“unstable emotions”

I say I’m so happy, and the world gets smaller
Like it knows I’m finally breathing
Free from the blinding grey screams
Of a depressive
A manic
A borderline type
I say I’m drowning, and the long list
That’s built inside me
Of all the things I want
The things I desire, holding me hostage
Like a failure
Unable to complete one simple thing.
Living stuck in the mud in the middle
Of either end, doesn’t help,
Only makes me long for either end of the light
And dark
The dark
I hate the dark, alone in a bed alone in my bed with my thoughts
Wondering if you like me, why don’t you like me
Enough. To tell me I’m enough.
Over and over again.
Feed me with the reassurance that I’m perfect.
Feed me with the attention I require.
Feed me by never telling me I’m too much.
I’m too much.

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Making Myself


Motivation is a huge thing for me, depression makes me tired a lot of the time, it wants to keep me from making myself, from completing tasks. I like to express myself in lots of different ways, whether that be writing, or photography, I have a lot of outlets. Putting myself out there into the world is a way for me to feel less alone with my mental health issues, and holds me accountable. If I don’t create, I feel invisible. If I’m invisible, I can get away with drifting through life, wasting the days away.

I want to be there for myself. Showing the world my worth.

I want to complete my projects, and start new ones. Drown in the full feeling I get from pressing send, post, submit.

The editing process is both tedious, and a gift. When I’m editing, it takes up every possible space in my mind, I can think of nothing else in those hours but where I should make the cut, and what transition to use. I edit for six, eight, ten hours at a time. And it’s glorious to empty my head for a while, push all the rest of it aside, begone demons, there is no room for you here, not today! It’s the same for photo editing, editing my writing, etc.

I have also recently discovered, or rediscovered the simple task of slowly applying makeup. I panic the most when I know I have to leave the house. I try to utilize breathing techniques, I try to have a support system, but those things usually aren’t enough. I have to psyche myself out. I have to get ready. In more ways than one.

So I spend a while staring at my face, covering it in pretty colours to match my wild neon hair. I meticulously plan every facet of my outfit, and all of my accessories. I get ready for the world, creating an armour for myself. This is my new favourite thing to do!

So I decided to start filming it. Along with lots of other things, like reading aloud from my favourite books, and dancing around my room in pretty outfits to music, to drown out all the depression, and the anxieties about the outside world, and the OCD from my inside world, and all the other various ways.

I decided to start a Ko‑fi page to hopefully help contribute to all the ways in which I create.

I post to instagram a lot.

I make youtube videos.

I have a podcast.

I’m writing a book.


I write poetry.

Thank you for reading, and supporting me. ❤

link to ko-fi

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london part.1985


smell your air, your food, the hidden park at the end of our street after the rain breaks the heat
beat the grey with my feet as hard as I possibly can to make a mark
i’m here taking up space, feeling this place
all around my soft body
as I cry at the thought of leaving
why are you always coming back to let me know how much I don’t deserve you
love the blue light blue of your centre
and the crowded chaos crowded peaceful chaos
at my centre
at my centre
i am wide open, a loud open grabbing with my hands
pulling at my eyelashes until I can’t close my eyes no more girl in mourning
see the red brick of the old house on the old road
down the shit lane, full of those who don’t want to remain
don’t leave me here
it’s fine. it’s okay. you got this, right?
my future in your hands, you’ve felt my might, on the days good days are alright.
I’ll be seeing you, kid.

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What am I doing?

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This is going to be an exercise in ‘can I just say what I want to say without turning on the prose setting of my mind?’

Well, let’s see…

For a while there, I was steadily working on my novel. About five years ago, I did this foolish thing one might call ‘starting a book’, except I forgot to really start it. At least, properly anyway.

I just started writing. Anything and everything I thought I might want to say. And it was only about 75% in (50,000 words, about two thirds of an average sized fiction book) that I realised there was absolutely no order to this madness. So what did I do? I steam-rolled on ahead, and just kept on going in no particular order.

My novel is non-linear. But not so much so that it’s meant to look more like a collection of essays… by different people.

So I took the over one hundred ‘pieces’ of my novel, and tried to make some sense of them. I tried doing it manually in the real world, with actual paper and stuff, because I thought it would be easier to move the pieces around if I could, you know, actually move the pieces around.

But after placing about twenty pieces in one order, it just felt impossible, and I quickly became overwhelmed with such a task as ordering the culmination of my entire life’s work.

I eventually found the right way – meaning, the right way after the fact, since the real right way would have been writing in order in the first place, or at least having some kind of plan or outline – and that was to create a key.

So like, memories, depression, prose, poetry, etc. And also certain characters, and when they should appear. If they’ve been introduced yet, and so on.

And I felt really productive, like there was now a plan to it all, something to be working on with some kind of focus when I woke up in the morning.

Every now and then I would stop to write something new, adding a new piece that needed to be placed somewhere. When I eventually ran out of pieces, I felt kind of lost, like I didn’t know what was supposed to come next, so I thought the only thing that’s left is to read through it from the beginning, either adding what was missing as I go, or if it was big, like whole chapters, note down that things need to be inserted when they need to be inserted.

I read through about two thirds of the manuscript, and of course, coming towards the end, where I know I will actually have to create an end, well… I just stopped. Silence in the air, sunny dust motes on a sweltering day after the sun hath zonked me, quiet time in the house, the terrifying sound of other people’s kids outside, torturing me with their bright eyes, and their wondrous futures. They don’t know the crippling fear of an end, of how to complete ones life mission. But I know. I know that fear.

I’ve always had a problem with finishing things. A book that I love, a tv show I’m trying to get through, a new project I thought I loved, my manuscript, the cleaning, the thing I said I would do for a friend. It’s all up there, hanging above my head, taunting me. Laughing at my inability to take hold of them all. Feeling sorry for me, as yet another thing that’s incomplete gets added to the set of strings that hold my life’s most dear, and feared project, stories, favourite things.

Of course, in true fashion, as I struggle with the ending of my book, with WRITING THE END OF MY BOOK, the thing I want to do most in the world, I decided to start a YouTube channel.

HURRAY. A round of applause for me please.

Yeah yeah, I know…

But I mean, I have this writing blog, and my other blog, I have instagram, and I have a podcast, so for me, it’s just another form of creating, or expressing myself. Another outlet for my passions, desires, and that ever nipping at the edges of my consciousness that I must. just. be. seen.

True to the artist in me, I hate being asked what ____ is about. But I will try to explain that like most of the things I create, it’s just about me.

What I’m reading…
Reading vlogs wherein I just film myself reading. Sometimes ASMR style.
Or just talking about my favourite books.
Book tags, and questions about books.

Books. Books. Books.  

I did one of the tags where it was like fandoms colliding, combining makeup and said books! A beauty guru I am not, but I do love makeup, the things themselves, and also just applying makeup (it’s very soothing), so why not. I found it helped make me feel comfortable talking to the camera, because guess what, if you didn’t already know, that shit is a skill in and of itself.

I also made a video of just me trying on my favourite pastel fashion spring type items, while dancing around. Because I love pink dresses, and I love to have dance parties. They are a daily occurrence in my house. ❤

I have a video coming up where I talk about my favourite tv couples (or ships if you prefer), and will be doing some London vlogs soon, as well as some videos with my best friend.

My best friend who lives an ocean away, is visiting for FIVE WHOLE WEEKS soon. So I am fucking pumped!

I haven’t even been blogging really. I’ve felt really angry lately due to some medical neglect, and also angry that my body and mind is broken in a lot of ways. And it’s been hard to unpack, to work out which subset of that anger goes where. Is it at myself? Or is it at the doctors that have been largely failing me?

I want to write about it but I’m still in it, there are more appointments, so I need to ride this out first, see what’s what.

I’ve been pretty obsessed with instagram lately so if that’s your thing, that’s really the only place I reliably communicate with the world.

I enjoy the shit out of the stories feature. Both watching other people’s, and posting my own. I use it to share other peoples posts a lot, kind of like instagrams own reblogging, or retweeting feature. But I’ve been trying to also post videos of myself on there a little bit. Like I said above, talking to the camera is nerve-wracking but I’m trying to get better at it because I genuinely enjoy it. After all, talking about myself, or just talking in general so I can hear my own voice is this narcissists dream come true.

I’ve been pretty fucking consistently depressed since the beginning of the year (depression is a persistent, familiar, evergreen feature of what makes me, me… but it has been particularly nonstop). That coupled with the never ending appointments.

Appointments with my:
My psychiatrist.
My therapist.

Appointments at the hospital, at three separate departments all for different things. It just goes on an on and on.

I’m tired, man.

I definitely feel that I’ve been putting a strain on my partner too. He is loving and supportive, and always there for me, but even I know there’s a limit, or if there isn’t, there should be one in some cases. The kind of constant care I need sometimes, just isn’t fair, you know? I don’t want my mental health to affect anyone else’s, for the degradation of my mind to injure someone else’s mind.

So I’m talking to my therapist about coping skills. I don’t like to be alone, to suffer alone. I need the contact to heal me. But I know I can’t always have that. So I want to build some things that will help me on days when it’s not so bad that I absolutely cannot survive without help, but bad enough that I’m just drifting, floating through the days, just waiting for the time to pass until I can numb myself with sleep.

Speaking of, I have a new therapist. It’s been a while. It was just so hard to find the will to find someone new, you know? It’s like dating. After going on lots of bad dates, spending time telling your best stories, sharing important information about yourself, only for it not to work out? It’s hard to find a good therapist, someone who is actually good at their job, but also be someone you click with, all the while finding the balance between: this is a service I’m providing but hey we’re also kind of friends. After all, if you’re doing it right, they’ll be one of the people who know the most about you, who knows how you work, and what makes you tick.

But I needed it.

I needed help.

I’ve been journaling, which is essentially homework. We’re trying to find patterns, and triggers. For my PTSD, my ED, and my depression, not to mention, but also completely fucking scream from the rooftops: MY ANXIETY! Nothing has emerged yet, it’s still early days, and I struggle with writing it all down when I’m at my lowest. There’s too much going in my head. In true writerly fashion though, I do usually feel better (not better as in well, okay, cured… it just helps) after writing it all down. And sometimes, I’m writing down something I’m feeling, and feeling the need to share with my partner, but then I realise, wait, this doesn’t necessarily need to be shared right now, it would only have a negative effect. And that’s not to say I’m holding something back, or hiding something from them, it’s more about, do I need to pile on right now? Is this just going to cause an argument because I’m depressed and angry at the world? So yeah, sometimes I feel better because I follow the urge, the digging niggling need to throw some useless shit into the air, and I give it to the page instead, and ah, it’s a relief. It’s gone. No need to say it anymore.

I’m having so much fun making videos. The whole process. Preparing for filming, whether that’s choosing a book, planning a topic to talk about, or choosing what outfit to wear for the video. Silly but also important things like moving around my trinkets so they appear differently in each video. I like tinkering.

The editing process is both tedious, and a gift. When I’m editing, it takes up every possible space in my mind, I can think of nothing else in those hours but where I should make the cut, and what transition to use. I edit for six, eight, ten hours at a time. And it’s glorious to empty my head for a while, push all the rest of it aside, be gone demons, there is no room for you here, not today! So you see, the videos are more for me, than anything else. It’s only a thrilling bonus if someone chooses to watch. And I do hope people watch, let’s be real. I dig the views. It’s so new though, there aren’t many.

Ah yes, the inevitable end that I find hard to reach, and find even more unachievable than anything else in the world.

*tips cap* 

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blue ldn

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Somewhere at the top of the city, lost in the comfort of the chaos, I found a me I could fall in love with.
The kind of me who stares at herself in the window reflection of a pop up shop, and isn’t surprised by the person looking back.
The kind of me who writes poems about her day, blue aching poetry lines running up and down the windy London streets and back.
Back to a full hearted girl, a silly girl with cracks, breaking cracks wide open on the ground.
The kind of girl who wallows in the puddle of broken promises, the kind of me who steps out into rain because it’s romantic don’t you know, don’t you see me.

The kind of me who writes poems about her day, blue aching poetry lines running up and down the windy London streets and back.
The kind of me realising it doesn’t matter what you see because I see myself, my loving self, my fat body beautiful self, with emotions erratic, life fantastic in the big city living me.

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STRANDS: Pink Most Days

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I wrote a thing for the Good Dye Young blog STRANDS

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I remember running around town with my 35mm camera as a teen, thinking I was so misunderstood, the first person to feel the kind of feelings I was feeling for the first time ever. But it wasn’t true, I just couldn’t see it yet.

On the weekends, my friends and I would pile into our local town hall where rock bands played music to the feel of our bodies beating together in the dark. Each of us hoping that one day we could find a way to harness what we felt inside there, back out in the hectic world that somehow always felt against us, even when I was sure it wasn’t. There was a kind of quiet safety in the loud numbers of people, all different yet the same, studded boots, ripped tights, wild neon hair, dye running down the backs of necks of the brave ones, sweaty tears, and pure elated joy from the shy ones.

Continue reading over at STRANDS


the strangers

Dying in the face of insolence, and abuse is easy. The words crash into me familiar. The sounds and faces of my makers, all the same.

Remembering that I am better than that, remembering what I am is harder.

Ten faces, ten different ways to tell me I’m nothing. I believe them all.

One stranger, one way to bring me back to life, means everything. And I’m only now beginning to believe he might be real.

He was tall, and wore big boots. He seemed foreign, a different kind of species. His hair was messy and wild like an animal. His eyes piercing blue like ice. Like rules they must abide by.

He held his hand out, pronouncing words that meant things would be okay, this day would be alright.

He helped me to my feet, and we walked across the grass. He didn’t speak, not until he could form the words without the anger.

“I like your hair.” He said.

I touched my hair, the black flower sticking out to the side, now crumpled, and pulled it out. I took his hand and dropped it into his palm.

“Thank you.”

We sat in the sun, under the tree, not really saying anything. He read a book, and I tried not to cry.

“I won’t hurt you.” He said.


samrosey fic

forever home

He is brooding, silently mixing through his emotions like steps leading to the end of a mission. There will be a prize, triumphant. His fingers play his beard in thought, long fingers, gathering loot as though his smiles are dependant on it.

I’ve had those fingers, just as I’ve seen those prizes.

Shaking me awake this afternoon because he feared a nightmare had come.
Twitching in a deep sleep, hoping to escape out of it, hoping to escape once and for all.

Putting me to bed with a stroke of my hair, and a kiss on my cheek, and I realise… I have escaped. I am free. I am home.

Sunday rain makes lovely for peace.


samrosey fic

welcome to london


Call-collecting memories of the first rain,
of the first time waiting for you, for classes running late, rain running down, around us, in London Town is, where we were made.

We were there.


samrosey fic

polaroids (1)


The video tape got jammed in the player again, second time this week. Every time I look at you, I think I see two spiders run across the wall behind your head. I keep looking, thinking one time it won’t happen, but it always does.
I made tea for you but it was too strong, so I said I’d make another and couldn’t find any clean spoons. Why aren’t there any clean spoons?

I’m not sure where you’re going, but you ask me to help you get ready. I like the way your hair smells as I comb it through, and you tell me how you cut it yourself but it’s curly so who would know.
Curly. You signed all of my birthday cards Love Curly.

You’re being nice, and I’m wishing I spent every single day here.

The movie begins to play even though we know it got broken a while ago.

It’s June now, and there are still Christmas lights around the window frame, but you’re really here and not gone away like maybe I thought. Like maybe I know you are.

We watch the movie, there’s dancing, and singing, we turn it up way too loud, and cry when it gets sad. It always gets sad.

After a while, the spiders reappear. The spiders always reappear even though I concentrate really hard, and hope they don’t but they do, and they begin to multiply, like the days and years that you don’t show up like this. They scatter and run, so I close my eyes, and lose you.
The tea’s gone cold now, and the fairy lights flicker in sequence. On, off, on, off.
I think it’s time to wake up soon. On, off, on, off.
The movie’s over, it needs rewinding, and I’m waking up. On off, on, off.


samrosey fic