Bedtime Story (18/5/2016)

To listen to me reading this week's bedtime story, just click here for the podcast!

Little Duck Gets Bored

The sun was shining down on Pear Tree Farm.  In the duck pond, Mother Duck was busy giving her ducklings a swimming lesson.  Dylan Duck, Dorothy Duck and Daphne Duck were all swimming along behind her, listening carefully and doing as they were told.  But the smallest, Little Duck, was lagging behind.

"Muuuum," he groaned.  "I'm bored."

Mother Duck turned to look at her littlest duckling.  "Bored?  How can you be bored, Little Duck?  The sun is shining, the water is lovely and we're going for a swim!"

"All we ever do is swim," Little Duck moaned.  "I want to do something else."

Mother Duck flapped her wings.  "Well, we are going for a swim," she said.  "If you want to do something else, I suggest you make sure that you're very careful.  I don't want you getting into trouble."

"I won't," Little Duck promised.  And with that, he climbed out of the pond, shook his wet feathers and waddled off in search of some fun.

After a while, Little Duck arrived at the pig pen.  "Hello?"  He called, as he squeezed through the fence.  "I'm Little Duck and I'm looking for some fun!"

"Fun?"  The biggest pig in the pen grunted.  "Come and join in, then; we're about to roll around in the mud!"

Little Duck paused.  He wasn't sure that sounded like much fun at all.  But, he was bored and he needed something exciting to do, so he flopped down into the thick, squelchy mud and began rolling from side to side.  

It didn't feel very nice.  It made poor Little Duck's feathers stick together.  He scrambled to his feet and shook his head.  "Sorry," he said.  "But I think I need a different kind of fun..."

And he hurried away from the pig pen, shaking his muddy wings as he went.

Soon, he came across some goats, gathered around a pear tree.  "Hello!"  Little Duck called, hurrying over.  "I'm Little Duck and I'm looking for something fun to do."

The goats all turned.  "Something fun, you say?"  One of them bleated.  "Well, we're trying to get some pears down from this tree, so we can munch on them.  You can join us, if you like?"

Little Duck nodded.  "Okay!  How do you get them down?"

"Like this," the goat replied, and he rammed his head against the trunk of the tree.  

Little Duck gasped.  "Oh... That looks... A bit painful..."  

"It's fun," the goat insisted.  "And if you knock a pear down, everyone cheers!"

Little Duck took a deep breath and then bumped his head against the tree.  It hurt.  He rubbed his sore head with his wing.  "I don't think this is my cup of tea," he said.  "Sorry to have troubled you."

Still caked in mud and now with a headache to boot, Little Duck carried on wandering through the farmyard.  Soon, he spotted Elsie, the farm cat, hiding behind a wall.  Little Duck rushed over.  "Hello Elsie," he called.  "Are you having fun?  Can I join in?"

Elsie hissed.  "Oh, for goodness sake, Little Duck!  I'm trying to hunt a mouse and you've just scared it away!"  She stretched out her claws and flicked her tail at him.  "If you're going to join me, you're going to have to be nice and quiet.  And get ready to pounce when I say!"

Little Duck sighed.  That didn't sound like fun.  "Never mind."

He trudged away, muttering under his breath.  He was starting to get hungry and the mud on his feathers was drying and making him itch.  He decided to try one more place...

Up in the paddock, the horses were munching on some hay.  "Hi, guys," Little Duck called.  "I'm looking for some fun..."

The smallest horse came trotting over.  "Do you know what's amazing fun?"  She asked.  "Galloping!  It's great; you go really fast and the wind blows through your mane.  Want to try it?"

Little Duck thought it sounded a bit scary, but he agreed, all the same.  He hopped onto the horse's back and clung on as tightly as he could.  With a whoosh, they were off, racing faster and faster across the paddock.  Little Duck squeezed his eyes shut.  He felt like he was going to fall off and get trampled on and the wind made him cold.

"Wasn't that fabulous?"  The horse asked, when she finally slowed to a stop.

"Oh, erm... Yes..."  Little Duck stammered.  "But I think I ought to go home, now..."

Little Duck turned and began waddling towards home.  He was dizzy and he definitely wasn't having much fun.  But, as he got nearer, he heard the sound of his brother and sisters splashing in the cool water of the pond.  Little Duck's feet started to move faster and faster until he was running.  "Look out!"  He cried, leaping into the water with a terrific splash.

"Look at the state of you!"  Mother Duck cried.  "What on Earth have you been up to?!"

Little Duck swam over and let Mother Duck gently preen his feathers, washing away the dried mud and leaving him clean and fresh.  "That's better," she told him.  "Did you have fun?"

Little Duck gave her a smile.  "I learned that the best fun you can have is by being with the ones you love the most."  

And off all the ducks went, swimming into the centre of the pond, laughing and splashing together.

THE END

Manic Street Preachers at the Genting Arena, Birmingham (14/5/2016)

Me in my Manics fan "uniform." ;-)

If there's one thing that should be relatively common knowledge to anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis, it's my deep and unending love for the Manic Street Preachers.  From the age of 16, they've been a constant in my life and I can't imagine my world without them.

So, on Saturday (14th May), I got all dolled up in my glitter, eyeliner, feather boa, tiara, homemade top and fairy wings and headed from my uncle's flat in Birmingham to the Genting Arena, along with my lovely gig buddy Kirstie, to see the band for the millionth fourteenth time.

Normal clothing is not required on gig days...

The band are currently touring in celebration of their classic 1996 album, Everything Must Go, which is now a whopping twenty years old (and I feel ancient).  The plan was to play the entire album in full, from start to finish, before pausing for a brief break prior to treating the audience to a short second set, packed with hits and the odd rarity.  As plans go, it was a pretty brilliant one, to be honest.

Everything Must Go is as close to perfection as any album I've had the pleasure of listening to.  It soars majestically along, with sweeping orchestral melodies and touching moments of poignancy in amongst the almost stubborn positivity of the album as a whole.  To hear every track played, one after the other, was an absolute treat for the ears.  The band were on top form, sounding like the tight unit we know them to be, and they looked the part, too - Nicky Wire showed off not one, not two, but three different jackets over the course of the show.  

The strangeness of hearing Design For Life second in the set (rather than being saved for the show-stopping finale) was overcome by the crowd's enthusiastic singalong and the promise of yet more goodies to follow.  Everything Must Go has always been an album that flows beautifully well and this translated into a live performance that never felt like it had gone off the boil, or left you wishing they'd play something else.  Songs such as Enola Alone and Further Away rocked the arena and left you wondering how on Earth the band even managed to choose singles from an album packed with so many gems.  James Dean Bradfield's gorgeous acoustic rendition of Small Black Flowers That Grow In The Sky was enough to bring a tear to your eye.  And when the bombastic guitar solo at the end of No Surface All Feeling kicked in and streamers shot into the sky and fell above the heads of the band's faithful fans, it was a moment of sheer euphoria.

Before the second set kicked in fully, James treated the audience to a short game of "Manic Street Preachers bingo," encouraging fans to shout out song suggestions for him to play on his acoustic guitar.  It's a testament to the level of devotion the fans have to this band, that many of the requests were for obscure b-sides and album tracks - this is a fandom that passionately devours anything the band produces.  In the end, James went for late 90s single, Tsunami.

There were a few unexpected little gems in the second "greatest hits" set; a cover of Fiction Factory's Feels Like Heaven and Natwest-Barclays-Midlands-Lloyds from the Manics' debut album, Generation Terrorists, were highlights.  In fact, the only thing I would suggest to further improve Manics' shows, would be to include more of these rarities.  After all, we're talking about a band who've recorded over ten albums, meaning they have literally hundreds of songs to choose from (especially when you include B-sides) when picking a set list.  As much as it's good that the band are aware that they have casual listeners in the audience who will be expecting the well-known singles, rather than obscure tracks they've never heard, it does sometimes feel like the Manics veer too closely on the side of caution.  Purely from a personal point of view, I wouldn't mind songs such as It's Not War (Just The End of Love) and Your Love Alone Is Not Enough being dropped to make way for some lesser played album tracks from the band's back catalogue.  There's still Design For Life, You Stole The Sun From My Heart and other such crowd-pleasing staples to placate the casual listeners with, after all.  Whilst songs like It's Not War... might have been commercial successes, the fans have heard them plenty of times, now.  I think it's time to mix the set list up a bit and throw in a few more surprises.

But that is a trivial moan about a gig that was full of energy, excitement and musical punch.  The Manics are still relevant, still brash and ever-so-slightly OTT, still musically fantastic and, as far as I'm concerned, still the best band on the bloody planet.  They get five out of five stars from me and they always will.  Shh, I'm allowed to be biased, it's my blog.  ;-)

If you get a chance to see them, go.

And if you've not had the chance to see the band live, don't fret; I made you a little vlog, so you can experience them for yourself:

Click, click, click, click, click.  Click yourself over (to YouTube).

I'll end this blog with a few more pictures from the gig.  Enjoy!

Bedtime Story (11/5/2016)

This week's story is also available as a podcast!

Betsy And The Talent Show

Betsy loved to perform.  She was always making up little plays to put on in front of her parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.  She loved to sing, she adored to dance and she was at her happiest when she was the centre of her family's attention.

So, as soon as her school talent show was announced, Betsy started to make plans.  "I'm going to sing a song," she announced over dinner that night.  "And I'll probably make up a dance routine to go with it."

She spent all evening, searching through her wardrobe for the perfect costume and practising her moves.

By bedtime, Betsy's idea had grown even bigger.  "I'm going to do impressions of all the teachers to make the audience laugh when I first come on stage, then I'm going to sing a song, with a dance routine."

Betsy fell asleep and dreamed of bright lights, roaring crowds and fame and fortune.

The following morning, Betsy's plan had become even more enormous.  "I'm going to do impressions of all the teachers, then I'm going to sing a song, with a dance routine to go with it, then I'm going to do a magic trick!"

"Betsy, I think you have to stick to just one or two talents," Mum told her, as they ate breakfast.  

Betsy frowned  "But I don't want it to be over too quickly.  And I want everyone to think my act is amazing!"

"I'm sure it will be," Dad promised her.  "Just do your best.  Whatever happens, we'll be in the audience, cheering for you!"

All week, Betsy practised her song and dance routine.  And, just in case she was allowed a little extra time on stage, she practised doing funny voices, to make the audience laugh.  She rehearsed a little sketch she'd written and she went over and over her magic trick, to make sure it was truly spectacular.  

Finally, on the night of the talent show, Betsy ate her dinner, put on her costume and excitedly headed back to school.  Her parents wished her luck as they dropped her off in her classroom and went to take their seats in the hall.  

Betsy had butterflies in her tummy as everyone filed down the corridor and took their place backstage.  She couldn't wait to get on that stage!  She paced around, barely paying any attention to any of the other performers as they came and went.  All she wanted was to get out there and do her thing.

At last, she heard her headteacher call her name.  Betsy skipped onto the stage, ran into the centre, right beneath the bright spotlight and she smiled out at all the faces in the crowd...

...And she froze.

This didn't feel like all those times she'd sung or danced in front of her family.  She knew them.  But here, in front of her right now, were what seemed like hundreds of strangers, all staring at her.  Betsy squinted against the bright lights, looking for her parents, but she couldn't see them.  

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  She tried to start her dance routine, but she couldn't make her arms or legs move.  It was like everything had stopped working.  

Betsy's heart was hammering against her ribcage, thump, thump, thump.  She could feel sweat beginning to trickle down her face and her eyes started to fill with tears.  She turned and looked at the side of the stage, trying to get a teacher's attention.  She wanted to tell someone that she'd changed her mind.  

But then, out there in the darkness, Betsy saw a hand rise up into the air.  She squinted to see it better and the hand began to wave.  Slowly, the fingers curled and Betsy realised that someone was giving her a thumbs up.  She shuffled towards the edge of the stage and finally, she saw her parents, in the centre of the crowd, smiling, watching, cheering her on, just like they said they would.

It was like a switch had been flipped.  Betsy took several big, deep breaths and bounded back to the centre of the stage.  She launched into her song and dance routine and, the more she sang and danced, the less scared she felt.  In fact, she started to feel good.  She started to feel amazing!

At the end, everyone in the audience clapped and cheered.  Betsy took a little bow and gave her mum and dad a big thumbs up.  

The rest of the talent show passed by in a blur.  At the end, Betsy rushed into the audience to find her parents.  "I did it!  Did you see me?  Was I good?!"

"You were brilliant," Dad told her.  "I couldn't be prouder."

"I couldn't have done it without you two," Betsy said, smiling first at her dad and then at her mum.  "It was really scary at first... All those people looking at me.  I nearly didn't do it."

"Well, I'm so glad you did." Mum told her.  "Because you were fantastic.  But hey, if you don't want to do the talent show next year, you don't have to."

Betsy gaped at her.  "Are you kidding?!"  She shook her head.  "Oh, Mum.  I'd do it all over again right now if I could!  And as for next year, well...  Just you wait.  I have big plans.  I'm going to do some ballet, some acrabatics, a song, a magic trick, some jokes, some impressions..."  She sighed.  "The longer I'm on that stage, the better!"

And with that, Betsy and her parents made their way home, with Betsy spending the whole journey planning her next big performance.

THE END

It's Good To Talk...

In-jokes are the best kind, eh Rach?

So, my last blog was written whilst I was in the grip of the worst depression I've had in a fairly long time.  I'd been in a metaphorical hole for three days, with very little sunlight making its way in.  Three days of constant blackness might not seem so bad, but when you're living it, believe me, it feels like a lifetime.

Thankfully, the fog has now lifted and it began to lift the very same day that I wrote that blog entry.  I can't help but feel like the two things are related...

I've always been a talker.  Ask my parents, friends and anyone else who knows me well and they'll probably tell you that there have been times when they've desperately wanted to search for the 'off'' button.  I talked early - by two years old I was having fluent conversations - and I've never really stopped.

When I was two, I looked like a fully grown man.  It's weird, I know.

The thing is, talking is the best way of untangling thoughts (besides writing them down, which... Well, I'm doing that right now... BLOGCEPTION).  Once you've put your feelings into words, it's much easier to make sense of them.  Until you do that, they're just a jumble of noise in your brain; confusing and scary.  Trapping your feelings inside and never verbalising them is like continually scribbling on a piece of paper.  Eventually, you press down harder and harder and keep going over the same spot, until something gives and the paper rips.

I've always been very self-analytical.  I like to know why I think and feel the way I do.  I like to be able to rationalise my actions and understand myself that bit better as a result.  When I was in that metaphorical hole, for the first day or two, I was unable to really talk about why I felt the way I did.  I just had these heavy feelings pushing down on my shoulders and I felt I had to internalise them, because I wasn't sure I entirely understood them.  I knew that there were things going on that were making me sad, but I hadn't fully connected the dots, yet.  I wasn't sure why I was reacting the way I was and that just made me even more frustrated than I was to begin with.  I was managing to get out of bed, go to work and do everything I had to do, but inside, my mind was scribbling furiously at that imaginary sheet of paper and it was weakening under the pressure.  A tear was inevitable.

That's when the talking started.  And it started, because it had to.  Because, if scribbling too hard on a piece of paper causes it to rip, I didn't fancy finding out what would happen to my head, if I carried on metaphorically scribbling all over my poor brain.  It was time for some serious untangling.

It started with my mum.  I got some stuff off my chest and she really listened and gave me the support (and hugs - lots of hugs) I needed.  I emailed my friend Rachel and admitted to feeling depressed and not entirely knowing what to do about it.  Then, my sister-in-law called me and I talked to her about the way I was feeling, too.  And every time I spoke about it, the weight on my shoulders got a little lighter.  The big, tangled mess of thoughts in my mind started to loosen, until it resembled a knot that even I - with my stubby fingers and flimsy, short nails - might be able to unpick.  

I had a big heart-to-heart with my best friend and admitted to silly things I'd been keeping in, which I should have been more open about.  That was a conversation that led to tears (of the "OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH" variety, rather than the sad kind) and, eventually, a rap battle.  My best friend and I are weird.  And I wouldn't have us any other way.

She is Dan.  I am Phil.  Which means my number one crush is... Myself?  Er...

The point is, the more talking I did, the better I started to feel.  I'm not saying that all forms of depression can be magically cured just by having a damn good natter about it, but it's definitely a worthwhile starting point.  

For what it's worth, almost a week since the black dog arrived on my shoulder, it's now off, chasing a squirrel or whatever it does when it's not with me.  I can still see it, but I can't feel it anywhere near as much.  And a big reason for that, is that I grabbed hold of that knot in my head and, with a little help from my friends (and family), I worked out ways of untangling it.  I couldn't have done that if I'd left it in my head.  I had to open up to make things better.

I guess I had two realisations, as a result of my most recent trip down the metaphorical hole of depression:

1) Talking is so important.  I think you've probably got the gist of that by now, right?!

and

2) LISTENING is vital.

Seriously, had I not had amazingly supportive people to talk to in the first place, I wouldn't have shaken the storm cloud above my head anywhere near as fast.  Sometimes, just having someone say "I'm here if you want to talk," even if you're not ready to do that yet, is so important.  I've always been someone who tries to make herself available for others to talk to about stuff if they need to, but this most recent trip to the other side of that particular fence has made me all the more determined to keep doing that and to encourage others to do the same.  If you want people to be there for you in your hour of need, you need to be there for them in theirs, after all.

The theme song is now kind of stuck in my head, not gonna lie...

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if there's stuff in your head and you're getting to that point where you feel like your metaphorical paper is about to rip from all the internal scribbling, let it out, if you can.  Talk to someone, write it down, talk to yourself if you think it'll help.  Just don't keep it all inside.

And if you're on the other side of the equation and there's someone you think is going through their own hard time, just offer them a shoulder.  You don't have to be great with advice; just listen.  Sometimes that's all it takes.

It's good to talk.  And it's good to listen.  Heck, it's good to be good to each other.  So let's all just keep doing that and the world will be a nicer place.  

Bedtime Story (4/5/2016)

This week's story is dedicated to everyone who wonders about the world around them.

To listen to it as a podcast, click here.

Curious Kevin

Kevin was always asking questions.  His mind never stopped whirring; he was curious about absolutely everything.  He was always asking "how does this work?" or "what does it do?"  

Over the years, Kevin had gotten into quite a few scrapes because of his overly curious mind.  Like the time he got his arm stuck down the toilet, because he was trying to find out what happened when you flushed.  Or, the day he climbed to the top of his local church tower, because he wanted to see the bells ringing.  And who could forget the school trip to the biscuit factory?!  Kevin had kicked up quite a fuss when it was time to go home; all he wanted to do was stay and watch the machines!

Kevin's bedroom was like a science lab, with lots of little projects he was working on, all lined up on his shelves.  There was the cap with a fan built in, to keep people cool in the Summer.  There was the watering can with three hoses, so you could water lots of plants at once.  And of course, there was his beloved skateboard-rocket, powered by his mum's old hairdryers.

Kevin loved nothing more than finding out how things worked and building his own inventions.  At school, his friends called him 'Curious Kevin."  And Kevin really didn't mind - he was curious about things!

One day, Kevin's mum and dad bought him a book, called 'How To Build ANYTHING From Scratch."  Inside, the book really did seem to teach you how to make pretty much everything; lights, engines, even a radio.  Kevin was over the moon!  He started work right away.

His parents got used to Kevin disappearing up into his room for hours on end.  They got used to the constant sound of hammering and the frequent odd requests for items:

"Mum?  Can I have a pack of six light bulbs, please?"

"Dad?  Do we have a big pack of batteries?"

Eventually, the requests got even stranger and Kevin's parents had to take him to specialist electrical shops and DIY stores to buy all the things he needed for his inventions.  And whilst Kevin's friends would all disappear to the park, or to the cinema at weekends, Kevin stayed in his room, learning how to create all kinds of masterpieces.  His friends stopped calling round for him in the end.  Some of the kids at school even started to pick on him for being different and, as time went on, Kevin's parents began to worry about all the time he spent by himself, finding out how things worked and making his own machines.  They thought it was a little strange.  But Kevin was very happy, feeding his curiosity.  He really didn't want to do anything else.

Kevin kept his work a secret.  Whenever anyone asked what he was making, he would simply smile and reply: "You'll see."

Weeks went by, until one night, the family were sitting together, watching television.  A storm was being whipped up outside.  "Hmm," Kevin's dad sighed.  "I don't like the look of this weather.  We'll be lucky if our power lasts, tonight."

Kevin's ears pricked up and he grinned a mysterious grin.

Sure enough, less than hour later, there was a little popping noise and suddenly, all the lights went off in the house.  The television turned off and everything went black and eerily quiet.  

"Oh!  I don't like it..." Kevin's mum whimpered, fumbling around in the dark for a candle and a match.

"Don't worry," Kevin beamed, through the blackness.  "I've been preparing for this!"

Flicking on the torch he kept in his trouser pocket, Kevin disappeared up the stairs.  His parents frowned at one another, as their son bumped and banged about in his room for a while, before coming back down, carrying a big box, full of equipment.  He lay a long plank of wood across the coffee table.  Six light bulbs stood along the plank, with a thin wire connecting each one.  The wire led to a big battery pack, with a switch.  When Kevin flicked the switch, the bulbs came on and the room was filled with light, once more.

"That's amazing!"  Kevin's dad gasped.  "We won't have to sit in the dark!"

"That's not all," Kevin chuckled.  He placed a little metal box on the table and wound it up.  It crackled into life and music began to play.

"Is that a wind-up radio?"  His mum beamed.  "Oh, Kevin, you're so clever!  Now we've got light and entertainment!"

Within minutes, the neighbours began to arrive.  They'd seen the front room full of light and wondered how Kevin's family had power, when the rest of the street was in darkness!  Soon, the room was filled with people, smiling and talking - some even dancing to the music coming from the radio!  They stayed until late, with everyone telling Kevin what a genius he was.

"I'm not a genius," Kevin replied, with a smile.  "I'm just curious!"

From then on, nobody teased Kevin about his love of finding out how things worked, or his desire to make his own inventions.  Everyone realised how clever he was and what a special talent he had.

And as for Kevin?  Well, he just carried on being curious!

THE END

There's A Black Dog On My Shoulder (Again)...

"I'm depressed" is such a common phrase.  We say it when a TV show we liked gets cancelled, or when we don't quite fit into our favourite outfit, anymore.  More often than not, what we really mean is "I'm fed up," or "I'm sad."  Hopefully, however blue you might feel about those things, you'll perk up within a few hours, maybe a day or two at most.  But sometimes, those little things tip us over the edge and when we say we're depressed, we really do mean it.  And depression isn't just a case of feeling a bit sad.

Stuff has been building up in my head for a while.  Maybe none of it massive (in the eyes of strangers, at least), but none of it nice.  I think the overriding sensation - the thing that connects all the smaller issues that have been building - is the feeling that I'm not important (or my feelings aren't important), or that I'm easily replaced.  The other day, I heard a Mariah Carey song that I've not listened to in years, the opening lyrics to which go: "it seems as though I've always been somebody outside looking in."  And it was a musical thump to the guts, because I can't help but feel more and more like that's exactly what I am.

Life has a way of magnifying the bad when things happen in quick succession and rational, non-depressed Emma would probably shake me and tell me that hopefully, nobody ever intended to make me feel that way and that it's my insecurity talking.

But rational, non-depressed Emma hasn't made many appearances, in the last few days.

When I'm on an even keel, I'm generally pretty good at self-analysis.  I can tell myself "that didn't mean anything.  They probably don't even realise you're upset by that.  You're being oversensitive" and I try to do something to right the wrong that's formed in my head.  Whether that's by avoiding social media, reminding myself of the good things I have in my life, or simply eating chocolate and binge-watching Buffy The Vampire Slayer, I will do whatever it takes to turn my internal situation around.

Usually it works.  But sometimes it doesn't.  And when it doesn't, there are few things in this world more painful.  I stop being me.  I start being a much less cute version of Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh.

Complete with rain cloud.

Suddenly, all those little insecurities I've been trying to rationalise seem to unite in battle against me.  Instead of being able to think "I'm being oversensitive" or "they didn't mean that the way it sounded," my brain starts to look in greater detail at all those things that have niggled me, but which I've tried to ignore.  I get treated to an internal monologue that seems to scream: "See?!  You don't mean anything.  Nobody cares about your feelings because your feelings don't matter.  You're boring; people are sick of you.  Nobody would believe you if you spoke out about that manipulative person in your life, because everyone prefers them to you.  Nobody would understand if you told them how you feel unimportant lately, because you are.  And who could blame anyone for preferring other people over you?  You don't even like you."

It's particularly hard, given that I've gone through a lot and fought to reach a place where I do like myself.  Usually, at least.  But when depression bites, it's like a little devil on my shoulder, whispering hate in my ears.  To borrow a phrase from my novel (Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections), I wear every insult like a shroud, becoming each one in the process.

The worst are the insults my abuser regularly threw at me.  "Pathetic, needy, clingy."  I'm all of those things, right now.  Pathetic for being so angry, upset and frustrated, rather than being able to deal with things.  Needy, because all I want is for the people I care most about to both tell and show me that they care (shout out to my Mum and sister-in-law for being beyond awesome at knowing and responding to this), and clingy, because I don't want to be replaced in anyone's affections.

I guess my abuser was right in as much as I'm not someone who can drift into that supposedly comfy place of not needing to express what someone means to you, because they should just know.  I do need to be told I'm loved and that I mean something.  Normally, I can tell myself that I love me, however sad that sounds.  I'm not able to do that right now.  And so, I find myself in a place where I don't feel like I have any worth.  Like I don't matter.  Like I could disappear and leave little to no gap in anyone's lives.  

One of the evil side-effects of depression is that not everyone understands it.  Someone who hasn't been there themselves might read the above few paragraphs and think: "Hang on... So, this girl has some stuff going on in her head and she's being all needy and wanting people to tell her how amazing she is?  Bloody attention seeker."  

But that's not it, at all.  I don't want just random "hey, you're awesome" messages from people who may or may not mean it.  I just want - dare I say, need - to feel cared about, respected and considered, because I can't do it for myself at the moment.  In much the same way as when we hurt someone, it's right to say "sorry," when someone's hurting, it's right to give them support.  I try to do it for other people and usually, I can support me, too, but right now, I don't know how.  I want to be reassured, because I can't reassure myself.  

And of course, depression is a contrary little madam.  I want to be reassured, told I'm loved and made to feel like my feelings matter.  But equally, I want space and I don't want people to offer me support if it's not meant, or if they secretly think I'm being OTT.  I want to sleep, because I'm constantly exhausted, but I fall into bed and my own brain keeps me awake for hours, going over and over every tiny little detail of a situation, until I barely know which way is "up."  I'm scared of getting nowhere with my writing dreams, but I've got little to no inclination to write anything.  It's sometimes as though I can feel literally everything - every stupid thought and emotion - on an almost physical level, yet there are moments when I'm numb to absolutely everything around me.  I'm seeing my favourite band in the world next weekend and right at this particular moment, I can't even raise a smile, thinking about it.

Depression isn't like a tap.  I can't just tell myself "shake it off, Em," flip a switch and suddenly be fine.  I wish that a hug from someone would make it go away.  I've tried doing the whole "Positive Mental Attitude" thing and it's not getting me anywhere, because my brain has currently decided that "positive" is just one end of a battery.  I've tried asking myself the whole "think about the things getting you down; what can you change?" question, but most of the situations are entirely out of my hands.  All I can do is process my emotions, work out how things have changed for me as a result and learn to deal with it all.  I can protect myself to a degree; taking steps to avoid seeing things that hurt me (I visit Twitter only to check if my celebrity crush has tweeted; I skim past everything and everyone else and I can't see that changing for a long while), not letting myself get close to anyone I no longer trust and working on re-establishing a healthier frame of mind, for example, but that's as much as I can do.  Yes, it's important - being able to wrap my head around things and learn to handle situations I can't personally change is pretty vital - but it can make you feel a little useless.  It's like "hey, there's no point being so sad, because all of these things are entirely out of my hands," coupled with "I can do absolutely nothing to change any of this and that sucks."

Although, I guess that's not strictly true.  I could choose to communicate how I feel a little more clearly.  I could say "hang on, what was that supposed to mean?!" rather than brood on a possibly misinterpreted piece of communication.  I could say "this has hurt me" and try to talk things through, where talking could make a difference.  Most of all,  I can be honest about dealing with depression and how it feels, in the hope that at least if someone stumbles across this blog, it makes them feel less alone, less crazy or less selfish for having succumbed to their feelings.  It won't help me, necessarily, but if it helps someone else, then that's my bit of good done for the day.

And, somewhat selfishly, I need to feel something good.  I swear, I feel like I've gained two stone, recently.  My head feels heavy with thoughts and my chest is swollen with hurt.  You carry depression around with you and it doesn't just cause you emotional pain; it's a physical ache.  Normally, physical ailments - nausea, headaches, that weirdly sluggish feeling that makes you feel like your limbs are made of concrete - can all be beaten with a positive frame of mind.  When you're depressed, that positivity is really hard to find; you might snatch it for a brief moment, but it's like trying to catch a butterfly.

For the past few days, I've smiled when I've had to.  Gotten up, done the things I needed to do.  I've hopefully managed to pull off a pretty impressive acting job in public; I might seem a little quieter than usual, but nobody would necessarily know the battle I'm fighting with my own mind and emotions.

It's a battle I'll win.  I'll win it, because I have to.  I want to smile and have it reach my eyes.  I want to stop skipping songs on the way to work, because they make me cry.  I want to get back to being me.  And some day - maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even in the next week - I'll realise that I am good enough, that my feelings are valid and that I can find a way to cope with the various situations I'm in.  

I've climbed mountains like this one, before.  When I'm ready, I'll strap up my boots and climb the heck out of this one, too.  And when I get to the top, I'll try to learn something from the view.  Hopefully, I won't be alone when I get there, either.  Hopefully, there'll be people supporting me, pushing me up when it gets tough.  When something like depression hits, you very quickly find out who you can count on, after all.

There'll be other mountains in the future, I'm sure.  But with each one we climb, we learn, we grieve for anyone lost en route and we take stock, until we're ready to carry on travelling.  

Life is a journey.  I've just misplaced my map.

Dear Bands: PLEASE STOP IGNORING THE SOUTH WEST!

James Dean Bradfield, from the Manic Street Preachers.

Music, as the song goes, was my first love.  And, seeing as terminal singledom has apparently set in, I strongly suspect it'll be my last.

For me, music has never been just a passive experience.  It's not a case of simply pressing "play" and having a song on in the background.  Music is something I practically bathe in.  If I love a song, I want to listen to it through headphones, in the dark, turned up really loud.  I want to play tunes in the car and sing along, without caring who hears as I drive past.  There are songs that soundtrack certain times in my life.  Songs that have such deep meaning to me that they can reduce me to tears.  I even have lyrics tattooed on my skin.

When you love music - when a band has come into your life and changed the way you think, or when you share such a deep love of a band with someone that it strengthens your friendship and becomes part of the relationship you have - it's only natural that you might want to listen to it on more than just your iPod or car stereo.  You might want to hear it played live.

From the Manics to Boyzone.  Nobody can say I'm not eclectic.

The trouble is, I live in Cornwall.  Yes, we have music venues (The Hall For Cornwall, for example), but they're not places you'll find on most band's tour schedules.  If you live down here, you have to adjust to the idea of travelling out of the county in order to see live music.

That never used to be much of a problem.  Plymouth is only an hour's drive away and some big bands visit Plymouth Pavilions when they tour the UK (I've seen the Manics and Blur there, for example).  But, as time goes by, far too many bands seem to be bypassing the South West altogether.

Alex James from Blur.

In recent years, I've gotten used to travelling to see bands live.  In just under a fortnight, I'm off to Birmingham to see the Manics and I'm heading to London at the end of the month to see Busted.  But it's recently hit home that having to travel such a long way to see a band I like is a bit of a slog and, frankly, not always an option, financially speaking.

For a start, if you're heading to somewhere like London from Cornwall, you're looking at easily £100 just on petrol for the round trip.  Factor in a hotel, congestion charging, food en route etc and suddenly you're talking about a much bigger sum.  And that's if you can even go in the first place; personally, I currently work term-time, meaning that if I want to travel up country to see a band who are playing at any time other than the school holidays, I have to do it at the weekend (I can maybe wangle a Friday off, but if I do that too often, I'm pushing my luck).  If there are no weekend dates that are within an affordable distance, then that's it.  No gig for me.  

Some will say "oh well, get over it."  But I can't express how important music is in my life.  I can't tell you how ecstatic I've felt, hand in hand with a friend who means the world to me, singing our hearts out, together.  And I can't tell you how devastated I am right now, that a tour I've waited a year for and which I'd been quietly planning outfits and banners etc for, has happened at a time when there are no weekend dates near enough for me to get there and I just can't justify the cost of travelling hundreds of miles to the other end of the country.  I've literally sobbed, feeling left out and fed up.  I still could.

It's not a 911 gig.  In case you were wondering.

In the grand scheme of things, a missed concert isn't the worst thing in the world.  I know that.  But it doesn't stop me feeling sad.  And like I said, it's not just about music.  It's about sharing experiences with people you love.  It's about that feeling of losing yourself and forgetting the outside world for a few hours.  It's about having something to look forward to and to reminisce over.  The band I'm missing is the one I had the most fun at ever, of any concert I've been to.  The memories made the last time I saw them (admittedly in a slightly different form) are some of the ones I treasure the most.  There was never any question of me not going to see them when they toured again.  Yet, here I am, finally knowing that a tour is happening, yet also knowing that I won't be there.  I'm gutted.

And yes, there are other things in life to look forward to and other memories to be made.  But like I said, sometimes knowing that isn't enough to stop you feeling sad.  I've been beating myself up for being so upset about it, but I've finally realised that I shouldn't have to.  It's okay to be angry, frustrated and upset when you miss out on something you've been looking forward to for so long, especially something that meant more to you than just seeing a gig.  So, yes, I'm upset.  But there's something of a sense of injustice, too.  After all, it's not just me who misses out on seeing bands live because of where I live.  

Manchester, Cardiff, London, Birmingham and Glasgow.  They're the places I see on lists of tour dates over and over again.  If there's anywhere in the South West, it's usually Bristol (and sometimes, even that gets overlooked); Devon and especially Cornwall get forgotten about, time after time.

Nicky from the Manics.

Even Bristol is a three hour drive away, but it's a drive I'm happy to make, providing I can afford it and I'm not going to have to haul my backside out of bed early for work the next day.  Plymouth or Exeter would be even better - and like I said, I have seen some pretty big bands in Plymouth - but what about Cornwall?

The Hall For Cornwall has a capacity of just under 1000, so it's not likely to play host to One Direction any time soon (no, that's definitely not the band I'm sad about missing), but for an intimate gig, it's amazing and I can assure you, a Cornish audience is a grateful, receptive one.  The Hall For Cornwall has staged a gig by the Manics and it was one of my favourite Manics gigs (and I've been to a lot), because I was just so thrilled to have my favourite band in the world, performing at a venue barely forty minutes drive away from my house.

The Eden Project's arena has a capacity of 6,000 and many major acts have played there.  Each year, they hold "The Eden Sessions" series of concerts, which attracts big names, but I'd love to see more live music held at Eden; not only is it a beautiful setting, but it's a great opportunity for large-scale gigs.

What we really need, however, is a purpose-built, large-scale music venue.  It's something we badly lack down here, since Cornwall Coliseum closed (that venue held 6,000 people).  The argument is always that Plymouth Pavilions took away most of the business Cornwall Coliseum needed in order to survive, with bands preferring to play there, instead.  But without a large-scale music venue in Cornwall, how can we ever entice bands back?!  We boast beautiful beaches and a busy tourist industry, but music-lovers are still, by and large, being forced to leave the county in order to see the bands they love, and we're not enticing gig-goers in to the county, because we have nowhere for them to go.  That needs to change.

I drew a stage.  Now go build it, Cornwall County Council.

I get that tours tend to be planned with a business-minded eye; it's about filling big venues and recouping the money spent on staging the shows, I know that.  And not having a major concert venue down in Cornwall is a big reason for the county being overlooked.  But Plymouth Pavilions has a capacity of around 4,000 and Exeter Westpoint Arena has a capacity of 7,500 and yet still Bristol is as far South west as a lot of bands go (if they even make it there).  

Fans in the South West are just as dedicated, just as passionate and just as keen to have gigs in our lives as fans anywhere else in the UK.  Missing a gig because of the sheer cost of having to travel to the other end of the country just to get there sucks.  So, here's a double-edged plea:

Dear bands and tour organisers: Please stop thinking that the UK ends at Bristol.  Please remember that there are venues available further south and that the fans living in the South West would dearly love to see you.

And Dear Cornwall County Council: Isn't it about time we had a new music venue in the county?!  Somewhere with the capacity to entice big names and stop music lovers from having to make the choice to either shell out hundreds of pounds to travel across the country just to see a band live, or to have to miss out entirely and deal with the sadness and frustration that that can cause.

Let's bring music back to Cornwall in a big way.