Eckhart Troll: A ramble

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Disclaimer: this post may or may not make sense. Have spent the majority of the day outside, on what appears to be the surface of the sun. I think my brain is sun burnt. This is highly likely to be an unreadable ramble, but plough on I shall! Enjoy?

Right. So. Most of my nearest and dearest are aware that I absorb any and all kinds of media with even a mild whiff of psychology, philosophy or whispers self help, so it should come as no surprise that I’ve been bingeing on a 10 episode podcast series featuring the teachings of Eckhart Tolle this past week.

For anyone unfamiliar with this super chill German fella, he’s kind of a big deal when it comes to spirituality and mindfulness. He waxes lyrical about the benefits of living fully in the “now” and not taking your own pesky thoughts too seriously. So far, so good. I can see why people love listening to him. However, I kept finding myself getting annoyed and/or stressed at intervals whilst listening or trying to practice some of what I’d learned.

This morning, while I was holding my eyelids open and praying for coffee to appear on my bedside table, I had a bit of a moment where I realised what’s been bugging me. I’d been trying too hard to take all of it in at once, because I’d assumed that because I liked some of his ideas that all of them must be applicable to me.

Here are some of his ideas that I liked/that resonated with me:

– There’s rarely a problem in the present. However stressed, bored, lonely etc you feel right now, is there a problem right this very second? Possible, but unlikely. Unless there’s a bear in your kitchen. Is there a bear in your kitchen?!
– It’s pointless trying to reason with people or yourself when emotions are high. Better to do your best to be aware of how you’re feeling in the moment and reconsider whether action is necessary later.
– Energy can’t be created or destroyed, so in a way, we’re all part of one connected, ever present life force (yes, I know, shut up).
– When thoughts are overwhelming, you can centre yourself by concentrating on how your body feels (internally – I’m not suggesting touching yourself up on your commute). Thoughts are often only that – thoughts. You don’t have to act on or believe them all. Stop touching yourself.
– Wanting the present moment to be different is pointless and just causes more internal tension. All we ever have is now – it is what it is, so accept.

However, there are a few things I feel Tolle alludes to that don’t sit right with me:

– If you don’t buy into everything he teaches, you simply aren’t “awake” enough – don’t worry, you’re just unevolved. Come back later and try again! Ugh.
– Thoughts = bad. The more enlightened you are, the less you need to think. I’d love to find out how someone can come up with a whole spiritual theory and write multiple bestselling books without borrowing from at least some of their thoughts. Cut the poor thoughts some slack!
– If something or someone offends you or does you a disservice and it hurts, it’s just your “pain body” speaking. It has nothing to do with the other person being a bumclanger and everything to do with your sensitive ego.

I think (dammit!) I have an idea of how Eckhart Tolle would respond to my latter list – It’s just my ego talking. It wants to cling to existence and so it’s fighting to defend itself. Or he’d perhaps tell me I’d misunderstood. And maybe imaginary Eckhart is right!

While I was having this hypothetical argument with no one this morning, I twigged that the way I was thinking is one of the most interesting quirks of being human. What other creature on this planet can take a concept and both accept and reject it simultaneously without having a full melt down, or even feeling like they have to pick one side over another? For example, I really love the idea that we’re all one energy expressing itself in myriad forms. I also think that this is woo-woo bullshit. But I still sort-of believe it anyway, and that’s fine!

Humans are idea machines. We’re so lucky to live in a world blanketed by a colourful patchwork of beliefs and theories. We’re free to knit our own personal blankets of beliefs from this poorly stitched together metaphor, and we can change our minds at any time – whatever we need to cling to to get by. That’s pretty great, isn’t it?

I see no problem in reading every available “how to live your life – we swear THIS way is right right way!” book and watching ALL the Ted Talks, but I feel we (or at least I) need to remember that we can pick and choose the messages that serve us (with the caveat that we’re not harming others with said messages), rather than by living life by one doctrine, just because we like a few ideas within it.

…or do live by one doctrine if that’s what brings you peace and contentment?


See, two more opposing beliefs in my one, melted head! What you gonna do about it? =)

Did any of that make sense? Let me know and/or send help in the comments. Once you’ve wrestled the grizzly from your kitchen, that is.

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Pride Month: Shit I’m Not Proud Of

The happiest of Pride Months to you! Granted, it’s halfway through the month already, but I kept putting off writing this because:

  1. Procrastination
  2. I didn’t know whether I should remain in my lane. Still unsure.

As a cisgender (algined with the gender I was given at birth), straight, white betch, I’m painfully aware that the only priveliged-as-fuck card I don’t carry is the ‘penis’ card, and so I couldn’t decide whether Pride was a bandwagon I could hitch myself to this month without being a colossal pest.

Thankfully, I have a gay sister whose permission I’ve obtained, and she informs me that I’m allowed. I’ll ask her to write me a note… However, she would probably insist that I am still, in fact, a pest, whatever subject matter I shoehorn myself into.

Awkward jokes aside, I do feel that respect and equality should be a basic human right (because, duh), and that everyone should have the safety and freedom to be exactly who they are. It’s ridiculous that in a lot of places in 2019, this isn’t the case.

I consider myself an ally, and I believe that rule one of Ally Club is “you must go through a phase of having the musical stylings of Tegan & Sara playing on a loop at all times.”

Joking. Sort of. In my opinion, the most important thing you can do as a semi-decent human with a penchant for folksy/electronic tunes with lots of feelings in them is to always be learning. It’s okay to admit when you’ve been wrong, as long as you learn from it.

So, with cringy, twisty guts, here goes nothing!

Shit I’m not proud of this Pride Month

I used to use the word “gay” as a derogatory adjective

I’m aware that this is something that’s fallen out of fashion since the early noughties, and so it isn’t as much of an issue anymore, but I do still hear this kind of talk from time to time. Usually from the kind of person who thinks that being a total dick to someone is alright if you then refer to it as “banter” (the only word in the English language worse than “moist”. Keep your moist banter away from me, bro!).

In my teens and early twenties, anything a bit lame in my eyes (because I was the epitome of cool with my spot-infested chin and jeans that drank puddles) was “gay.” I feel especially yucky about this when I think of anyone who’s on the fence about making their sexual orientation known hearing constant reminders that an important part of them is equated with negativity like that. I never had any intention of putting down anyone who wasn’t straight, but words do matter, and their effect can be accumulative, whatever the intentions behind it.

I used to worry about certain clothes making me look “butch”

Teen Becky: “Can’t wear that, my arms look too butch.” etc. etc.

How?! And so what? I’ve never considered myself to be homophobic. I’ve always sat in the ‘you do you’ camp, and yet, as a teenager, I was terrified of people thinking I looked ‘a bit butch.’ I think this stemmed from a couple of things:

  1. Terror of being seen as ‘different’ in any kind of way. Despite the eyeliner that took up half my face and grotty, pink flares and mesh tops that I lived in, I also carried with me the desire to be invisible. Makes total sense.
  2. Growing up in 90’s diet culture. You could be a tomboy, but you had to be thin and feminine whilst doing it.

Been ‘that arsehole’ at a gay bar

I LOVE gay bars. The music, the drag queens, the sense of literal gay abandon! Everything is just better. Plus, the DJs invariably seem to have Kesha available upon request. Love, love, love them. However, when I first started frequenting them, and I cringe to recall this, I thought I was the actual shit. Look how cool I was going to gay bars, I’m so quirky!

It wasn’t until I read an interview with RuPaul (can’t find the original interview, but here is the gist) that I realised I was being a total fuckmuppet. One thing he said that stuck with me was:

“People who live in the mainstream and the status quo think that everyone else is there to serve them.”

While I was being perfectly friendly, or at least drunk Becky’s idea of friendly – buying shots for all and sundry, whether they asked for them or not, I was still unwittingly being an obnoxious div. I love that the majority of LGBTQ+ spaces are welcoming to the cis, straight masses, but it’s important to remember what these spaces represent and to maybe, y’know, dial it back a little and let someone else harangue the DJ for a bit.

I’m sure I have a lot more to learn about being a respectful member of this delightful mish-mash of humans we call society, and I’m open to admitting my clangers in judgement, or which I’m certain I’ll make more of as I go along.

I wonder what kind of embarrassing stuff I’ll be confessing to come Pride Month 2029? Perhaps writing a blog post on which I have no authority? Could well be!

What thoughts or behaviours have you learned from, or what originally well-intentioned muck-ups have you witnessed in others? I’d love to start a discussion. Let me know in the comments 🙂

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EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!

“Sometimes I’ll start a sentence, and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.” – Michael Scott, The Office, Season 5

It’s been a funny kind of a week for me professionally. And not kitschy American sitcom funny either.

Before we continue, I should warn you – I’ve recently discovered the American version of The Office and I’m spending an unhealthy amount of time binge watching it, so I only think about everything through the lens of The Office now. Apologies in advance if any references slip through the net.

Where was I?

So, my team at work have been in the run-up to a restructure for a while now, and midweek last week was when we all learned where we sit in the corporate family tree. To give you an idea of my initial emotional reaction on the day:


Heh. Sorry, it had to be done somewhere. It’s out of my system now. I think.

So, on Wednesday, I learned that what the restructure potentially means for me is that if I’d like to keep my current role I’ll have to compete with one of the loveliest humans I’ve had the pleasure of working with. I’m quite partial to said role – in the time I’ve been doing it, I’ve gone from fumbling my way through most social interactions  to driving up and down the country doing all sorts of things that would’ve previously had me cowering in a broom cupboard. Now, I’m not one for over-exaggerated statements, but it’s made me at least a billion squillion times more confident than I used to be. Plus ten.

To give things a bit of context, this new-look structure does come with a whole heap of other positions most of us can go for, and even in the event that I don’t nail the position/s I’m after, I’m very lucky to work for a company that gives you a tonne of opportunities to find something suitable in the rest of the pretty sizeable business. I’d be stupid not to acknowledge how rare that is. This whole situation is the very definition of “It’ll be fine. Untwist those undercrackers, ma’am.”

However, I am first and foremost a creature of emotion, and so upon hearing the news, I spent the entire afternoon oscillating between optimism bordering on psychopathy, and short, sharp bursts of ugly-crying. Apparently I process emotions by loudly feeling them all at once.

I’ve since gained a few days of restored sanity and perspective, so I figured I’d share some of the good things that this spell of unsettlement has brought up, because why not? Isn’t the whole point of all life experience to document it on the internet? No? Oh, well, I’ve started now:

Some good things

  • Whether I get to write for money (hands down the best bit of my jobbo) or not at the end of all this, I’m fortunate to have a passion that I can do anywhere, with little to no specialist tools. Case in point – I’m currently typing away in my spare room, with the dog wheezing at me in support. Or fear. My hair is doing some pretty crazy right angles right now because I decided that my need to blog outweighs my need to not look like the creature that lives under your bed today.
  • Not to brag (that’s a lie, I’m totally bragging), but I know some pretty excellent people. People from all corners of my life have been proper lovely and supportive this week without my needing to ask, including but limited to:
    • People I work with, who are in a similar position to me and owe me nothing, but have been brilliant anyway. Especially the one person who’s in the closed pool of two with me for our current role. They’ve been nothing but honest and sincere with me since the second we found out about the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
    • Family members, who know the way to my heart – chips. My heart is located in my stomach, and my stomach likes chips.
    • Resident Boy – bought me Nando’s (see previous point) and has been saving up amusing videos of dogs being awesome on Facebook to show me at the end of each day. There is no situation that can’t be made better by clips of puppies trying to get through gates with sticks that are too wide in their mouths.
    • Friends who’ve been thrusting my blogs in the faces of people they know to keep the flames of my undying need for attention stoked.
  • I’ve learned that I’m tougher and more ambitious than I previously thought I was. This could be denial speaking here, but I’m pretty much fine…like, actually fine. Granted, it’s not a ride I’d have voluntarily queued up for at the hypothetical theme park analogy I’m going to clumsily shoehorn in here, but now I’m on it, I’m seeing that it’s not that bad. Being put in a position where you have no choice but to adapt is uncomfortable, but kind of exhilarating. Yeah, you can still have a nice day out if you don’t go on the rides, but there’s only so much you can experience while you’re on the ground, holding the handbags and coats while everyone else is facing their fears and seeing things from a whole new perspective.

Anyway, worst comes to worst, I can always DECLARE BANKRUPTCY!!

Been through a similar uncomfortable situation yourself that’s come with its own set of surprising silver linings? I’d love to hear about it – pop it in the comments =)

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An open letter to my meat suit

Dear Body/Meat Suit/Spam Robot

My relationship with you has always been a complicated one. We’ve been together since before I was born, but this is the first time I’ve felt compelled to write to you.

I’ve not treated you as well as I should have done, for as long as I can remember – or at least for as long as I’ve been made to pay attention to you, or “keep an eye on” your size; specifically when we were 11 and came back from Ibiza, slightly softer round the edges on account of the entire glorious adult sized pizzas we ate every night for 2 weeks.

Someone commented that my crush du jour wouldn’t like the look of me when he saw me next at school, because you were fatter. They were trying to protect me from embarrassment or shame, and I wish I’d had enough experience behind me to be able to see it as the earnest, protective attempt at kindness it was. Instead, I got annoyed with you for betraying me and then proceeded to try and control you at every turn more or less every day since.

If that specific interaction hadn’t happened, that kind of messaging would have only introduced itself to me in some other way – probably via the TV or one of the magazines I’d read at that age. Bliss and Mizz weren’t exactly doing their bit to fight the patriarchy at the time either.

I remember being a teenager and bawling to my mum that I “just can’t stop eating!” – an idea that’s ridiculous to me in hindsight. Why would anyone actively wish to be able to avoid eating? Wishing to be able to not eat is just a long-term, socially acceptable death wish.

I’ve periodically starved you, stuffed you and left you on the precipice of hunger for days, sometimes for weeks on end, never once admitting that I was on a diet, because I’m too anti establishment for diets. Obviously.

Logically, I always knew I’d eat again soon during these spells of attempted dietary control, but you mustn’t have felt that way – you wouldn’t have known why you were being deprived. Your only job is to keep me alive. Everything else is secondary, including logic and the desire to shrink down to some arbitrary number on a scale or clothes size. I treated you with disdain and neglect and willed you to be something you weren’t, no matter what shape you were at any given time.

I was so busy trying to mould you that that I forgot to admire you for how you looked and felt in the moment. You looked great! You might even still look great, despite taking up the most space that you ever have, but even now I feel like I’m groping through a thick fog of bullshit to be able to see you for what you are. I’m also struggling to accept that how you look makes zero difference to anyone who matters, including myself – seriously, how would being smaller make my life any better? Who would it make happier? Would I want to make those hypothetical people happy if the way I looked shaped how they saw me so much? Would I fuck.

I’ve come to a point where I feel like I don’t have another attempt at controlling what I eat left in me. The ability and desire to do that has left me, but not the desire to have a narrower waist and smaller stomach. Our belly is visible now – even under T-shirts, and I’m pretty certain I am the only person who notices it because who cares? Apparently I sort of do. I Sometimes catch myself glaring at you in the mirror for allowing this to happen, almost in spite of the fact that I actively enjoy going to the gym and keeping active. I’m sorry about that. I know it’s daft to hold these 2 contradicting thoughts simultaneously:

1. Dieting is stupid, futile in the long run and a waste of our limited time and energy on this planet

2. No matter what mode of thinking I try to adopt, and how many steps I’m taking away from diet culture, I still crave having a skinny middle.

I don’t know why that’s so important to me, but I know I need to let go of that ideal.

I’m getting there, though. After 20 years of ignoring you and driving you to the point of gnawing hunger over and over again and then judging you for wanting to be fed until you’re stuffed in reaction to that, I owe it to you to at least try.

You are totally able, you work so well in spite of my best efforts to sabotage you, and you’re getting physically stronger all the time. While this relationship we have isn’t exactly unconditional love, I hope you can accept the following as an olive branch at least. I promise:

  • To stop deliberately letting you stay hungry for longer than you need to be
  • To remember that being hungry is a good thing that means you’re working as you should be
  • To mourn the flatter-bellied version of you and then move on – not constantly compare how you are now to how you were “then”. This is us right now, and 20 more years down the line, I don’t want to be pining for how we are now and regretting that I wasn’t appreciative of you

You don’t have to forgive me, and I’ll make many more mistakes as I learn to treat you with the trust and respect you deserve. Thank you for housing my insane impulses and incessant contradictory thoughts for all these years and for not opting to simply outright eject me from your skull in response to how you’ve been treated. I hope we can learn to trust each other. Maybe someday eventually, we’ll even be able to give that unconditional love thing a go. It’d be nice.

Becky x

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Sweet dreams are NOT made of these

My pet sub woofer (for he is smol), Jesse, looking much more rested than I feel today.

For the most part, I like my brain. It gives me ready access to puns when I need them (which is more often than you’d think), and is great at navigating me towards things I can eat. It has its “fun” neuroses, like the one where it tells me that my pets will spontaneously combust unless every electrical item has been deactivated in my house before I leave it, but largely, we’re on good terms. At least until I relinquish control and drift off to sleep. Then it’s grey matter party time.

I’m fascinated by sleep – particularly sleep disorders and dreams. I love a good documentary on the messed up things that happen to us in the land of nod, and I’ve read a few books on the topic (recommendations always welcome!).

Our minds are, for want of a less obvious term, fucking mental. I’m quite a light sleeper, so I often remember my dreams and can experience a few per night. Here are just a couple of examples of dreams I’ve had this weekend:

  1. I dreamed most of a movie (bar, annoyingly, the ending) about the misfortunes of a transitioning drag queen pursuing fame in rave culture and hiding a pregnancy. If I was less lazy and had the ability to screen write, I’d be penning the shit out of that one – it’s got Netflix movie written all over it!
  2. I’m on a night out with Ben and Chris from Parks and Recreation. At one point, we’re in a stadium, watching a school play over cocktails. The kids perform the song Never Enough from The Greatest Showman and I burst into tears. Well, it is a very powerful song.
  3. I move into a 3 story mansion with my pets, my boyfriend and one of my sisters. Mansion is creepy because it looks like the previous owners just upped and left without taking any of their stuff with them. My sister, who has chosen the top floor to live in, isn’t concerned by all the porcelain dolls and watering cans full of what seems to be petrol, but by the fact that the floor in her kitchen feels spongy.

*Baffled shrug*

I feel massively fortunate that I’ve never experienced the more “fuck that shit” spectrum of sleep problems, like sleep paralysis, but I’ve experienced my fair share of weirdness, so I’m going to share said weirdness with you here. Tuck yourself in and I’ll tell you some bedtime stories…

Hypnopompic hallucinations

This is where you “see things” as you’re waking up, usually when you’re moving out of a dream state. I’ve always had this from what I remember and these days, I’m usually aware that it’s happening. The things I see as an adult are more like moving blobs and sometimes face shapes in the dark with no clear form, and only for a few moments while I wait for my eyes to readjust. When I was in my early teens, however, a couple of my more “memorable” experiences of this were waking up and seeing my mum’s disembodied face hovering right in front of my nose before vanishing into the dark, and seeing a figure in a fluffy dressing gown shuffle into my room, stand at the foot of my bed and slowly turn its face towards me. Which was, obviously, a skull. Cool. Cool.

Exploding head syndrome

Where your head literally explodes.

Heh. Only joking. This has only happened to me once, but it very nearly made me soil myself. I was drifting off to sleep after another long and rewarding day of overthinking and snacking, when, just on the threshold of passing out, I hear the LOUDEST bang I’ve ever heard. It sounded like a lorry driving into the house or a plane crashing into my roof, a la Donnie Darko. Once the resultant inevitable hand flapping and heart attack subsided, I realised that the earth shattering bang came from inside my own mind. Just – why? What evolutionary purpose does going “BANG!!” to yourself while you’re at your most vulnerable serve?!

Teeth clicking

Something that makes me a delight to share a bedroom with. During times of stress (I have no chill, so this is pretty much all times), I click my teeth together while I’m asleep. Not grind. Click. Like an extra from The Walking Dead, or a set of novelty wind-up dentures. My sister, who was treated to a performance of this whilst sharing a hotel room with me a few years ago, informs me that this habit is “fucking creepy”. I like to think I do it because I don’t like missing out on a good chat while I’m asleep and my subconscious is just trying to strike up a conversation in morse code.

False awakenings

AKA the absolute worst. I think these are meant to be related to stress somehow too. You know when you get up in the morning and go through all the usual “getting ready” rigamarole? You do your teeth, get dressed, sort your hair out and get in the car. Only to then “wake” up again and go through the whole thing all over again another couple of times, assuming that this time you’re actually awake, for real -like Groundhog Day but with your morning routine.

I’ve even made it as far as most of the way through a day at work before I’ve realised that I am, in fact, asleep, and I have to get up in a few minutes’ time and do Monday all over again, this time in real life. I firmly believe that when this happens, I should be allowed to ring in to work and tell them I’m not coming in, because I’ve already been in today. Three times.

Last night, I had a fun mish mash of false awakening and night terror. As I type this, I am completely and utterly knackered and am only 50-60% sure that I’m actually awake and not trapped in some kind of Inception-esque loop:

I “woke up” in my spare room which I took myself took myself off to last night to go and read for a bit – I couldn’t drift off on account of the cough and cold I have, and t’other half was working the next day and I didn’t want to disturb him. The room was pitch black and for some reason , I felt total and absolute terror. Something was wrong with me – my heart was trying to beat itself out of my chest and my body felt slow and drugged, like I barely had control over it. I managed to stand for long enough to flop over to the light switch, which wouldn’t turn on, nor would the light on the landing, which made me feel even more frightened. I dragged myself on all fours to the bedroom, crying and clawing weakly at the bedding to try and get Andy to help me. He’s baffled and doesn’t know what’s wrong. The terror reaches a horrible peak, and I scream and scream, totally helpless and feeling the air rush out of my throat, not making a sound. Then I wake up. And the whole thing starts again, about 5 or 6 times.

Such fun.

Anyone else out there’s brain go haywire on them while asleep too? Reassurance that I’m not actually crazy (or that I am, but that there are more of me out there) would be nice, so be please a dear and share your freaky sleep experiences in the comments.

While you do that for me, I’m off to grab a coffee. A STRONG coffee.

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A Whole New Year

If you didn’t read the title of this post to the tune of Aladdin’s A Whole New World, you did it wrong. Go back and do it properly. I’ll wait.

Happy 2k19, mother chuckers!

The start of my year so far has been a mixed bag of the domestic and the disgusting. I suffered the most violent and delirious bout of food poisoning I’ve ever had, which prompted me to send my mother the following text betwixt chunders:

…any idea, anyone?

I then celebrated my survival of said grossness by buying a new wardrobe, which took 4 people and an entire day to erect (heh). Then, as if to spite me for allowing myself to feel like a “real adult”, my oven and grill (actual – not womb and teeth, thankfully) gave up the ghost , causing me to have a small melt down in which I announced to the other half that we were doomed and going to starve. He responded by turning the hob on and calmly making a spag bol. Turns out meals that don’t involve oven chips exist. Who’d have thought?

First world problems aside, I’m feeling optimistic about this year. No particular reason – it’s just more fun than to be pessimistic. I’ve been chewing over the idea that I should have some sort of overarching goal in my life for a while now, but I’m not a fan of the “If I don’t achieve <blank> by <date>, then I’ve failed as a human and the big teacher in the sky is going to give me an F” mentality.

However, I do like the idea of having something to at least steer in the direction of. If life is a river,then I’d rather have some vague destination to point my boat at, otherwise it all becomes a bit like the rubber dinghies in Alton Towers – while bumping aimlessly around the rapids is fun, it does give you a soggy arse and crap hair for the rest of the day. I think I’ve already lost control of this metaphor.

What I’ve opted to do instead of a New Year’s resolution is to come up with a list of things it’d be great to see happen for me this year, but that I won’t be crying into my bucket of wine about failing to do as the clock counts down to 2020 in December. I’ve also come up with a few practical things that’ll help nudge me in the right direction for each one – something to refer back to if I get the feeling life’s gone a bit rubber dinghy.

So. <<Grabs paddle>> In no particular order:

1. I’d like to build on my content writing side hustle – My absolute favourite part of my day job is getting to play with words and create content in the form of newsletters, global emails, site content and whatnot. I’ve always done the odd bit of wordsmithery on the side for various sites and publications, but I’d love to build on that. So far, I’ve not done enough research to get properly stuck into doing it more “on the reg”. To get closer to doing this, I could:

  • Have a look at “paid per job” sites like Fiverr and see if they’re an option.
  • Actually take up opportunities to go to more networking events, like this one that my friend runs.
  • Locate and speak to people who are already regularly writing content for the masses. If anyone out there in the void of the internet has any advice, please share!

2. I want to make peace with my physical appearance – I’m not talking about getting to a point where I’m doing joyful backflips every time I look in the mirror – partly because I can’t do backflips – but I’m at a place where I’m sick to death of negatively judging myself about how I look, what I weigh, how I’m eating, blah blah etc. etc. I’m able to feel great about myself and hate my body with the fire of a thousand suns, all  within the same day (afternoon, hour, few minutes), so how I feel at any given moment clearly has naff all to do with my outward appearance. Picking myself apart is draining, needlessly stressful and frankly, just bloody boring. So, how can I stop wasting my time with all of that?

  • No more diets, avoiding certain food etc. etc. Tried repeatedly. Not worth the energy. I’ve had my wish come true and looked like I’m made of elbows in the past, and shock of all shocks, it didn’t magically make me happy.
  • Keep exposing myself (heh…) to podcasts, books and influencers who actively denounce all the bullshit. I recommend this lady’s work as a starting point, as well as the Food Psych podcast.
  • Be mindful of when I’m starting to spiral into the mindset of “Must shrink self. Can’t like self. Does not compute.”

3. I’d like to grow my audience for this blog – self explanatory. As a 2019 gift to me, if you like mah werdz, it would make me very, very happy if you could share Spilled Think with anyone else you think might also like to read it. To further entice people and trap folks in my web of words so I can feast on their attention, I can:

  • Keep posting content fairly regularly-ish. No bugger’ll come look at my stuff if there’s nothing to see.
  • Find some more blogs to follow and learn from. Hi, readers! If you’re also a blogger, please pop a link to your blog in the comments for this…saves me the effort of actually trying to find you amongst the masses. Kthanks.
  • Work out how to use social media a little better to trick unwitting people into visiting this site. Mwahaha.

I have a few more things I’d like to see happen, but I won’t bore you with them all. Not sure how realistic “adopt a small pack of adorable dogs” and “win jackpot on lottery” are. Probably need to have the latter happen to do the former…

Do you have any goals or wishes for the next twelve months? Share them with me in the comments so I can steal – I mean read – them. Hope 2019’s got off to a great start for you!

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Yours gratefully, me.

Currently semi-horizontal in bed, praying for the stabbing to stop. I’m one of the ‘lucky’ women in my family who gets the odd day where, for no apparent reason, we feel like we’ve eaten a cutlery drawer load of knives and washed them down with a tall glass of drawing pins. The remedy is to writhe around like a beached sea creature and loudly announce your imminent death to all and sundry until it goes away…and then ask what we’re having for dinner.

Much as I’m sure you came here to hear tales of my digestive woes, I think I’ll write something a bit more warm and fuzzy, and a bit less yucky and stabby – it’s nearly Christmas, after all; A time for getting drunk with your family and wetting yourself with laughter while your Nan reluctantly plays (and slays at) Cards Against Humanity. It’s also a time for gratitude. So here’s some stuff I’m grateful for:

Stomach knives

I’m too highly strung for actual relaxation, so my occasional bouts of gastric fuckery allow me a guilt-free opportunity to sit in bed during daylight hours, binge watching sitcoms with a slack jaw and no bra on. I really hope the government isn’t watching us through our screens, because whoever got the job of watching me today was in for a treat.

Family

As I write this, both of my sisters and their partners are stationed down the road at my family home in readiness for Christmas celebrations, which fills me with all the happy feelings. On Boxing day (I’m spending Christmas day at t’other half’s parents’ house this year), we will bicker about our not-always meshing opinions, drunkenly accuse each other of being the most drunk, and bond over the fact that our granddad has told us all to “fuck off out of my kitchen” at least once each within the last half an hour. Genuinely cannot wait!

Frands

Friends are the family you choose to annoy intermittently with your presence, and the holiday season gives me a great excuse to make mine eat food and drink things in my company. I know your friends are probably pretty cool and all that, but mine are better. It’s just a fact.

One sweet unicorn sent me a paperback copy of Stephen King’s On Writing yesterday, which I LOVE but have never owned in a physical format (I have the eBook and audio book versions) for no reason other than she knew I’d like it.

Another is a self-employed entrepreneur/empower-er of women that has a bajillion and twelve jobs and responsibilities, but still finds the time to pencil in regular “eating sweets and talking lots” sessions for us both throughout the year.

A third keeps in touch by sending me jokes and videos that offend me to my core, but makes up for it by being one of the funniest, most genuine and ridiculous humanoids I know (the ridiculous ones are the best ones). I could go on, but all this sincerity’s repeating on me a bit. Gag

Boyfrand

Andy’s super power is being my literal opposite and somehow tolerating it. I am a ceaseless merry-go-round of emotions and neurotic movement.

Picture a beach. Andy is a chill rock pool, just being some rocks in the sun. Not making any noise, not bothering anyone, full of crabs….(heh, sorry. He doesn’t really have crabs), having a lovely time…

And here I come – the wave – hurling myself head first at him with all my being, screaming “AAAAGH, I’M A FUCKING WAVE!!”, and projecting all my insecurities onto him because he’s a rock pool, so I assume that he’s the same as me because all I can see in my panic is myself reflected back. Okay, that’s a shit analogy. Here’s an example conversation that might portray it a bit better:

Me: <<feeling anxious because personality reasons>> Hey, you okay?
Andy: Yeah, fine.
Me: Just fine? What’s wrong? You not feeling great? You don’t seem to be feeling great. Why aren’t you smiling?
Andy: No, I’m fine.
Me: I can tell you’re not.
Andy: <<Happily continues to watch TV>>
Me: You never share anything with me! <<flounces off>>

Half an hour later, after I’ve reverse flounced back into the living room.

Andy: You okay?
Me: Yep, fine.
Andy: Hungry?
Me: << Instantly perks up like nothing’s happened >>

Yep, so there we have it. I have lots and lots more to be grateful for, but I have more medicinal sitcoms to watch. It’s good for my health. Plus, I have about nine seasons left of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia to catch up on.

While I’m doing that, tell me what you’re grateful for this Christmas! I’d love to know 🙂

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How to ruin your own weekend

This weekend, I had the house to myself while “him indoors” was away with the Reserves doing Army things with Army types in Cardiff (talking about how great the Queen is and doing that belly crawl thing up the beer aisle in Tesco? I’m not sure).

As a bit of an introvert (while sober, at least), I always love the idea of time to myself – taking the weekend at my own pace, not feeling obliged to go anywhere or do anything, and a chance to be alone with my thoughts.

It’s that last bit that invariably kicks my plans in the knackers.

I’m the sort of person who, when given time to herself, writes a to-do list on how I’m going to relax, because that’s how super chill people like me operate. But then I worry about relaxing too much, because that’s a waste of the precious, borrowed time I get on this planet and I should be doing something with it before I stumble off the edge of this mortal coil, shouldn’t I?

But, then, I think, you’ve got to relax, haven’t you? Because stress is terrible for you and can actually kill you dead, if that Google hole I went down that one time was anything to go by, and I don’t want to be killed dead from stress.

So, to have a good weekend, I have to be productive, but not too productive, and relaxed, but not too relaxed. Easy, right? Only thing required would be to tweak that to-do list a little, yeah?

Anyway, so here’s how that kind of thinking managed to turn my plans for a couple of days  to myself into a helter-skelter of existential panic. Enjoy:

Friday evening

  • Drove home from work like Satan was chasing me in a monster truck to see Andy before he left, because am good girlfriend and good girlfriends let their boyfriends make them dinner before they disappear on two gruelling days of tabbing and saving the queen.
  • The second Andy left the house, donned marigolds to do the dishes (my skin hates doing the dishes even more than I do) and angry-cleaned the house to allow for a blissful Saturday and Sunday of relaxation and gentle productivity (i.e yoga, walking the dog etc. etc.).
  • After house is clean, pets march in and out of the garden in planned-looking, two animal parade, happily trailing mud behind them as they do so. Been up since half five, so by this point all fucks have left me and I assume this means the parading means I no longer need to walk the dog, so I give up and binge watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which I’m extremely late to the party in discovering.
  • Midnight. Dog refuses to chill out, despite prior muddy pageantry. He also refuses to let me sleep. I lovingly call him a “fucking fuck” and let him drag me round the block, where all the pub people are starting to zombie their way home to bed. Am jealous of the pub people.

Saturday

  • Alarm. Time to go to yoga, except don’t want to go to yoga. Spend half an hour in bed stressing about whether it’s more stressful to go to yoga when don’t want to, or to not to yoga. Decide to skip yoga because now have headache, but opt compromise and listen to Headspace app and do a meditate, to check in with how I’m feeling. Surprise answer: am feeling stressed. Such zen.
  • Lunch with mum. Mercifully can’t overthink this one. Matriarchal company plus cake generally a plus.
  • Shopping. Need dress for work’s Christmas do, and retail therapy etc., so will be fun.
  • Is not fun. Is two hours of glaring at misshapen body in weird lighting only ever seen in dressing rooms. How do shops think horrible glare that makes people look like badly made clay figurines with fingerprints still on them will make them want to buy more clothes?! Spend majority of time in shops oscillating between thinking “waah, am gross bag of lumps!” and “Fuck society for making me feel like this and fuck shops for having multiple clothing items that are supposedly the same size, but some of them wouldn’t even fit over my big toe and others make me look like I’m wearing a pop-up tent.” Eventually landed on “This one’s shiny and fits over my head. Will purchase this one so can go home.”
  • Went home, binge watched entire last series of New Girl, wept at the finale because Zooey Deschanel is excellent and deserves my tears for her efforts. Wanted a snack, but decided couldn’t eat “rubbish” on account of lumpy sack body. Got angry with diet culture again for making me feel like bag of loose spuds and proceeded to pissily eat a whole bag of oranges because…I don’t even know, but they were nice and mad me feel better.

Sunday morning

  • Alarm. Andy due back in a few hours, so decided best thing to do would be to get that blog post and workout I’d been meaning to do all weekend done.
  • Opted to pack that idea in and downloaded I Feel Pretty instead because, despite all reviews I’ve read about it being problematic and no one agreeing to come and see it with me while it was at the cinema because “it looks a bit shit”, I still wanted to see it. I cry at the end. More due to previous evening’s changing room related PTSD than film’s rousing, albeit slightly naff climax. 
  • Andy home. Felt annoyed he’s back before I’ve started to feel suitably relaxed and “weekend-y”, and that if he’d been gone a few more hours, I’d have cracked relaxation.
  • We ate McDonalds. All is now right with the world. The weekend wasn’t so bad. It’s nice to have time to yourself, isn’t it?

Becky’s final thoughts

  1. You can’t think yourself into relaxing. That way madness lies.
  2. Despite this weekend being my most slothful one in a while, I feel the opposite of chill, so I’m thinking that knackering myself out at the gym as is the norm on weekend mornings is probably the way forward. It’s hard to overthink when your brain cells are sleepy and fugged up with endorphins.
  3. Oranges are great. I want an orange.

Hope you all had a lovely weekend! I’m off to go relax now (help me!).