I miss chatting shit

Mmm, hormones. Tasty.

Hi my name’s Louise and apparently this is still my blog? 

I posted a big ol’ thing on Instagram yesterday about being on the Pill and then coming off the Pill and then going back on the Pill. You should read it. Long story short, I came off it because I thought I should come off it, because I thought the Pill was bad and that I should be my ‘natural’ self, but turns out my ‘natural self’ is a living fucking nightmare and nobody wants that, especially me (‘The only person you have to  deal with every day is yourself’ - someone smart in my Instagram comments) so I’m back on the Pill.
 

I’m bored of trying to be better. That’s really why I came off the Pill, because I thought it’d make me a better feminist. That I’d feel more in control of my body, that I’d be empowered, that I’d suddenly feel more creative and would be more successful. That I’d have an epiphany and be enlightened. But the opposite happened. My skin’s gross, my mental health’s a shitshow, and I feel disconnected from everyone, everything, and especially myself. I’m not in control at all.

It’s a bunch of bullshit. All power to you if coming off the Pill has given you that freedom, honestly. I have a good handful of friends who have had that experience and I, for one, am jealous, I have to admit. I’d love nothing more than to feel free and in control of my own ‘natural’ body, but the world is awful and people are complicated, so whatcha gonna do? 

Anyway. My mental health has been piss poor these past few months, and maybe it’s because of the lack of fake hormones, maybe it’s not. I’d guess a bit of both. But now, on the second glorious day of being back on the Pill, still in bed on a Monday lunchtime because I’m off work with the shits, I want to blog for the sake of blogging. Because fuck, I miss it! I miss chatting shit! I miss writing a blog and posting it all within the space of half an hour! I miss having a space on the internet to call my own and not have any meaningful weight on it! 

Every decision I make at the moment feels like life or death. I haven’t wanted to do anything if I can’t see how it will enrich my life - will it make me money, will it further my career, will it give me more opportunities, will it make me a better person? Always back to making me a better person. BORED OF IT.  I haven’t blogged in months because I haven’t had an idea or opinion that will go viral and change my life *looks to camera* I am insufferable, I know. 

I’ve been desperate for a new project lately, something to get my teeth stuck in to. But I haven’t allowed myself to do anything because it all seems pointless. If I’m not gonna become the world’s greatest pianist after starting to learn to play the piano, then what’s the point? I love cross-stitching, but only if I’m creating something for someone else. And that’s what it boils down to: I only want to do something if it’s for someone else, or if it’ll get me some sweet, sweet validation from others. My own pride and happiness doesn’t count. Apparently. 

Bored of it.

I want to go rock climbing. I want to learn to play the piano AND guitar. I want to bake a cake for myself and eat the whole thing in one sitting. I want to cross-stitch and leave the finished products unframed on the side for at least four months. I want to hula-hoop and watch Schitt’s Creek at the same time. I want to go swimming! I want to go swimming and not train for Swim Serpentine. I want to make a photo album. No, I want to make a scrapbook! I want to blog. I want to chat shit. I want to fall in love with myself again. 

This isn’t new. I’ve written before about wanting to be happy with my lot and being bored of the pressure to have massive goals. But writing about it doesn’t mean I’ve got it nailed down. It’s fucking hard. Everything is hard. The world is a w f u l and people are c o m p l i c a t e d. We’re all making shit up and trying our best. Sometimes we’re not even trying our best. And that’s ok, I think.

Coming off the Pill because everyone on the internet said it’s corrupt won’t make you a better person. It won’t make you a better feminist. It might not make you feel better. You can’t do all the things. You can’t be perfect. Life cannot be perfect. You can’t tick some boxes and save the world. You've just gotta do you. 

I want to chat shit again, for myself, with you, not for you, spontaneously, for no rhyme or reason. 

And I’m going to bake a cake.