On the 8th June 2017

Hello, dearest readers!

I’m SO HAPPY. Finished my finals yesterday and stayed up all night watching the Tories being torn to pieces while drunk. I lost my phone, my debit card, and my student card, but it’s so hard to care after all this good news. Guess I’ll just stop calling people and buying things… I could wax lyrical about why this is great and what a triumph it feels like from my perspective, but words are not coming easily to my tender brain this evening so instead here’s a recording of music that never fails to bring me joy when I listen to it:


Without You for me is more about self reliance than co dependence, and it’s one of my favourite songs in the world. I hope you like it too.



Depression, anxiety and euphoria: what hormonal contraception did to me

I was always pretty much one of the only women and girls I knew who loved having a period. Well not having it per se, which could be far from ideal, but maybe the fact that it happened; my body had its own cycle, its own silent process of birth and regeneration, like the moon, or a tree. It made me feel like my physical substance was in some fundamental way connected to the world around me. The unfortunate attending possibility was of course, obviously, childbirth. And clearly, when one gets to a certain age, and is lucky enough to have sex sometimes, this becomes a mind-blowing and terrifying possibility. Like many people, the thought of having a baby at 21 fills me first overwhelmingly with bafflement and then, very quickly, with worry. I still sometimes cry when I’m hungry, and if there were two of us crying, what would I do?!

In short, at a certain point when these worries (temporarily) came scarily and rudely to a head I decided I needed to take on the responsibility of preventing pregnancy from happening. Or not even that; it was as much about relieving myself of the anxiety of potential pregnancy as the possibility itself.

So I got the contraceptive implant. This is a matchstick shaped device that sits in your arm and releases progestogen into your bloodstream, preventing you from having a child. (Don’t ask me how, I’m a Classicist.) I was told that I might bleed erratically for a while, but that this would settle down; I was told that I might experience minor mood swings, but that they too would settle down, within a few months. That night I had a dream that I was alone at my home in London when four or five female sixteen year old thieves broke in through the front door and seized everything in sight, in spite of my attempts to empathetically reason with them. With some tentativeness, (again, I’m a Classicist not a psychologist) I was initially and remain tempted to view the symbolism at work here as pointing up anxiety about an intrusion into my place of safety (the home often symbolises the body or the self in dreams) by an alien external force, which I would try and fail to reason with. At the time I dismissed the anxieties the dream was trying to communicate, and my subsequent experience seemed to confirm the impulse to reject it; for quite a long time after the implant was inserted I did feel completely myself, noticing no changes to my mood at all.

However I thought something was a bit weird when, five weeks later, I was sitting in my room waiting for my parents to arrive so they could take me out to lunch for my 21st birthday, listening to music and writing my diary (as one does) and little by little I was seized with emotion. My mum and dad loved me so much that they were coming to see me on my birthday! Even though I’m bad at tidying my room and I always always leave the lights on and occassionally I am rude! I felt the force of their love and the gratitude took physical root in my body; I dissolved into tears, and wrote them a letter thanking them for bringing me into the world. I was crying but it was a wonderful feeling. The more I wrote, the more I broke down into tears. When they arrived, they were touched but bemused. On some level, I do tentatively sense that I am more emotional than your average Joe, but it’s not like I cry every time they come round. I do often feel this way for a couple of days before my period starts though – aha! I thought. My period is coming despite the implant.

Only the feeling did not stop. But it did stop being cathartic, no longer representing a much-needed release, but over the next few days identifying itself as sadness, as worry, as anxiety, as fear, not as gratitude. The familiar PMS-feeling – endurable for its transience, even welcome sometimes as it was part of my body’s reassuring cycle – just would not go away. It lasted for about three weeks. In those three weeks I would cry pretty much every day, at no provocation or at the slightest provocation (the bare fact that I don’t currently hold a gym membership being the most laughable of my perceived crosses to bear.) For the first week I was okay; I clung on to the knowledge that underneath all the noise, I was happy; but it became harder and harder to persuade myself that I was crying every day for no reason at all. I couldn’t prevent myself from focusing on all the faults and worries in my life and it took all my energy to separate the emotion I felt from the reality I knew was safe and happy. I worried that there were only so many times the people closest to me would be able to hold me while I cried without being able to do anything because the emotion came from a small plastic rod and not from any problems they could support me while I solved. Emotions are contagious. The most insecure part of me worriedly whispered that there would come a time when they would run out of the love or energy to be close to me. They had their own shit to deal with. I resented myself for even feeling like I needed looking after at all.

After a particularly bad episode involving one ‘seen’ Facebook messenger notification, two hours of physically uncontrollable sobbing, and an essay I could not write because crying was taking up all of my time, I decided to have the implant taken out. I called my GP, tentatively telling her I felt like what I was experiencing was ‘a bit of a mental health emergency’, and expecting her to give me an appointment in the next couple of days. I was told that as I had had sex in the last two weeks there was a risk of pregnancy if it was taken out, so I would have to wait another two weeks for any existing sperm to bugger off. Hearing this, my eyes filled (yes, you guessed it!) with tears. It seemed like the end of the world. As it turned out, due to the risk of pregnancy the only way my doctor would allow me to have it taken out quickly was if I allowed them to first fit my womb with the (blissfully hormone free) copper coil, which is immediately effective as contraception, and then have the implant taken out. I accepted this advice, and although the memory of having the coil placed inside my womb and the ensuing last day of being bed ridden with tears pouring down my face has been promptly filed away by my subconscious into the file titled ‘REPRESSED THINGS’, it is a choice I am proud I made. Three days after having the implant removed the clouds have cleared and I am happy again, with all the other great benefits that come with being happy: I am more self- confident, more creative, take a great deal of pleasure in my alone time, studying is a joy rather than a struggle, I am more lucid, more compassionate, the list goes on. I am so grateful for all these things. I am so grateful that it is gone.

The worst thing about the effect the implant had on me (which for the uninitiated contains the same hormones as the ‘mini’ or progestogen-only contraceptive pill) was that I risked becoming my own worst enemy. Increasingly I felt that I was no longer able to trust my own thoughts and feelings. Were my emotional reaction to things and corresponding behavioural responses rational? Every time an event made me cripplingly, cripplingly sad the sadness was accompanied by a quiet suspicion that I was blowing everything out of proportion. I was left with the alternatives of swallowing my feelings, which had served me badly in the past, or communicating them to the people I loved and risking scaring or overwhelming them. In my opinion, things get dangerous when you become alienated from the sad, scared, angry parts of yourself, because exasperated and exhausted you reject them, unable to give them your love, attention, and acceptance. I am incredibly lucky to know myself well enough to always have been able to hold on to the fact that the feelings weren’t mine, to have had this happen to me during a period of my life that I am positive I am happy, because during a tougher patch it would have been much harder to distinguish the ‘real’ sadness from the ‘synthetic’ sadness.

Because so many women use hormonal contraception and a large proportion of those women don’t suffer such debilitating side effects it is easy to feel like you are making a massive fuss about nothing, to assume that other women feel the same way as you do in their heads but you are too weak to deal with it, especially when the tone of every healthcare professional you speak to on the phone is coloured with skepticism even when the words themselves aren’t. If this sounds like you, have faith in your conviction that you aren’t making a big fuss about nothing, and if hormonal contraception is making you sad, don’t feel embarrassed or weak in making the decision to come off it. My doctor (who, for the record, is lovely and whom I don’t really blame) told me to wait six months for the side effects to subside. Six months – especially when those six months coincide with an already impossibly volatile Cambridge term – is a very, very long time. The burden of responsibility for contraception is, for now, entirely placed on women. I could wax lyrical about how fucking unfair this is, but instead I will say: it will be okay, you have every right to stop and put your mental health first, and the amount of time you choose to wait before implementing any decision to do so is entirely for you to determine, and not for anyone else.

On the premature sexualisation of young women

I have a vivid memory of something someone said to me once that puzzled me, but didn’t particularly upset me at the time. I was in the queue for lunch at school with a few of my male friends when one of them described me as “sexually charged.”

I didn’t really understand. Sexually charged? What did that even mean? At 13 I was still at the age where I privately suspected sex was an elaborate joke made up by someone to confuse or amuse me. Unlike most of my male friends of that time, I did not watch porn (still don’t, for reasons that may become clear) because to be honest it just didn’t occur to me: my closest brush with observing The Act was probably watching Titanic, and seeing that sweaty hand up against that car window. I was not really sure what Rose and Jack were up to in there, but I knew it was fun, consensual, and an act of love. Whatever sex was, that’s what it would be like, I thought.

It is only now, as I look back at my teenage years growing up in a co-educational school where boys vastly outnumbered girls, that I see that a lot of the stuff that went on was fucking weird. In hindsight, thank goodness I didn’t really know what he meant. It would have disturbed me.

I think the tension here comes from something that is quite universal – think back to the Miley Cyrus debate. My friend looked at me, little thirteen year old beginning to grow towards the woman I am now, as all the boys saw all the girls in my year, and may have felt some kind of sexual or emotional response. He feels the response. It is new and strong and weird, and something that happens when he looks at me; is it not natural to assume that I am making him feel it?

Fair enough, at 13, the boys I knew were silly at worst and adorable at best really. But that doesn’t detract from the fact that he was projecting agency onto me for a sexual response I had (honestly) no idea he was feeling. I was being sexualised, and at this stage, I was not choosing to sexualise myself. Actually, I was just queuing for lunch and my mind was mostly occupied with the question of whether there were any muffins left.

I’m not going to pretend that I was particularly traumatised by this event. I have never had my sense of self seriously bruised by male violation, emotional or physical, and I took most of the creepy stuff boys said to me as a compliment. If anything, it was my ego that I needed to worry about; I got in trouble with my group of friends once for referring to the 14th person to ask me to “go out” with them as “Number 14.” I look back laughing but also slightly disturbed by the arrogance of my teenage self, so much crueller to these poor boys than I knew at the time – though it wasn’t so much because I didn’t like them and think they were lovely as the fact that I had no idea how to kiss and the thought of doing it wrong terrified me (I was privately convinced that mouths had to be designed purely for eating what if I’d just had loads of onion?!)

Don’t spare too many tears for unknowingly sexualised, unknowingly arrogant 13 year old Amelia. I was fine, I was exceptionally happy and fulfilled at the time. I mention this because it is part of a much wider problem.

When the Miley Cyrus video for Wrecking Ball came out I was torn. I was torn because I would secretly quite like to be having some fun on that swingy thing in her position; but in private, alone, probably. Surely Miley would really rather express her sexuality with those close to her, rather than share her nudity and her sexuality with the entire world?

In hindsight I see that it was wrong of me to ask that question, even gently. Because Miley had absolutely every right to express her sexuality in a way that felt true to her (even if she happened to be making a nice bunch of money in the same gesture.) I’m not gonna pretend I’m a Miley fan, but all those songs (I recall the lyric ‘it’s our party we can do what we want’) are about rebellion, about breaking away from the expectations placed on her by the trauma of having her childhood in the public eye.

We always overestimate the degree of agency musicians, and artists in the public eye, have. But this is disproportionately true when it comes to female musicians. If they choose to propagate a sexualised public image, it is all too easy to view them as either (a unwillingly sexualised victims of a sexist industry or (b unscrupulous temptresses selling their sexuality for money. This relates to that old virgin/whore binary that is so, so false and unhelpful for our understanding of female sexuality. I would imagine that in the vast majority of cases, from Miley to Birdy, the reality lies somewhere in between.

We need to stop being so quick either to label girls and women as either whore or virgin. Yes tossing women into one of these categories in our words and thoughts helps that classic insecurity about female sexuality and what women might do if men go to war for too long and the neighbour is sexy and cooks up an impeccable pumpkin soup for the winter. But it is a cipher, and should be recognised as such if we are going to fight the patriarchy and deconstruct the structures that oppress us.

Misogyny, arrogance, and private education

I hate to write a provocatively titled article, but I have felt strongly about this for a long time and I think today is the day to express my thoughts on this matter.

Let me lay my cards on the table at this point. I went to a mixed but male dominated fee paying school in North London for five years, before moving to a comprehensive sixth form. I am not going to pretend that I haven’t had an excellent education, gleaning benefits from both of these institutions. The private school I went to engendered in me a great deal of intellectual confidence, I had great teachers in the humanities who encouraged me and to whom I will always be grateful, and I was an exceptionally happy teenager.

This changed when I moved to a comprehensive sixth form. I moved not because my parents thought they would seem more edgy at parties if none of their daughters were attending a private school, but because they could no longer afford it. I was already on a bursary, and with the financial recession they decided that it would be better for us as a family if they sent me to an (excellent) state school instead. I have often looked back quite sadly on my time at sixth form; I felt excluded as a girl who had (a been to private school and (b not been at that state school (all girls up to sixth form) all the way through. The in-groups were impenetrable. When I went to a party with my old friends from private school a few months into sixth form one of the girls who had joined that school asked me why I left; when I didn’t give a sufficient reply, she asked me what I got in my GCSE’s. Yes she was drunk. But how dare she.

That said, I think I only think of it as an unhappy time because I had been so happy for the previous five years. In reality, I had very close friends, wonderful people who were dedicated to their work with a passion I had rarely observed at my private school and with whom I remain very close, and in reaction to the social isolation I felt I developed a love of my subjects (English, History, Latin and Ancient Greek) which sustained me.

At Cambridge however, I have often felt intellectually intimidated and undervalued not by my male friends but by male academics, who in order to be where they are at their age have more often than not attended private schools. In supervisions with male academics I have felt the attention focused disproportionately on my male counterparts, notwithstanding three notable exceptions, inspiring teachers whose praise and attention has developed my confidence and with it my intelligence. When I topped my year in my essay paper for part 1A I attributed it not to the originality of my writing but to some sort of administrative error. For most of second year I considered myself deserving of a couple of 2:ii’s I got in my supervision reports and I couldn’t really believe it when I got a two firsts out of the six exams I took at the end of that year. That said, the men who have underestimated me are lovely people. This is not about kindness. It is about institutionalised sexism.

My experiences have only limitedly affected my confidence, and pity is the last thing I am asking for. They are however symptomatic of a much wider problem.

After many conversations among my male and female friends, who have gone to private schools and state schools, I have begun to sense that private schools breed a certain type of self confidence which to a certain extent is healthy, but often passes over the threshold of confidence and turns into arrogance. This is an arrogance that has led a number of young men, a disproportionate number of whom have been privately educated, to abuse my female friends and friends of my female friends emotionally and sexually. Every time I come back to London there are more stories of rape, of sexual assault, of women being treated like pieces of meat in a way that I find both unimaginable because it is absolutely unheard of in the circles I move in at my college in Cambridge and violently upsetting. Is it a coincidence that the males violating the women around me have in almost every single case been to a private school? I am convinced that it is not.

To reiterate: I have absolutely no problem with people who attended private schools. I went to one myself, and many of them – male and female – are my best friends. But the culture of private schools/state schools is hugely damaging for this country in every respect: it perpetuates a disgraceful divide in wealth, it holds back the progress of feminism and gender equality, it fuels disproportional underrepresentation of women politically and culturally, and generally it breeds an absolutely grim lack of human empathy.

an elegy on loss


She wakes early, showers; plans her day. Granola, with berries. Tea. There is a lot to do. A lot for her brain to do. It’s oppressive. She works for ten minutes, lies on the bed. It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this hard. To escape she seizes the much-loved novel, escapes to Italy, a different time, a similar heart. Her mind is struggling to impose order on things; she hears the kindly voice that lulls her to sleep, tells her it’s okay, if she’s sad she can work tomorrow, it’ll pass, I promise, I promise it will pass. Her brain needs rest, anyway. Better to fall into the warm embrace of sleep. Sleep seems to her a respite. She hears another voice: the voice says that something inside her is broken, fundamentally, and it always has been, and she will never overcome it, because of it she is just too …. for this world. The voice taunts her for lying still. You don’t love your work, someone else would love it more than you, enjoy it, you’re supposed to be enjoying it, why aren’t you enjoying it, you’re an ungrateful brat. You have everything but you can’t see it. It’s not enough for you. You will fall behind and fail. No one will love you for who you are. There is something about you. Something broken, unattractive. Repellant. Fat, actually. You treat your body with no respect, no love.

How can I love myself when you’re whispering evil things to me all the time? How can I create anything when you cripple my attempts by laughing at them? It’s not your fault, says a third voice. It’s not your fault. You didn’t choose to be born, much less to be born like this, with this paralysing desire for love. You can’t change your nature. Everything has already happened. You’re a mound of cells. Wired to have babies and be lumbered with them, struggling to love them, no power over what they become, not really.

Come on. You’re better than this, you have a fine mind, an acute sensitivity to things, feelings, people, you write sensitively, you’re eyes are a gift to the world. You’re healthy and strong and robust. You have endured so much. It hasn’t been fair. You’ve done the best you can. All your decisions make perfect sense. You are a wonderfully supportive friend and sister. You have got here, you were smart enough to get here, you can do this, it’s fine that you didn’t feel up to it today, there are people who have never betrayed you. There will be someone who makes it all worthwhile, who sees your acute vulnerability and comes to know you and also to learn how unbelievably easy it is to make you ecstatically happy, and that will be the most fulfilling thing in the world for him, and he will value your mind and the depth of your love more than anything else in his life. It’s a dark world. Full of mystery and horror. People are the threads that shine us through. The things we can hold on to through whatever chance might throw at us. There are a lot of people depending on you. I – I love you more than anything. We’ve come so far. Lived, fully. You are a relentless force. There is so much more to live for. It will be a thousand times more than what you felt when he was a possibility, when some part of you always doubted it. And even more so with him. Your mind and body sense this, they are waiting, they know it is what you were made for. But there is no point in compromise, you know it will only bring you grief. These weeks and months being single are hard. You’re not built for them. But that doesn’t mean they’re a waste. They’re part of the big picture, they set up the contrasts, the dark moments are the shadow, there are still wonderful bright moments of light. How brilliant that the best is yet to come. All that can be done during this period is to do your best on a daily basis. Look after yourself. As best you can. You’re in the best position anyone could wish to be. But it’s also okay if you can’t feel that always. Taking things for granted is part of the human condition. I love you.




February 2016

untitled poem

and finally the longed for arms, longed for eyes
are here with me and all
effort flies free it is easy as breathing
we sit and look at each other and the fear
The fear of not being known falls away
our June voices stretch though the
haze of darkened memories, darkened time
breaking through, sun
kissing a plant after a long time kept in the dark


 Spring, 2017

On Mindfulness

I have sorta wanted to write an article about mindfulness ever since I did the university course in Michaelmas term of my second year, but I hesitate; this is mainly because mindfulness means different things to different people, and one of the greatest joys of it for me has been creating my own version of it, tailored to me, and exploring it on my own terms. So I am wary of prescribing what it is, and I am sure that there will be many things I have taken from mindfulness that other people haven’t, or that other people have picked up on but I haven’t. I am writing nonetheless because I think that it could do a lot of people a lot of good, really; it has done me a tremendous amount of good, and at this stage I feel the compulsion to share this goodness.


So what is mindfulness? At the heart of mindfulness for me is the practice of compassion. It starts with yourself. In a mindfulness meditation, you take the time to concentrate on all the physical sensations available to you, starting and ending with the feeling of the breath moving in and out of your body. You pay attention to the way it feels to be sat on the chair or lying on your bed, focusing on all the places your body makes contact with the bed or chair beneath you, and feeling the ground beneath your feet. This process is called ‘grounding’, because the practice of feeling the earth beneath you grounds you physically and mentally. Feet on the ground, bum on the chair you are safe, the earth holds you, and that physical security translates into mental security.


Grounding achieved, the idea is to continue focusing on the physical sensations available to you, as these ground you in the present. Of course, this is not the easiest thing in the world, and inevitably thoughts will arise, positive or negative, as they tend to do. The idea is to accept these thoughts as they arise, listen to them, and return to focusing on the breath when you can. The key is rather than getting frustrated with the lapse in attention you are wholly accepting of your tendency to get lost in thought, and respond by gently guiding your attention back to your breath and corporeal presence but only when you remember to.


One of the tenets of mindful practice is that thoughts and feelings are there to help you. Anger, sadness and anxiety exist not to just make you feel horrible but to highlight unmet needs, so that you are looking after yourself, body and soul, as well as possible. A useful image is to see these feelings as guests knocking on your door, whom during a meditation you take the time to lovingly welcome in, give a cup of tea, and listen to.


This is not an easy thing to do. Often our gut reaction is to reject sadness, anger, fear and anxiety. But by welcoming them and seeing them as things that exist to make us happy we can do ourselves a world of good.


One mindful practice that makes this easier is changing the way we think. Rather than thinking ‘I am sad’ we isolate the emotion within our psyche and think ‘part of me is sad’; this image is hugely helpful, because we are able to remember that the rest of us is available to embrace the sad part of us and give them the love and attention they need.


The more we are able to master the practice of self-compassion, the more we can feel compassion towards the people and things around us, starting of course with those closest to us who gain a great deal from our love and attention. With the ability to love ourselves generously comes the ability to love other people generously. Understanding your own needs gives you a great deal of insight into other people’s, and you are more able to respect other people’s needs and love them for exactly who they are, rather than just for the good things they bring to your life. During formal meditation, another tenet of mindful practice is to take a moment to think of those closest to you, hold awareness of them in your heart, and send love in their direction.


Having compassion for all other human beings is the next step. Sending love to those closest to you comes naturally; it is not as easy to extend love to everyone else in the world, but again, from empathising with your own needs comes the awareness that everyone on this planet has their own internal universe, their own worries and joys, and they are as deserving of love as yourself or your boyfriend or your best friend.


To make a slightly more questionable next step I would say the ultimate move is to extend your love to all the other living beings in this world, including the animals and the trees and the lakes and the mountains, respecting their own individual beauty and loving them for themselves, not for what they can do for you.


Not that loving things for what they can do for you is an impulse to be ashamed of. Shame gets in the way of compassion. Selfishness is a natural thing; it is about self preservation, really, and as such serves its purpose. Like every other emotional impulse, it is something to be accepted.



varium et mutabile, semper femina


This is a repost of the introduction to my previous blog, which I started in April this year, and can be found here.


Varium et mutabile, semper femina is a quotation taken from Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid. It roughly translates to “fickle and ever-changing is woman.” In the context of the poem, it is meant by Mercury (who is referring to Dido here) as an insult, designed to prod Aeneas into abandoning her on the island of Carthage as quickly as possible because goodness knows what she might do with her volatile woman brain! (As it happens, she does pile up their marriage bed and all his clothes, set them on fire, and stab herself through the chest with a sword, lying dead as the smoke from the flames curls up into the sky for Aeneas to anxiously watch as equally heartbroken he sails away to fulfil his destiny of founding Rome. This is tragic, and deeply upsetting for Aeneas and the reader, but it is also a beautiful, cathartic, piece of art, that entails Dido expressing her grief in a way that symbolises its depth.)

I fell in love with Classics when I fell in love with Aeneid 4, during a Year 13 Latin class in which we were reading this very part of the poem as a group. I remember this quote well because it sums up a male perspective on women that we see a lot: “Oh women, they’re so unstable! Always crying! Too volatile, in fact, to be given political or social responsibility.” It is a male impulse that lies behind every time a man has told me to “calm down” or “not to get so worked up all the time.” This always lighted an anger in me that I found hard to understand; was what they were saying really that wrong?

My sister was told by her first boyfriend (poor guy tbh I hope he never reads this) that sometimes she “emotionally overreacted to things.” She broke up with him quite soon after that. Again, it has taken me a while to understand why this caused my 17-year-old self such anger and an exceptionally fiery, defensive compassion for her at the time, but I think now I do. It is because when someone tells you to “calm down”, they are effectively saying that your emotional response is disproportionate to whatever has happened – that is, ultimately, that your mind and body are not working properly. That’s why it entails such an affront.

Female creativity, and female sexuality, have been repressed from being publicly expressed for thousands of years. That is not to say they have not always crept out in our personal lives – volumes of notebooks, hummed songs, the way we dress (everything is art if you think about it) and I am happy to observe that there have been thousands of women who have been able to wield political power and have a public outlet for their creativity. But in general, our instinctively more empathetic tendencies have meant that we have often felt solely responsible for and good at childcare, which involves absolutely endless time, love and energy, limiting the time we have to explore and express ourselves. It is incredible now that we have so many female artists in the Western mainstream media that weren’t there in such numbers before: actresses, poets, singers, dancers, visual artists, filmmakers, the list of artistic media goes on. In my opinion, the fact that, generally speaking, our sexuality is less constrained and more freely expressed has a direct relationship with the fact that worldwide our partners, brothers and fathers are increasingly seeing our public expressions of creativity as something to celebrate rather than something to police.

In myself, I have after various experiments with hormonal contraception (which unfortunately I am too sensitive to use for now; I have recently opted for the copper coil, which has been a dream) noticed the relationship between my menstrual cycle and my creativity. I feel most creative when I’m at the peak of fertility (my body literally yearning to make things) and most depressive in the two days before the catharsis of my period. Then the cycle begins again.

With this blog – entitled varium et mutabile, semper femina, an insult which I am choosing to reclaim as something that points up what exactly what I think makes women valuable and unique – I intend to contribute my thoughts on whatever I feel is important. It is likely to be mental health related for now, as that is where my energy is at the moment, but I place no constraints on its evolution: hopefully, it will be whatever it wants to be. I will also share pieces of art that I value; poems, books, paintings, plays, in case anyone else likes them too. Thanks for reading.

On music as therapy

Dear readers,

I have just come across a lot of kind messages about my blog (especially the one about social media and self esteem) that I didn’t know I had received until about five minutes ago. Thanks all for your kind words, I appreciate positive feedback hugely, as I don’t particularly expect people to read my stuff! This is a repost of a piece of writing I wrote in April but given recent events I think music is more important than ever. Love, A x




I did not have a huge variety of music played in my house when I was growing up. It was mostly classical: my father is a talented pianist and has been playing ever since I can remember, he himself falling in love with Chopin and Beethoven at a young age. I used to take the piss out of him for listening to recordings of HIS OWN piano playing in the car, but now I totally understand that impulse; how lovely to listen to recordings of your own take on somebody else’s beloved work of art, a moment otherwise exclusively irretrievable through memory, something that fades over time?


I enjoyed classical music as a child, but the first time I remember feeling profoundly moved was when I listened to Dido’s album No Angel. I was five or six; Dido worked in my father’s office so my mum said that it was only fair we give her album a listen. I listened to that album, and Life for Rent, into my early teens; and even now for me they capture an innocent longing. I had the dimmest sense of what love and heartbreak were, but even then, my heart swelled with emotion at certain lyrics. These lyrics from her song Life for Rent were the ones I sang to myself most often when I was little:


I haven’t ever really found a place that I call home

I never stick around quite long enough to make it

I apologize once again I’m not in love

But it’s not as if I mind

that your heart ain’t exactly breaking


It’s just a thought, only a thought


But if my life is for rent and I don’t learn to buy

Well I deserve nothing more than I get

Cos nothing I have is truly mine


Looking back, It figures that as a child I sought this freedom, this independence: yes mum and dad were always right, and I shouldn’t cross roads without them or eat tooooo much cake, but the longing for personal autonomy is something that I feel is natural to us even at a young age. Thence Dido.


But possibly the most important musical epiphany I had was this one. I was in the car, driving up and down some hills in the Brecon Beacons with my mum and my dad and my sister, listening through my headphones to Bulletproof Heart. I felt the warmth of elation in my veins as I listened to the lyrics:



Don’t mean too much to me

I’m who I’ve got to be

These pigs are after me, after you

Run away, like it was yesterday

And we could run away, if we could run away

Run away from here

I was 14. There was nothing in my life that I had a particular desire to flee from. Or was there?


I didn’t think about anything apart from My Chemical Romance for the entirety of the next two years. I wasn’t really interested in starting relationships with the young boys growing into men around me. I didn’t think deeply about my appearance, about what people thought of me, about sex, which seemed like a hazy but exciting promise waiting for me in my latter teenage years. Other musicians entranced me at this time, sure. The purity and honesty of Taylor Swift’s voice; Paramore, Green Day, Beyonce, Shakira, Eminem. But they were nothing on this band, who I felt I knew as deeply if not more deeply than the people around me.


Things changed for me a little bit when I managed to get my heart broken twice at sixteen when I had finished my GCSE’s and I spending the summer with the friends from school who I had had for five years. Yes it hurt, like fuck. I’m not gonna pretend there wasn’t a lot of crying. I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t focus on all of the things I thought were wrong with my mind and with my body for the next five years and, on some level, blame the failures of every romance and relationship I embarked on upon them. There was a lot of loss, that summer, and in the next two years. But during that time, and for years to come, the following lyrics from My Chemical Romance’s 2007 song Cancer constituted the catharsis I needed:


Turn away

If you could get me a drink of water

Cause my lips are chapped and faded

Call my Aunt Marie

Help her gather up my things and bury me

With all my favourite colours,

My sisters and my brothers still

I will not kiss you

Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you


The you here was at once my beloved school, myself, every one of my closest girlfriends, and the boy who had broken my heart in the knowledge that I would be moving to another school, so he would not have to face public scrutiny for whatever he did. He was involved with someone else at the time. Looking back, he knew me to an exceptionally superficial degree, and I him. I hadn’t given any of my precious self away, or received any of his, so the healing has taken a while but I got over it fairly quickly.


I remember thinking, mere hours after having my heart broken, listening to music alone, that nothing could truly harm me if I always had my music to soothe me and express the anger and hurt I felt in a nonviolent way. Yes I was angry. But I had no blueprint for the expression of anger that could be damaging to other people; it bled out safely through my headphones, when I was alone, or dancing around in my friends, or at the top of the 210 on the way up to the places where I spent my teenage years.


My Chemical Romance broke up on March 23rd, 2013. I cried solidly for six hours. I’d loved every song on every one of their four albums and the knowledge that the people I felt so close to had decided that they needed not to make music anymore broke my heart more deeply than any breakup I’d had up until that point. I still think of that awful rainy day as the end of my childhood.


But somewhere I understood. If they no longer wanted to make music as a group, it didn’t feel true to them, they had every right to withdraw, every right to end that artistic union. That was special about MCR was that when you listen to the music you can feel how deeply they have all been in pain and the strength with which they have fought and are fighting that, and learn something yourself about the sheer strength you get through suffering.


As I get older, I feel more and more resistant to the term ‘pop music.’ Pop – short for popular – comes from the Latin populus, meaning simply ‘the people’, as opposed to the non-elite. At its root meaning, all it means is the music of the people. Something to embrace, rather than something to look down upon. I think the difference between, say, the supposedly ‘popular’ Taylor Swift’s earliest albums and MCR is simply the nuance of emotion.


We hear millions of lovesongs and breakup songs. Yeah okay, love is painful and hard and you’re always afraid of losing it. I have needed these songs very badly in my time. But I have also needed to feel anger, sadness, envy, resentment, joy, fear, in all their different and infinite combinations, and that’s what MCR gave me, and that’s what I take from Frank Turner, Lana Del Rey, Laura Marling, Johnny Flynn, Bon Iver, Jeff Buckley, Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, Vivaldi, Chopin, Debussy and even the genuinely glorious and life affirming piece of art that is the La La Land soundtrack. Part of me is always gently pissed off when someone comments on my musical choices with anything but absolute respect. I think it’s clear why. Own what you love. My Chemical Romance was never cool. That’s what made it so cool.