can I choose to be happy? 07

I want to be happy.

There is a logical part of me that knows that ‘happiness’ is a transitory state. It comes and goes, flits in and out of everyone’s lives- I know this. But for some reason, our society, has this idea of happiness being this substantial, obtainable lifestyle. And it’s so damaging. I know this. It’s so brutal, seeing models and bloggers on instagram in their glossy, spontaneous lives and knowing that it must be fabricated but unable to shake the feeling of guilt, of shame and of inadequacy.

And yet- what if one day, I woke up and went ‘fuck it. I’m going to be happy.’ Can I do that? Can I decide to be healthier, look after my body- love my body, love myself and so learn to love those around me 10x more? What if I looked at one of those tumblr posts, the ‘six things you can do every day to be happier’, took that advice and transformed? If I took a bubble bath every Sunday, read for an hour every day, got 8 hours of sleep every night, kept on top of work- who would I be?

(yet, yet, yet. this will never happen. I can’t go on a run every saturday morning if most days I find it a struggle to get up and get dressed. I can’t spend hours on self-care if every day I break down under the pressures of my exams, my essays, f u c k i n g  s c h o o l.)

I think happiness will find me, a net that will suddenly exist in two years, five years, when I get a girlfriend or boyfriend, a house, a job- but maybe it’s me who needs to wake the hell up and work for it.

The other day, I faced a shock. My best friend, my positive, glowing, unshakable best friend almost in tears over, what, a feeling of inadequacy? A heartache towards her foreign best friend who is ‘smarter’ and ‘prettier’ and ‘better at instagram’ than her? No. No! She is everything to me, and yet (yet, yet, yet) she secretly harbors the same, shitty, self-destructive, miserable feelings as me- no! She does not deserve this, how can she not she understand how special-… Oh.

Have I made a mistake? (am i special?)

d o  i  r e a l l y  d e s e r v e  h a p p i n e s s ?

My days are filled with revelations and still I refuse to step into the light.

(these are life lessons and I hate myself for not taking them.)

I am writing so many contradictions.

I just have to tell myself that I will learn.

(can I learn?)

Yes! I want to be happy. No- I want to appreciate things. I want take care of myself. I want to be passionate about things, love people and have new experiences.

Maybe, in this way, happiness will sneak up on me- but! I need to stop dreaming and start working for it. Small goals. Finding pleasure in tiny things. Developing coping techniques. Letting myself cry- and then moving on. Allowing change to happen. Preventing self-pity.

(so. am I a new person now? no

but i want

to try and make

my existence a p o s i t i v e


I will still be sad. but it’s ok. I’m ok.)

Am I slowly finding myself? Maybe, but for now I will still be UNKNOWN.

dear brother. 06

My dear brother.

How does one manage to be simultaneously my hero and my worst nightmare?

I remember little about my young childhood, but I remember you. I looked up to you-

idolised you, based my world views off yours because you could do no wrong and think no wrong,

I turned vegetarian aged 8 for you, petitioned for animal rights, spoke about you with pride and glee

because of


(I remember times when I thought you were going to kill me.

I was terrified to go to sleep because I thought you would strange me.

Once you put your hands around my neck and


couldn’t      b r e a t h e)

I said I turned vegetarian because of you. before that, I also stopped eating meat at my school for

t h r e e

f u c k i n g

y e a r s

because you said it was battery farmed meat.

(you showed me photos of bloody, broken chickens. I think I screamed.)

It wasn’t intensive farmed meat. You lied to me. I made a second petition, after yours, all those years later because you said nothing changed and i h

u m

i l i a t e d myself.  you  h u m i l i a t e d  m e. 

So then I was vegetarian, (I decided in wales. it was my grandmother’s farm and she called the pigs

mrs bacon

and mrs p o r k c h o p s. there were sausages that evening and i refused to eat them.) We were walking in a field and I was so proud I ran up to you and told you that I decided

not to eat meat.

where’s my gold star for

good morals


being a good sister. So I told you and I was so happy and proud and you didn’t care and I was left wondering ‘why did i do that? why does it hurt?’

We fought a lot. As siblings do- but we fought all



I knew exactly what buttons to push to make you turn to anger. You would spend hours every day on the computer and you hated yourself for it. I knew this, and I had so many opportunities to jibe you for it but I didn’t.

I waited.

until we fought and i got  angry   .

It took one sentence and he was up and running at me and I was screaming and running, running so fast he was right behind me and i was laughing but i was so terrified i remember running into the games room and leaning against the door i thought you were going to

kill me.

how old was i?

i can’t remember.

We got older. We fought less. Sometimes we went for months without arguing. Sometimes I hated you. Threatened to never speak to you again. Sometimes I got so angry I hit you- on the arm. I knew it didn’t hurt. Bu t you would not let it go, months after you would still be calling me


out of control

a  n a s t y  g i r l .

We continued to grow up. Grow out of it.

The memories are still there but I am not scared anymore. I still idolise you though- you don’t notice but your intelligence blinds me. Yet. (yet yet yet.)

You speak about things you don’t know about and your words hurt. 

(it was only a few months ago

you were so angry you

took it out on me. it was almost comical you were blaming me

for  e v e r y t h i n g .

you called me some horrible things.

so simple and with your grotesquely huge vocabulary they only made it

w o r s e .

you made me into the villain and when you cried.

oh. when you cried.

i hated you with every inch of my being.)

I told you I wanted more books with lgbtq+ characters and you told me ‘they’ had enough representation. That it’s not realistic looking at the ‘figures’ and ‘statistics’ of gay people in the world.

I couldn’t believe you, my intelligent brother, with your knowledge of politics and history and literature, were asking such ignorant questions. 

How many times did we have versions of this conversation? They never ended well. We knew that and we still continued.

it wasn’t debating, it was clawing at each other with sharpened  t e e t h and bloody

n a i l s.

I wanted to scream- ‘you have a gay person S I T T I N G  R I G H T  N E X T  T O  Y O U .’

one day i did tell you it was at the end of an argument i said i was gay i burst into tears and screamed at you to get out of my room.

finally. judgements. you judge me for what i watch, listen to, see. why why why why would you do that why does it matter if you think it’s bad  d o n ‘ t  m a k e  m e  f e e l

a s h a m e d.

my dear brother.

You mean the world to me. I love with all my heart because you are my family.

sometimes I Hate You.

(but that’s ok.)

i want to apologize for writing this but everything here is the truth.

i’m Sorry Anyway.



artists and poets and pop stars. 05

I wish I was an artist. If I was an artist, see, I would be able to make my thoughts tangible. My heartache visible- I would make sense because I would have made something. An expression of myself, of the cruel mess inside my head that I could expel and leave there, on the paper or in the clay- it would not hover, as insubstantial as the words I speak, I write. (it is coming out wrong. it does not make sense.) Do you understand? I don’t. I want something to prove for my insanity. I want someone to see my streaks of paint and pretend to understand (they don’t but I feel validated.) I am restricted by my crooked fingers- why won’t they straighten? (my fourth finger is bruised.) No one spares a passing glimpse for the sad girl who longs to wander and struggles to lift her eyes, to write a sentence that doesn’t smudge at the end.

And I wish I was a poet. Because, I am writing now (I am typing. my eyes hurt. it is sunny outside.) but it is not poetry. It is clumsy- it is bad. I am not special (it is pretentious. I can only say what I think.) Poetry can be bad. Can it? A dulled, false magic. A scrabbling of words, leaden and brutal. Yes, poetry can be weak (or not, the words have weight but they reek of ignorance), but in the end, who am I to judge? (this whole blog is a fucking judgement.) My friend- have you read her work? It is exquisite. People listen as she writes and I pretend like I am not jealous. I am grasping at a vision of popularity.

It is still more complex, though. (it is always more complex.) There is a part of me, the same part of me that is made up of delusions, fragile beliefs that, if I look away, justice will be served to the people who do wrong, and whose who are kind will be rewarded. (but my eyes are not closed; I cannot believe in a god.) It is those thoughts that try and convince me that, anyone with talent, (here, of course, I do not need to tell you that ‘anyone’ means anyone with a certain degree of privilege, class or race-wise) will make their way through life as a product of their effort, glorious and carefree. (their lack of effort- their talent is unadulterated.)

Society is not like that. The world does not work that way. It will pick shadowed (shallow, which is worse?) people for success- it will kill beautiful minds. It twists young girls until their voices crack and our bubblegum-pink reality melts (it is hot and the A.Is are taking our jobs. we are singing to the void.)

Isn’t it strange how the attitudes towards artists and poets and authors are so different to those towards singers, actors- superstars. Are these are our values? Why do we idolize at such length those who we created? For entertainment, for admiration, to lie at their feet like lapdogs and rank our existence next to their glossy perfections. We do not lay out red carpets to those who see through us. Paper burns and we can only watch the words curl into ash- we do not immortalize poetry as we do songs. (that is not true. music is forgotten as we scramble to the charts.)

It is these crude romanticisations of poets and artists and writers that I cling to now, though I myself am a hypocrite (I look back and I do not include musicians, though they are the ones that move my heart most.) I am from a family of artists, of writers, and yet I know I will never tread that path. I crave wildness, stories, fairy-tales and light, against darkness in photographs and in water- but I am too mundane. I will never be a poet, or a writer, or a singer or musician, or an artist. And so I write these words and it is all with an ache because I know nothing will come of it.


malicious words. 04

I had an argument today. I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit. It was a disagreement. Barely. We shared an opinion. I was right. He was pernickety. It was annoying. I proved him wrong. He wouldn’t stop (he never stops. it’s not a personal attack. it’s not war.) He ended with a threat. (I wasn’t scared. what are you going to do, ignore me to death?) It was stupid. And yet, malicious. It felt malicious. I knew the facts. He was out of his depth. But he kept going.

At one point, I felt sick. I didn’t want to argue (it will spiral, you can’t go back) but he wouldn’t stop. And neither did I. Why would I? I was winning. I was cleverer than him. Not smarter (that is for people who remember maths equations), but more intelligent, wittier, with more control. Control. Yes. I was enjoying myself. I was amused. Like holding a toy just out of a child’s reach (I wouldn’t do that. I’m not cruel. I’m sorry.) Every time he tried to make a point, I deflected. It was easy. Fun. I challenged him and he changed the subject. I watched him struggle and eventually my frustration (you don’t think you are winning, do you?) intensified into something that resembled anger (are you stupid? don’t try and be cocky. you know I’m right.)

Do you know what I found most interesting? We weren’t alone. (not in a literal sense, we were texting. our conversations are electronic. we don’t talk face to face.) The presence of our friends was there too, hovering. They didn’t interject. I felt them watching. They took sides. (they took my side. I was right. they know that.) We could have moved to a private chat. But we didn’t. I didn’t. I don’t think he even noticed, caught up in his fury, determined to beat me down. But me? My words became sharper, cleaner, jagged, aware of our silent audience. I was proving something. And even if no one had been there to witness our hurried responses, thickening with a bitter determination? (darker and darker, who said it was trivial?) The next day would have been all too available. Each to their own, fabricating truths (him. he always does this. he turns them against me. but they know better.) and brandishing screenshots (I back my arguments up with evidence.)
I don’t like this part of me. Sadistic, with a thirst for superiority. Aren’t you like that too?

Don’t lie to me. I don’t want to be alone.

I’m a nice person, I promise.

I’m not cruel. I don’t judge. I help people. (I don’t kill spiders.)

I just





nature. 03

“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.’”
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Nature makes me feel peaceful. (does it? think more.) Nature makes me feel happy. (that’s wrong.) I am sad when I sit outside. (closer.) Contemplative- regretful. (you are human. the birds are not your friends.) Happiness is a part of it, maybe. Contentment. (nothing can compare to this. life is artificial.)

I watch an ambling fox and I smile. The sunset bleeds into the sky with a gentle fire and I could cry. The rain is hard, angry- it beats the pavement, I am hunched as I walk home. (but I still squint at the clouds and my hair is wet.) Spring approaches, the days blending slowly into dusk, and there is blossom. (I think it is beautiful. my mother prefers magnolias.)

I think this is me. When I stare to the sea, Giselle is there, (she is gentle, she is kind to the world), but my nostalgia- my longing, my heartbreak, my disbelief that something can be so terribly beautiful- is embedded in me. I love pretty things. But nature (the trees, the animals, the ground, the sky,) is indescribable in its power. It is not pretty. It is complex, fragile, but forceful, it is science (it is atoms and adaptation and gravity and energy, but it refuses to be contained to diagrams and numbers.)

There is so much more I could say. Infinite things- because the universe is infinite (I watch the stars and I am infinite. I blink and my days are numbered.) My words are not enough, they hover- shimmering, a heat haze, and for a second they have meaning- but they are always insubstantial, blurring into nothing and gone (though for a second I think I can see them, faded, hidden from sight.)

Envy forces my head away- I turn to my computer, I write this. It hurts. I do not want to step back into the glare of artificial light, but as I do the door locks behind me. I am trapped. My eyes are locked to a screen. They water. And for the second time I think I am crying. (I want to be fiction. I want to be part of the earth. I would gladly let the stars burn my skin if only I could glimpse their enormity.)

To be human is to yearn- and, more human than anyone, I yearn for nature. But it cannot be contained, it will not belong to anyone. (and even it if could, I am not the protagonist.)

Am I wrong? Does this mean anything? Tell me this is normal.


ta-dah! and then it was new again. 02

Ta-dah! A new blog.

It’s like nothing was here before.

Does that mean I have to re-introduce myself? ((Isn’t that what this blog is about?))

What is this blog about? ((Identity. You. Me. The world. Human nature. What it all means. Truth.))

It sounds confusing.

(I am confused. My thoughts won’t stay still.)

I swear I’m not crazy. (Please don’t go.)

((Do you have a name?))

It used to be Giselle. Now I think I don’t know.

Alright then. I am ((you are-)) UNKNOWN.

what am I doing? 01

What am I doing? I’m so confused. I’ve been neglecting this blog for almost a month now. Why? Because I’m dull. I understand what to do to be popular on the Internet. Is that all I want? To be popular? It would be nice. But that would also be dull. Fake, but then aren’t I fake? I am writing this, and some of me believes what I am saying, but then the rest of me drags me back to reality. I have work to do. I have an exam tomorrow. This is ridiculous. But I will indulge myself. (I love stories. I thrive off them.)

My name is Giselle. It’s not, really. It’s a name, it’s one of my names, but it isn’t me. Giselle is a part of me- a fragment, but she is far away. I see her when I close my eyes. I just wish I had a tighter grip on her shadow. If I don’t even know my name, what can I know? I love animals. That much I can vouch for. That is not fake. My seven year old self, rescuing spiders from the classroom, she was not lying. She is not a story. She is not a fabrication. I like to write. That too, I can rely on. Except, I do not write. I daydream. I create. In my head, there are characters that I know so well they have melded into my flesh. In my head they are reality and I am envious. But Giselle? I did not create Giselle. I did not imagine her story-line. I know her hair and her eyes and her skin because they are mine (I did not create myself. Did I?) She came to be when I started to hate who I was. An escape- a mantra. Can I explain? Don’t go. I want to explain. I am not crazy. (Yet. I started off fine. I am not finished. I don’t make sense.)

So why did I disappear? It is simple. This blog is run by me, not Giselle. I sign her name at the bottom of my posts but it is in my voice. (I should have worked harder. I don’t want to start again.) Because, I am boring, Giselle is not. She dreams, she wanders and she smiles at the world when no one is watching. To an extent, of course, her imagination, her dreams, are mine. But where I am swallowed by it, obsessed with the perfection of the characters I create, refusing to look the real world in the eye, Giselle is not. She imagines a better world, and she does something about it. When she laughs, it is not fake. She is not tired. She is not depressed. She is intelligent, and understands, of course, the world. Perceptive, she sees things others do not. But she doesn’t cry at night, feeling alone while others live blissfully oblivious to the complexity of human nature. That is the difference between Giselle and me. Do you see? Why I do not want to live in this body, endlessly switching characters, switching personas. I am one person in front of my parents, another in front of my best friend, my teachers, this blog. What do I do when there are too many people inside of me, and I dislike all of them? Too brash, too loud, too awkward, too unkind, ugly and lazy, I am repulsed by my own reflection. A constant internal battle.

I would like to write as Giselle. This blog is already too loud. I don’t like it. How do I fix it? If I fix it, will people leave? Giselle is soft-spoken. People don’t listen to those who speak softly. My life is not a novel. This blog is not a novel, and I am not a character. Giselle is. I want to be her. Why is this so confusing? My head hurts.

I think I should start again. This is getting strange. I’m not thinking straight. This blog. I want to write. I think I need to write. Who should I write as? Not me. But they are a part of me too. I am also a character. Dammit. Am I making this up? Is this a story? Is this fiction or am I crazy? Who knows.

I like this. It’s more interesting. Who wants bubbly lifestyle posts anyway? I am shallow when I write them (I pretend like people care. It makes me happy when people click ‘like’. Validation. I want validation.) I think I will continue like this. Yes. I won’t care what people think. I’m going to do what she wants to do. Or me. Either, both. No one will read it. (I don’t care, this is fun. I’m excited.)

I’m sorry to the people who thought I was sane.