Louise vs Laura.

“You can do it, let’s go!”

“Shut up, Laura.”

“You’re doing so great!”

“Your husband left you because you’re a bitch, Laura.”

“You’ve done so well, keep going!”

“I’m gonna punch you in the face, Laura.”

I just went for my first ever run. By ‘first ever run’ I mean my first proper adult run that didn’t involve getting changed into loose shiny P.E. shorts and a sweaty P.E. polo shirt that I forgot to ask my mum to wash over the weekend. Nor did it involve hiding behind the tree at the back of the school field waiting for the others to do an extra lap before I pretended I was tagging along the whole time, or running into a bin because it’s a foggy Monday morning in December but the teachers are made of stone (so was the bin) and made us do cross-country anyway, and gaining an impressive scar that unbeknownst to my 14 year old self, I would look back on fondly during my first ever adult run.

Laura is my running pal. She only exists in my earphones. And I hate her. She’s a bitch. She’s so cool and calm and acts like EVERYTHING IS FINE EVEN THOUGH YOU CAN’T BREATHE AND YOU JUST TROD IN HORSE SHIT AND THE WHITE VAN MEN ARE BEEPING AT YOU BECAUSE OF COURSE I LOOKED LIKE I WAS IN BAYWATCH.

You've Got Me.

After reading my last blog post, my boyfriend wrote me a letter. This is his side of my story; an important side that isn't often told...

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Dear Louise

Dearest Louise

Hey

Hello.

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing you. At least that’s how I feel when the little monsters take hold. I know that you’ve been scared of them, and I’m scared of them too.

I don’t know if it’s just me, or if it’s how other partners in my situation would feel too – but when things have gotten bad, when you’ve been feeling at your worst it’s almost like you aren’t there anymore. It’s those little monsters taking hold of the command centre of your brain. And it hurts. To see you like it, to hear you like it.

I know that when they take control the things that come out of your head aren’t you, but sometimes that doesn’t stop me from taking what you say to me to heart. What they say to me. What they scream from that little space the monsters have decided to claim as their home. It’s a temporary home, mind. Like a holiday let. But it’s still a home for them.

Sometimes I’m scared. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I just want to scream.

But I can’t be those things. I can’t do those things. I have to be better than doing that because it’s what you need me to be. And I’ve learnt that options 1, 2 and 3 just won’t help.