what sets a mood.  It can speak to us on a deeply personal, emotional level.  And, as I discovered last night, it can be the key to memories we thought were locked away, forever.

So, whatever type of music it is that floats your boat, indulge in it.  Shamelessly.  Music has extraordinary power.  Life without it is unimaginable.

Delving Into The Memory Chest

Look at my enormous chest!  Or less pervy words to that effect.

There's a lot of stuff under my bed.  Packets of tea lights, books, old cassette tapes, shoes I don't wear very often, a fancy dress box (every adult needs one, right?!) and a whole lot of dust.  But, in amongst the chaos is a pretty chest.  And inside that chest is, when you think about it, much of my life.

It's funny how we go through our lives, squirrelling away little odds and ends for the sake of posterity.  Sometimes, I'll save something and then wonder why I thought it was worth keeping, but by the time that happens, I've usually developed some kind of bizarre attachment to it and can't quite bring myself to throw it away.  The chest is home to some strange keepsakes - a stone that sort of looks like it has my surname on it if you squint, for example - but it also preserves some far more important stuff.  

Tonight, I decided to have a little wander down Memory Lane.  And, because sharing is caring, I thought I'd take you all with me...

The handwritten letter from my Nan:

I was only fourteen when the last of my grandparents passed away.  I often wish I could have known them all as an adult.  This letter must have been written in either 1993 or '94, whilst my Nan and Paps were on holiday in Europe (this was written from Denmark) and I treasure it, because obviously, I'll never have another letter from my Nan and this one serves as a snapshot in time; a reminder of my childhood and a memory of someone I loved and lost much too young.  My favourite part is where she says how expensive it was to buy two sandwiches.  Apparently it came to £4.90 and that's not even including coffee.  Something tells me that today's prices would be a shock to her system...

The old school homework diaries and exercise books:

Why I drew a heart around the school name when I literally loathed my time there is beyond me.

Ah, there are few things more heartwarming, hilarious and utterly cringeworthy all at once than looking back at your teenage self.  My homework diary is a testament to celebrity crushes and friendships I thought would last forever.  As you can see, I took filling in the "emergency contact details" at the back of the book very seriously:

I left the parental contact details blank, but hey, I couldn't leave out my "husband."

It's hard not to laugh when you find the scribblings your fourteen year old self filled the pages of her school books with.  I mean, my classmates all thought I was a total nerd, furiously jotting down notes in lessons.  In reality, I am a total nerd, but I was doing something very important in between my note-taking - practising my future signature:

And that's why I'm so successful today, kids.

Very little of the yellow homework diary in particular is actually taken up with, well, homework.  In fact, the majority of the pages are filled with letters from my closest friends, upon hearing that I was moving to Gloucestershire and therefore changing schools (because commuting to Cornwall every day would probably have been slightly impractical...).  My favourite line from those letters?  This:

Almost as realistic as my goal of marrying Lee from 911, to be fair.

The reminder of the eclipse I only half-saw:

We were all very excited for the solar eclipse, back in 1999.  In fact, we probably wanted to party like it was 1999.  Possibly because it was.

Anyway, this is Britain.  So, of course, on the day of this most wondrous of heavenly spectacles, we should have known that it would be cloudy.  And we'd moved back to Cornwall by this point, where I swear the weather conspires to be as wet, windy and cloudy as possible, so you can have the joy of living in a breathtakingly beautiful part of the world, without actually being able to see it.  Still, we went down to the park with our protective glasses just the same and it went dark and we all went "ooh" and "aah" even more than is usual in the South West.

The countdown to my first Manics gig:

I fell in love with a band called the Manic Street Preachers when I was 16 years old.  I didn't get to see them live until I was 19 (although I've more than made up for it, since).  The first time I knew I'd be seeing them was in December 2001 and I was beside myself with excitement.  So much so, that I had to make a little calendar, to tick off the days.  Seriously, by the last week, I was doing the whole "only four more sleeps" thing, like a child waiting for Christmas.  My gig outfit had been planned several weeks in advance and even though I had beer spilt on me, struggled to breathe in the second row and had to retreat to the centre of the crowd for air (barrier girl for life, these days) and lost my beloved feather boa, that gig will always be special to me.  You never forget your first and all that...

Polaroid pictures for the win.

The good luck letter my dad gave me on the day of my 3rd driving test - and the congratulations card my instructor gave me when I passed:

I was ridiculously nervous before my third driving test, mainly because after two failed attempts, I had convinced myself that I was just never going to pass.  My dad - ever the prolific note writer (seriously, I have a lot from him in my Memory Chest) - wrote me a good luck letter, which I think I might even have taken with me in my pocket on the test itself.  If I did, it obviously did the trick, because it was a case of third time lucky.  Phil, my wonderful and incredibly lovely driving instructor was so pleased for me, that a couple of hours after I got home, a card from him dropped through the letterbox.  I still see him teaching lessons now and again when I'm driving and, despite the fact that he probably doesn't even remember me anymore, I always give him a smile.  Learning to drive completely changed my life and gave me a level of freedom I could only have dreamt of, before.  I still think it's one of the best things I've ever done.  

The first time I ever felt like I could use the word "author" to describe myself:

Full page spread.  Ooh er.

In April 2011, I achieved one of the biggest dreams of my entire life:  I became a published author.  In the months that followed, I did things that I had only ever fantasised about; being interviewed on the radio and in magazines, having an official book launch, visiting schools as a local author...  Whilst I might not be the biggest success story in the world of literature, I am so proud that I never gave up on my passion for writing and that I can hold those first three books in my hand and say "I wrote these."  I'm also proud that I made the decision to self-publish my next children's book (Seven Days With The Cherry Tree Gang) and that I stuck with self-publishing for my debut adult novel (Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections).  The adult novel was only released in December, but it's getting four and five star reviews already and I'm so grateful to the people who've bought it and said such amazing things about it.  One thing I've learnt is that you can't just have a book published and expect to be able to give up the day job and bathe in £50 notes for the rest of your life.  For a start, you wouldn't be very clean and I suspect you'd get a lot of paper cuts.  But, if you never give up, you can create something that touches people and makes them think.  That knowledge might not pay the bills, but it's worth its weight in gold.

The letters I received whilst I was putting my life back together after leaving an abusive partner:

The thing that always gets me about these two letters is how very different they are.  One was written by my dad just a month or two after I left my abusive ex.  At that time, I was still very much manipulated by my ex into thinking everything that happened between us was my fault and that I deserved it all.  "Abuse" was not a word I would ever have used for what he did to me.    I was also still keeping much of the worst stuff he said and did to myself and was mainly just mourning the loss of someone I had loved, being unable to understand why he'd changed so much and why I hadn't been able to "fix" him (as I thought was my responsibility).  As such, Dad's letter focuses on the pain of a relationship ending and in it, he promises me that I'll find someone else and that my broken heart will heal, given time.  Fast forward six months and my best friend sent me a book called "Stalking The Soul," which was about emotional abuse.  By that point, I was in counselling and I was beginning to realise that what my ex put me through was not healthy or my fault.  It would be several months before I could confidently label what happened to me as "abuse" (actually being put in touch with an abuse charity and being given a dedicated support worker was what finally forced the penny to drop), but that letter from my friend - along with the book she sent - was one of the first, vital steps towards recovery.  I would never have made it through what happened and the long journey towards being me again, had it not been for the love and help my friends and family showed me.  It might seem a little masochistic to keep letters about something so painful, but these represent that the people who loved me never wavered in their support.  They also remind me that no matter how awful what I experienced was, I survived.

The vetinary card and Kennel Club registration certificate for my late, much-missed cocker spaniel, Cal:

When I was 12, I made a collage of pictures of dogs, with the words "PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG?" in the middle.  I stuck it on my parents' bedroom door, along with a handwritten letter, further expressing my desire to have another canine in my life (we'd had a golden retriever called Sally when I was little, but we lived not far from a very busy road and she kept escaping, so she went to live with my grandparents and, once they passed away, with my uncle).  A couple of weeks later, my parents told me we were going to do the weekly shop at a different supermarket than usual.  My sister and I climbed into the back of the car and we ended up at some kennels.  Mum and Dad got out and told us to wait.  A little while later, Dad returned and told us to follow him.  We went into a little kennel, where my mum was standing with a beautiful little cocker spaniel puppy in her arms.  If I wanted him, he was mine.  And obviously, I wanted him.

I named him Cal (short for Callington St. Emma - well, come on, he was a pedigree, he had to have a ridiculous sounding Kennel Club name...) and he was more than just my 13th birthday present.  He was my baby and my best friend.  Loyal, loving, hilariously discerning and - as my dad likes to say - regal, Cal was by my side throughout my adolescence and into adulthood.  He was there when I came home from my first date with my first boyfriend.  He was there when I passed my driving test, when I got my first full time job and when I published my first books.  I'm not going to lie to you, just writing about him is making my eyes a little bit leaky.

I was with my boy at the end.  He had just turned 16 (I was 29 and I cried like a baby).  I hope he knew how loved he was, because he was one heck of a special dog.  A week or so after he died, I had a paw print tattooed onto my right shoulder.  It makes me feel as though he's always walking behind me - my little hound-shaped angel, trotting along with his tail wagging.

Of course, now we have another fur-ball in the house.  Rusty is a very different dog, but he's loved just as much.  

The only Valentine's card I've ever had:

Yep.  I've only ever had one (that wasn't from my mum or one of the kids I work with) and it took me until I was 30 to get that (if I remember rightly; I think it was three years ago).  With Valentine's Day being just around the corner, I figured I'd share this depressing fact with you all, in case there's anyone thinking they're alone in being... well, alone, haha!  

Still, this photo proves that whilst I may have only had one Valentine's card in my life, I have an epic shoe collection in the background.

Besides which, there's nothing wrong with being single - a subject I'll be discussing in greater detail in Sunday's final blog in my How To... series, How To... Be Happy Being Single.

So, that concludes my little trip down Memory Lane.  If any of you have your own memory boxes or chests, maybe this has inspired you to open them up and take your own journey into the past.  Let me know how it goes!

For the time being, I'm off to cuddle the dog and raise a glass to the past.

Cooler Than The Red Dress - How a Trigger Helped Me Move On

In November 2009, I bought a dress.  It was a red, silk bandage dress and it was a bargain at just £29.99.  I bought it with the intention of making it that year's "Christmas Day Dress" (I always like to wear something nice on Christmas Day) and as soon as I got home, despite it having been raining the entire time I was out and my hair therefore resembling something from an 80s power ballad video, I took a few photos and put them up on Facebook.  

Seriously, the hair...

So, why am I harping on about this, six years later?  Well, Facebook has a feature called "On This Day."  For any given day, you can check and find out what you were up to in years gone by.  It's become something of a habit of mine to check this feature first thing in the morning and on the whole, I quite like it.  Sometimes, I see something funny and it makes me smile.  Sometimes, it brings back bittersweet memories.  But every now and then, I see something that I didn't want to be reminded of at all.

Yesterday, when I checked the "On This Day" feature, I saw the photos of me in my red dress.  I actually thought to myself: "Blimey, I haven't worn that for years.  I wonder if it even fits, anymore?!"  I then thought absolutely nothing more of it and got on with my day.

Today, when I checked the feature, I saw a public comment on my Facebook wall, written six years ago, by a man who, back then, I hadn't actually met.  It said simply: "I added you as a friend just so I could click the "like" button on your red dress album. :)"  Seems harmless enough, right?  Just a bloke I'd spoken to via a mutual friend's status updates, who'd cheekily added me as a friend himself, after seeing some photos he liked.  I took it as a compliment.  I thought he was gorgeous and I was pretty chuffed that he liked a few pictures of me, especially since all I could notice when I looked at them was the state of my windswept hair.  He jokingly added that he wasn't a stalker, honest.  I joked back that "it's not stalking, it's selective walking," thanked him for the compliment and deliberately put a kiss at the end of the message, because did I mention I thought he was gorgeous?!  We took the conversation to private messages and did some harmless flirting.

If it had ended there, seeing that perfectly innocent-seeming comment in my "memories for today" would have had no effect on me, whatsoever.  The trouble is, it didn't.  That "gorgeous" man whose cheeky message flattered me and made me laugh became, over the course of the next two years, the man who emotionally, psychologically and sexually abused me.  He's someone who, for very obvious reasons, is supposed to be blocked on Facebook.  Why he wasn't is beyond me (he is now), but I found simply being able to see his profile picture and his cover photo shockingly triggering, even though he looks different now to the way he looked six years ago.

People talk about being "triggered" online a fair bit, these days.  We put "trigger warnings" on posts about sensitive subjects and many of us - myself included - talk quite openly about what our "triggers" are.  But only if you've ever been triggered can you possibly know what it feels like.

I saw his photo and, when I hovered over his name (wondering why the hell it was clickable when he was supposed to be blocked), I saw his cover picture, too.  And instantly, I had to cup a hand to my mouth, as though I was about to be violently sick.  My breath started to come in short, shallow bursts.  I felt too hot and too cold at the same time.  My hands began shaking, until they shook so violently that my whole body joined in.  And that reaction happened years after the abuse did.  That reaction happened well after I've put my life back together and moved on from what he did to me.  That reaction had nothing to do with not being over it, or needing further counselling or anything like that.  It's just what my closest friends refer to as my "abuse hangover."  

In the four years since I left my abuser, I've actually walked past him in the street.  And bizarrely, it didn't trigger me in the same way that seeing that he was suddenly unblocked on Facebook did.  I think it's possibly because I've had a bit of a low week this week and Facebook has something of a part to play in that, so seeing him there was the cherry on the lousy cake.

The thing is, in true Carrie Bradshaw-esque style, once I'd stopped the shaking and the nausea and the general feeling of "ARGH!", I started thinking more and more about that red dress.

I suddenly realised that there's a subconscious reason I have barely worn that dress in the four years since I left my abuser.  And it's purely because it was that dress that brought him into my world - or at least, onto my Facebook friends list - in the first place.  I suppose, in a totally stupid way, I blamed it.  I associated it so much with him, that it became ugly; the very last thing I would want to wear.

It's no coincidence that, in the semi-autobiographical novel I'm in the process of preparing for publication, the character loosely based on me wears a red, silk bandage dress on the night she first meets a mysterious, dark-eyed stranger, who becomes her psychological tormentor for the rest of the book.  And yet, I never realised that when I was writing it.  I didn't think anything of it at all.  I just thought "I like red, so she can wear a red dress."  But somewhere, deep down in my brain, a voice was obviously trying to make a point.

It's weird when you realise stuff like this.  It's strange to suddenly understand why there's an item of clothing in your wardrobe that you feel you can't wear.  But it's a wonderful moment when you realise that you can and you bloody well will.  What happened to me came so close to breaking me.  But I stuck all those pieces back together again - with a little help - and I got stronger.  Stronger than I ever thought I was capable of being.

I met my abuser on New Year's Eve.  For the first two years after I walked away, New Year's Eve wasn't a nice night for me.  It brought back too many memories and made me think about stuff I had worked really hard to push out of my mind.

Then, in 2013, my friend Lizzie and I went away together for New Year.  We spent it at Butlin's, having fun and getting a bit drunk and dancing, singing and doing all the things you're supposed to do at New Year (minus kissing anyone at midnight, but you can't have everything...).  Ever since, I actually look forward to the date.  We have our routine of going there now and it's fun.  Getting to the point where I could enjoy New Year's Eve again was a big deal for me and it was a way of realising that I was over what happened and ready to move on.

This year, I'll be doing the same thing.  I'll be having fun, with one of my dearest friends and I will be wearing a smile.  

And I'll also be wearing a red, silk bandage dress.  Because, sometimes a trigger is more of a call to action.  It makes you realise that the bad things are in the past, however painful it is to remember them.  It forces you to realise how far you've come, even if it feels like a tiny thing can open up old wounds.  Seeing that supposedly harmless memory wasn't harmless for me, at all.  But I refuse to let the past spoil the present or the future.

I will be wearing that dress on New Year's Eve.  To make a point to myself.  To create new memories to replace the old.

Because I can.

A Picture Tells A Thousand Stories

This one acts as a reminder that doors are supposed to be closed at night...

My best friends have this little joke they like to share about me whenever we get together.  "We'll get home," they'll all say, "and half an hour later, the photos from today will be up on Facebook."

It's a fair comment.  I'm one of those annoying people who always has her camera in her bag and is forever looking out for a good photo opportunity.  I may not own a selfie-stick, but that doesn't mean that I don't take more than my fair share and every time my friend Lizzie and I come home from Butlin's, I spend at least an hour editing photos on my laptop and uploading them to Facebook (saving the best ones on my camera to be printed out later).  There's a shelf in my room that's pretty much groaning under the weight of several photo albums, all of which are packed with pictures taken over the years - complete with little handwritten notes beside each photograph, serving as a handy reminder of where and when it was taken.

And this photo might be a handy reminder not to eat as much cake as I do, these days...

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but for me, it's not simply words.  A picture can bring back a thousand memories, or tell a thousand stories.  When I look through my photo albums, I don't just see dozens of pictures of me and my friends or family in similar places, doing similar things.  I see reminders of days out, in-jokes, times gone by and people lost along the way.  I can judge by the clothes, hairdos or even the colour of the walls in our house as to when the picture was taken and from simply knowing the date (roughly, if I haven't scribbled down the exact date beside the photograph in the album...), I can remind myself of where I was in my life at that time, right down to where I was working, whether I had a crush on anyone or whether it was pre or post abuse (because when you've been through a life-changing event like that, you do tend to look at yourself as two different versions - pre and post).

A photograph can make you laugh, or even make you cringe.  It can cause you to wonder what on Earth you were thinking with your outfit choice, or what the heck you were doing when it comes to the bizarre pose you're pulling.  

A photograph can make you cry.  It can vividly remind you of a person who's no longer around.  It can bring back profound memories of what that person meant to you.  And of course, a photograph of someone who hurt you can cause enormous pain, if accidentally discovered.

For me, a photograph is not merely an image, printed out and stuck in a book.  It's a snapshot of a moment in time.  A memory, preserved forever.

Even if that memory is of thinking you might be about to plummet to your doom...

Yesterday, a friend gave me two new photo albums, complete with spaces for handwritten notes beside each picture I put in.  I have a whole load of photographs to sort out and stick in to the new albums and I'm genuinely excited about getting on with that little project for the afternoon, because I know that every photo I look at will bring back its own memories and cause me to smile, on an otherwise very grey and dull Sunday.

Everything we do - every place we go, every person we meet along the way - shapes us, even if only in a small way.  Pictures help to remind us of the journey we've been on.  And for every step of the journey left ahead, you can bet I'll have my camera with me...

Dear 16 Year Old Me...

Remove the dog from your face.  That's my first piece of advice to you.

Recently, I saw a very moving blog in the form of an open letter to the writer's sixteen-year-old self.  It might seem a bit self-indulgent, but I thought it was a lovely idea and so today, I would like to write a letter to my sixteen-year-old self.  My challenge to anyone reading this?  Write one to your sixteen-year-old self.  Let's start something of a fad. ;-)

Dear Emma,

You won't believe it, but by the time you come to write this letter, you will be twice the age you are right now.  You'll be 32 (I thought I'd save you the maths... We both know it's not your strong point) and life will have changed a lot.

I suppose I should get the bad news out of the way, first.  Take a deep breath:

You're not going to marry Lee Brennan from 911.  I know.  I'm sorry.  But you WILL meet him many years from now and he'll hold your hand and you'll make a sort of squeaky noise that might have been appropriate back when you still *were* sixteen, but is less so coming from a fully grown, adult woman...  

See?!  That really is you and him!

I should also tell you that you're not going to randomly find Richey Edwards from the Manic Street Preachers busking in Wadebridge.  Or Truro.  Or literally anywhere in Cornwall, or in fact, the WORLD.  So save yourself the effort and stop looking.

Okay, the really seriously bad news is coming, so brace yourself:  At 32, you're not married and you don't have kids.  You also can't afford to rent anywhere by yourself, so you're living at home with your mum and dad, saving up a deposit on a house, bit by bit.  I know how much this news is going to hurt you, so I want you to remember the crushing feeling you have right now, so that you don't torture yourself in the years to come.  It's not your fault that you're single - you're not unlovable, you've just been unlucky.  It's not your fault that you don't have kids, so please don't blame that on yourself, either.  And believe me, by the time you're 32, you'll have worked in childcare for 14 years and you'll have seen how hard it is to bring up children as part of a couple, let alone by yourself - don't wish for something that you're not in the right place to have, however hard it might be and however desperately you want it.  

Being single doesn't mean you've failed.  Being single doesn't mean you're hideous, or not a good person.  You have other forms of love in your life and they are wonderful.  Tell yourself often that it's better to be single than with someone wrong for you and that love might come along when you least expect it.  Tell yourself that as often as you can, because then, by the age of 32, you might believe it and it'll hurt you a lot less than it does me.

Don't compare yourself to other people, especially those very close to you.  You're not a genius.  You're not making loads of money in a glamorous career.  You're not married with kids (sorry to bring that up again), but you have worth.  You have a role to play in the world.  You are important and you are loved.  The best person you can ever be in this life is yourself.  

Oh, I know, you hate being you.  Your nose is too big.  Your hair is too curly.  Your teeth aren't perfect and you're only five feet tall.  But stop looking at the outside, because you're going to reach an age where you realise how superficial that is, anyway.  Look inside!  Your face might not be beautiful, but your soul is.  You're kind and friendly, creative and thoughtful.  So you've got an ugly nose...  Who cares?  You have some gorgeous personality traits.  At the end of the day, it's those that matter the most.  It's your nature, not your looks that will win you the best group of friends you'll ever have (you'll have to wait a while though; they don't come along until your twenties, but they're worth the wait!).  Oh and on the subject of looks?  You're going to get pretty good at make up and you'll discover chemical straightening at a local hairdressing salon.  Combine that with an eye for a pretty dress and you're set.  You'll never be a model, but you'll scrub up okay.  Just remember that your heart is the most important fashion accessory you'll ever have.  Show it - be yourself.

And seriously - chemical straightening...

Now, I've bigged you up a bit, but you know, I'm older and wiser (supposedly) than you are, so I'm going to give you it straight, too:  That gorgeous personality of yours has a few... Kinks.  I know you're proud of being "a little bit Greek Cypriot" and that's great.  But that fiery Mediterranean temper of yours?  Tone it down just a tad...  You don't always have to have the last word and you *can* walk away from people who are obviously just trying to wind you up.  You're going to spend a huge portion of your adulthood, trying to make up for the fact that you never stood up to the bastards who bullied you at school.  But standing up to people doesn't have to mean you lose the plot.  You may have an excellent line in swear-y insults, but, you know... Save them for when you really need them.  As a side note, be nicer to your dad; the two of you butt heads sometimes and that's never going to change, but he loves you and you know you'd be lost without him.

Try to stay a sensitive person, but don't be oversensitive.  Sometimes you make jokes and that's fine, right?  So just remember that sometimes other people do, too and you don't have to take them personally.  By the time you're my age, you'll be the one making the jokes about yourself, believe it or not!  Just remember to stay on the right side of putting yourself down.  By all means, take the piss out of yourself, but remember that you're only inviting criticism if you do nothing but highlight your perceived flaws.

Em, please never give up on your dreams.  You haven't at the age of 32, but it hasn't been an easy road.  You've had three - I know, THREE! - children's books published, which is a realisation of your biggest dream (or at least the biggest dream that didn't involve Lee from 911), but you're not a famous writer.  Yet.  You have to have a day job.  You have to keep trying.  And you have to promise me that you'll never stop trying.  Because I know that in the sixteen years between where you are now and where I am at 32 (sitting on the same bed, admittedly), you'll throw away perfectly good stories, because you don't believe in yourself enough.  You don't think you have any writing talent.  But you do.  And who knows what might happen if you're just brave enough to risk a few more rejection letters?  You could change your own future!  I could be writing this from a mansion, in between responding to mountains of fan mail...  I could give you the plot line of a multi-million-selling book called Fifty Shades of Grey, but despite the fact that you'd do a much better job than the author of that eventually will, you should always have higher standards than a book that glorifies abuse.

Speaking of which...

In China, Cherry Blossom can symbolise a strong woman.  This is my way of telling you that you are one.

On December 31st 2009, you're going to meet a man.  You're going to be swept off your feet, because he's gorgeous and witty and charming and intelligent and for some reason you won't be able to figure out, he's interested in you.  You should really run away as fast as you can from this man, because he's going to abuse you emotionally, psychologically and sexually for the next 20 months if you don't.  If you don't run from him - and I won't blame you if you don't, because I know how manipulative and persuasive he is - it will change your life, forever.  It will hurt you more than almost anything else ever has up to that point.  You will be broken, Em.  You will be completely floored.

But you will build yourself back up.  You will become stronger than you ever knew you could be.  You will dedicate yourself to raising awareness of abuse, in order to prevent others from going through the same thing.  You will make amazing friends with people who've been through similar things.  You will experience anger on such a deep level, it will make you scared.  But you will experience a profound love of the woman you become as a result of surviving.  And no matter what anyone says, you will have survived.  Don't listen to anyone who ever questions your experience, or says it's not abuse if he doesn't hit you, or that you must not have really loved him to be able to call him an abuser and walk away from him:  You will love that man so deeply it feels like a physical pain.  But he will not love you.  So please, when you meet him, if you can - RUN.  But if you can't, don't blame yourself and please just listen to your friends and your family when they express their concerns.  They're right.

And they haven't changed a bit, really, have they?!

Life isn't always going to be easy.  You'll have your heart broken more than once.  You'll cry and you'll shout and you'll wonder if things will ever get better.  But here's the thing, Emma:  They always do.  And when things do get you down, remember you have a wonderful family to fall back on.  You will only realise in your twenties just how much your parents have always done for you (and continue to do).  You'll be floored by the depth of their love for you - and yours for them - and you'll want to prove yourself to them and do whatever you can to ensure they know what they mean to you.  Once you're away from the selfishness of youth, you'll really understand the meaning of the term "unconditional love."  Never take them for granted.  

Your little sister is going to grow up to be infinitely cooler than you, but that's okay.  You're a nerd, but one day, you'll wear that title like a badge of honour... ;-)

There are so many things I want to tell you, but I don't want to spoil it all for you.  Some things you have to find out for yourself.  That said, here's a little list of things you might want to avoid doing:

• Don't let your mum go on a waltzer.  EVER.  She will throw up and you will still blame yourself years and years later, with a ridiculous level of guilt.
• When other people have problems and need you to be selfless, BE selfless.  Don't make your own problems more important.  They aren't.
• Hug Cal really tightly as often as you can and don't snap at him too much when he's being silly.  That dog won't be around forever and it will break your heart when he's gone.
• Don't be taken for a mug.  If you're doing all you can to maintain a friendship and getting a fair-weather friend in return, cut ties.
• Stop falling in love/lust so easily.  Seriously.  And then write a letter to me and tell me how you did it.
• Don't think you can drink a bottle and a half of wine to yourself.  You are and always will be a lightweight.  You will throw up.

Most importantly of all, just stop putting yourself down and stressing out about not being good enough.  Whilst you're busy doing that, you're letting life pass you by.  

Life isn't perfect, but its imperfections can be what makes it interesting, challenging and even beautiful.  Take the time to leave your problems to one side and just look around you, from time to time.  Stare into the starry night sky.  Run along a beach.  

Dance, even when nobody else is on the dance floor.  Dance, even if you don't know the moves.  Dance, even if you you're feeling sad, because with the right songs and the right company, you'll soon be smiling again.

Laugh, love, live.  

xxx

And so it's 2015...

A photo taken at midnight on New Year's Eve.  I think you'll agree, it's a masterpiece.

Greetings!  It's only been three weeks since I last blogged, but we're now officially a week into the new year.  Speaking of which, I think I might make a belated resolution never to use the word "greetings" at the start of a blog entry again...

Well, it's that time of year when we all start looking back over the year just gone and then forward to the year just beginning.  Or rather, it would have been that time of year, had I written this at some time between December 29th - January 3rd, like I planned to.  To be honest, we've kind of gone past that time of year, but hey, who cares?!  In 2015, I'm a rebel who writes new year posts a week later than planned!

Ahem.  Anyway, I did make a resolution or two this year.  One was, as always, to stop biting my nails.  Progress was made in that area, until two nails broke this week and I ended up gnawing the rest of them down to the same length, like the five-foot gerbil I apparently am.  The other, more important one, was to finish editing the novel I wrote last year and do my best to get it published.  Frankly, even if I end up posting it chapter by chapter here, I want it out there, so to speak.  That said, nothing quite beats the feeling of holding an actual book in your hand and thinking: "I wrote this!"

Remember when I was a published author AND still had naturally curly hair?!  CRAZY TIMES.

So, what was good about 2014?

Well, I measure my years by the memories I made (and yes, that's a statement so utterly saccharine, I suggest you all brush your teeth after reading it) and although 2014 had its ups and downs in places, there were some fantastic memories made.  So forgive me if I get all nostalgic for a moment...

January:

Seconds after this was taken, I fell on my arse.  True story.

I started the year with a discovery:  Fake ice is horrible to skate on.  Real ice is lovely; you glide smoothly across it and you feel all Wintery.  I have never, ever fallen over when skating on real ice.  Fake ice?  Feels like you're skating on a chopping board.  I adore ice skating, but I think I'll stick to the real stuff in future!

In January, I also went to see Matt Smith in American Psycho The Musical (which I reviewed here).  I hung around afterwards, because DUH, Matt Smith, but I didn't meet him.  However, he did wave at me, so clearly he was secretly in love with me...

I also announced that my resolution for 2014 was to finish the novel I had begun the previous year and to get it published.  Bit of a big stretch for one year.  I finished it, though.  Just have to edit it down, now...

February:

In February, we established that you're never too old to pose in a ride meant for children.

In February, Lizzie and I went to Butlin's.  Get used to the "Lizzie and I went to Butlin's" part of that sentence, because it's going to crop up a lot in this little 2014 review...  We get asked now and then why we go during family breaks and not to the adult weekends.  The reason is twofold:

1. We've heard some major horror stories about the adult weekends that nearly turned my hair back to being curly.  Lizzie and I have both had bad experiences when it comes to being hassled in a very negative way by blokes who haven't quite understood the word "no," so we avoid that by going during a time when most people are there with their kids.  It's not that we hate being chatted up or we're not looking to meet a nice guy (we are!), it's just... Well, like I said: HORROR STORIES.  We're also a pair of big children, who actually enjoy watching Scooby Doo Live.  Me more than Lizzie...  Oh and there wouldn't be party dances on an adult weekend, would there?!  WHAT IS BUTLIN'S WITHOUT THOSE?!

2. We've never agreed on a weekend we'd both equally enjoy.  That said, there's an adult weekend on my birthday this year and I quite fancy it...

Also in February, Lydia booked tickets for she and I to go to an open air concert on Weston-Super-Mare beach.  5ive and The Backstreet Boys were going to be there, which was our reason for going.  McBusted were headlining, but we weren't quite so fussed about them...

March:

March was the month of sticking your head against someone else's.

My parents celebrated their 33rd wedding anniversary in March.  I say "celebrated" but actually... I'm not sure we marked it in any way, whatsoever.  Still...

In March, Kirstie and I travelled to Cardiff to see "our boys," the Manic Street Preachers.  If I remember rightly it was my twelfth time of seeing them live and still just as exciting as the first.  And since our gig outfits always look fabulous, darling, here's a photo:

April:

Mum and I on a rollercoaster.  Because life is one, according to Ronan Keating.  Or something.

Mum and I had a mother-daughter day out to Crealy in April.  Seeing as I've now not been to Alton Towers in well over a year and am craving a rollercoaster, this little trip may need repeating.  We had a lovely day and I laughed way too much when we got utterly soaked on the log flume.

Also in April, I had my fourth tattoo.  A quote from Doctor Who, with a shooting star above it, inked on my foot.  I bloody LOVE it.

What I don't love is my curled toes.  I swear, I have normal feet.  Honest.

The most important thing that happened in April was that I finished my novel.  Sure, it was something crazy like 12,000 words over limit, but it was FINISHED.  Quite an achievement, even if I do say so myself.

May:

In May, I was badly dressed and Kirstie & Lizzie looked like they should be in a band.

My younger sister turned 28 in May, which made me feel really old was lovely.  

My friends and I had a fabulous girly day out, during which we went toboganning and I almost had an asthma attack from laughing at Kirstie choosing to go so slowly that she was practically indicating round bends.  I love that girl.

Rusty, the labradoodle who I joke my mum loves more than me (which I would practically approve of, because he's awesome) turned 2 in May.  Aw.

Check out that beard.

Lizzie and I also went back to Butlin's, because OF COURSE WE DID.

Weeeeeee!

June:

And again: Weeee!

In June, I did something I'd never done before.  I tried water-skiing.  I blogged about it, but the link isn't to hand, so... You know, search for it or something.  Or not.  It was amazing fun, even though I only managed to stand up for something like 4 seconds at a time.  The big downer of the day?  My mum nearly drowned.  Yeeaah, she fell off a jetty into the sea.  And she can't swim.  And I screamed and froze to the spot like a useless idiot.  She was pulled from the water by a workmate and a guy who never gave his name (I think it may have been Batman), much to my shrieking relief.  She has vowed never to go near water again.  Except the shower, because she'd stink otherwise.

Also in June, Lydia and I went to that gig I mentioned in Weston-Super-Mare.  The Backstreet Boys cancelled... And McBusted became our mutual OBSESSION.  They were so good.  Like... SO BLOODY GOOD.  Considering they were the band we weren't that fussed about seeing, we drove back to our hotel afterwards and could talk about literally nothing besides how brilliant they were.  Shortly afterwards, James Bourne replaced Matt Smith as my number one crush and I totally blame him for the fact that I'm so into blonde guys now...  Lydia and I have OMFG tickets to McBusted's 2015 tour and to say I'm excited is the understatement of the century.  Every time I think about it, I want to pee.

So I'll say again: WEEEE!

July:

Lizzie and I went to... SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN BUTLIN'S.

July was the month in which London held its annual Film & Comic Con.  I went dressed as a TARDIS.  Lizzie went dressed as a character from Skyrim and basically outdid me on every level with her awesomeness.  I met Jenna Coleman and Paul McGann and was a massive fangirl about it.

Paul McGann is just one of the nicest celebrities I've met.  He took the time to shake everyone's hand and ask their name.  And he told me he would happily "wield" my sonic screwdriver.  Which he then held upside down, but hey, a lot has changed since 1996...

I had forgotten how deep a shade of red my hair was in July, too.  Not that I dye my hair or anything.  It changes colour by itself.  By MAGIC.

August:

My amazing mum turned 62 in August.  She rocks.

After being engaged for a thousand years(!), my gorgeous friend Kirstie got married in August.  We had a hen do, during which we randomly attempted balloon modelling (badly) and Lydia and I wrote "Kirstie" on our chests and practically wet ourselves laughing.  It was an awesome night, spent with the best friends a girl could ask for:

Lydia had ballon-skillz.

August also saw Lizzie and I go to... Can you guess?!  Yeeeeaaaah, we went back to Butlin's.  Why?  Because that is WHAT LIZZIE AND I DO.  It was another awesome trip, filled with laughter and silliness.  We met two new redcoats.  Oh and we met Gareth Gates.  As you do.

It could happen to ANY one of us.

August wasn't all fun and games, though.  That was the month when the world lost one of the sharpest comic minds and one of the most cherished actors of a generation.  I grew up watching Robin Williams' films.  He was a legend in my eyes and always will be.  His death - in such tragic circumstances - affected me more than almost any other celebrity's ever has.  If there's a Heaven, I bet he has them all in stitches up there.

September:

My dad turned 57 in September.  September babies are the bestest babies.

I also had a birthday in September.  I turned (whisper it) 32.  My friends and I celebrated this with a trip to a private karaoke booth, so I could unleash the frustrated diva within me.  It was so good, we've been back again since and are talking of making it a semi-regular thing.  You've gotta love a sing-song.

A week later, I went to Adrenaline Quarry with my mum and some workmates, where I went on a massive swing over said quarry and then jumped off a cliff.  Just your typical Sunday...

I'm the one on the right in both pictures.  The one screaming her FACE off in the top one.

In an unfortunate event, I accidentally saw a photo of my abusive ex in September.  It wasn't fun to have those memories come flooding back, but on the plus side, my gut reaction was: "He looks like a gnome."  Progress is progress, guys.

October:

In October, Lizzie developed a taste for human blood.

October saw my mum retire from work.  The kids still ask how she is and what she's up to, even three months later!

Lizzie and I went back to Butlin's and dressed up for Halloween a day early, because we like to be ahead of trends.

November:

November was the month I turned into a man.

Lydia and I channelled Dougie Poynter and James Bourne in November.  We did a bit of posing and leaping about and, to our delight, made it into the fan video for McBusted's debut single, Air Guitar.  

My workmates and I also went out in November, to celebrate mum's retirement with a scrumptious dinner.

Mum and I went 1950s style.  Rock and roooooll.

Oh and I went to work dressed as Superman for Children in Need.  Like you do.

December:

In the Navy... You can sail the seven seas...

Kirstie and I went to London in December, where we saw the Manics for the second time in 2014.  Only this time, it was particularly special; the band were playing their acclaimed 1994 album, The Holy Bible in full (as well as performing a greatest hits set).  The night was one I'll never forget (I blogged about it here) and I'm rather sad not to be going to another Holy Bible gig this May/June.  Love my boys...

Christmas was upon us before we knew it and I had a lovely time with my family.  I'm lucky to have these guys in my life and I was thoroughly spoilt this year!

Family portraits.  We're doing them right.

After Christmas it was New Year (and the award for stating the obvious goes to.... ME!) and Lizzie and I ended 2014 in the same place we started it... BUTLIN'S,  Well, duh.

I see a camera and the rock horn just sort of... HAPPENS.

And so that was that.  Another year done and dusted. 

So what of 2015?  Well, so far, I've got a few plans lined up:  Butlin's in February (of course), McBusted and Derren Brown in April and no doubt plenty more besides.  I've cut another chunk of words from my novel and this will be the year it sees the light of day, fingers and toes crossed.  

Above all, here's hoping 2015 is happy and healthy.  I spent half of 2014 with acute sinusitis and you know... If I'm going to have a cute anything, I'd rather it was my bum.  Best of luck to all of you with any plans you have for this year and I hope 2015 is awesome for us all.  I'll be here with my endless wittering on, of course.  The year may change, but some things never do...