I wish there was a way to harness anxiety as a renewable energy resource, because I am propelled by fear

Things have taken a turn for the worse mentally, so today I’ve been trying to recreate normal life by mentally transporting myself to my favourite place to work, the cafe above the H&M in White City. 

Yes, it is pathetic that the cafe above the H&M in White City might be my happy place, but when you have anxiety and depression, there is no happy place – there’s just places where the screaming is quieter and you can put 12 sachets of sugar in a tea semi-judgement free.

I think for me that’s the cafe above the H&M in White City (it’s full title) because the internal cries of anguish are drowned out by the unrelenting sound of babies crying. To fully commit to recreating my not-happy-but-near-enough place, I’ve also been switching off the internet at random and whispering “please can you watch my stuff while I just run to the toilet” while sobbing into my own reflection in the mirror. 

What I would give to entrust my valuables with a complete stranger right now. The eye contact, the shy smile, the trust, I can finally, triumphantly release my bladder, all the while knowing that I’ve made a new friend – no, guardian of my belongings. Perhaps I am trusting you, reader, with my valuables: this blog. If you’re lucky I’ll share a secret with you later.

My head is screaming and it feels like everything’s on fire and I wake up with a tightness in my stomach that feels horrendous. That’s hard to say on a zoom chat, though, isn’t it? Particularly when friends can hear at maximum 20% of the words I’m saying, like a sad dubstep remix. I’m also getting pre-FOMO about post-lockdown events. I don’t miss going to the event, I miss seeing it a day later on Insta stories and realising I wasn’t invited. 

One of the main lessons I am trying to learn is to separate what is in my control vs what is out of my control. For example, I can’t control anything that is going on inside my phone beyond how much I am looking at my phone. I know that. But the problem is that I am looking at my phone fucking loads, and I can’t stop. 

It’s honestly incredible. I have single handedly proved that immersion therapy does not work. If I did a sit up for every time I check my phone in a day, I’d still be checking my phone constantly, but I’d be a lot happier about the images of myself I post online.

So I could cut down the amount of time on my phone, but we all know I wont, so instead, I’m making another cup of tea. I’m up to two cups of tea at a time, like I’m Noah and the teas are the animals coming in two by two into my ark, but instead of cleansing the earth of sin, I’m just going to get early onset diabetes. Do you think you could just watch my bag for a second?
teas 2

These are both for me. Tea for two and two for me?

Cheeky update re bedtime chats with my best friend. We both got so upset with each other for being on a different call before realising we’d called each other at the same time. 

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Unexpected highlight of week was fish and chip shop chips. Got them with salt and vinegar and wolfed them down and nearly the fork too, if I could have wedged it down my gullet.

chips 2

Secret I said I’d share with you later: my nipples have started to chafe from not wearing a bra for so long. Genuinely. I have had to start putting bio oil on them. They sting so much.

Lockdown stats:

Number of times I’ve cried this week: 4. Don’t want to talk about it. Oh who am I kidding, of course I do. 

Number of broadway songs I’ve learned from scratch: 1. I think I look incredible when I lip sync it in my room but I recorded myself doing it recently and I genuinely look in pain.  

Number of times I’ve sat in the bath with my head pressed to my knees with the shower running with Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn in the background: 1.5. I gave myself half a mark cos couldn’t get the shower working.

Unexpected kindness of the week: Imogen, who stitched me this bag with a design I love and posted it to me. Incredible!

imogen bag

I am unsure of what I contribute to society at this point beyond a general sense of unease

It’s very unfair of my brain to have been so anxious about lockdown to now also be so anxious about it ending. Pick a lane. It took staying indoors for seven weeks to remind me that I don’t even like going outside. Here’s me outside, not having a good time:
going outside

I’ve started listening to podcasts, which I never saw for me. Friends will tell you that I willfully avoid podcasts at all costs. I think they’re stupid – it’s like an inner monologue that you opt into. When I put one on it’s like I’m listening to two podcasts, the one that I’ve chosen to listen to, and the other one, my own one, which is like a director’s commentary of my own self loathing over the top.

But I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping at the moment. 

When Harry Potter thinks he’s about to die in the final film and he says “does it hurt to die?” and Sirius Black says “quicker than falling asleep”. Well it’s 4am, my eyes are bloodshot and Sirius is a fucking liar.

Shout out to the real MVPs of lockdown, Nytol sleeping tablets. My best friend is going through the worst mental health time of her life so we often take our tablets together and talk shit on the phone until one of us falls asleep. It’s been really helpful and I don’t know what I’d do without it. Sometimes I think about recording the conversations to listen back to at some point, but I don’t think anyone would want to hear us saying “my brain’s being a bitch” “a big bitch” “a big, disgusting, ugly bitch” increasingly drowsily until we’re unconscious.

I like to pretend it’s like the scene in the last Avengers film when Iron Man dies, and Pepper says, “we’re gonna be okay, you can rest now” but it’s not the world we’re trying to save, it’s just our piece of shit fucking brains. 

However, sometimes when she’s not around, I’ve actually started putting on a podcast. If I convince myself it’s a bit like listening to a chatty bedtime cassette like when you’re a kid, it can be quite nice. I used to listen to a book tape as a child called The Owl Who Was Afraid Of The Dark. A gorgeous book but absolutely fucking pointless, because I still sleep my bedside lamp and hallway light on too if I can get away with it. 

When I was living in London I was up to three – bedside, main and bathroom. A full house. By which I mean, full of ghosts, which I repel by keeping all my lights on. 

I do think that book tape might have caused more damage than good because once when I got the the end of the cassette as a child, the story finished, I was gently drifting into sleep and then a very loud voice said “PLEASE TURN OVER THE TAPE” and I was given the shock of my absolute fucking overbite-riddled, prepubescent life. 

I can’t express this enough. Blind. Fucking. Terror. The world went black. Satan climbed out from under my bed, wrapped his hands around my neck and said “feel fear, you little shit” and so I did.

Luckily, I already slept with 5 cushions and upright at the time, so it took one fluid motion to run straight into my mum’s bedroom to tell her there’s someone inside the radio. She told me it’s just what they put on the tape to make you turn it over. Well, who would do that, mum?? Who knows I’m listening?? What do they want??? Why would they break the fourth wall like that??

Okay, no, I didn’t ask that last one, I was too busy being force fed Calpol and told to go back to bed. But I’ve never forgiven book tapes since, so podcasts are a real leap of faith into unchartered terrain for me. They have been okay so far. I do not trust them. 

Not like my best friend, TV, which I would die for. I only really become aware of time passing when I reach the next christmas episode of the TV show I am watching. I was watching 30 Rock yesterday and they had a Christmas episode and I thought, didn’t they just do that episode? And then I looked back and realised I’d gotten through 25+ episodes of a TV show in one day. 

It’s been sunny outside which has been lovely, but also I am a bit afraid to go into the garden because I am worried about what my family will say about my body and body hair. 

Yeah, I said it. I have body hair, but it makes me embarrassed because other people don’t feel the same way and sometimes it offends people. I ruined my shoes after I fell into a waterfall in Newcastle, and I ended up going to try on shoes with my two best friends. 

One of them didn’t like standing next to me in the shop because she didn’t like the fact you could see my leg hair as I tried on the shoe. Similarly I went to a wedding last year and my mum and sister made me shave my legs and armpits before it. I felt naked after I did it. I was quite upset after that second one, watching all the hair that I had lovingly grown go down the drain. 

I like the hair because it makes me feel like a powerful ox sometimes, so it’s sad that it also makes me want to hide. 

Money is tight and I said to my friend Andy that I should probably just give up this whole thing and marry a banker. He said, “I don’t think you’re what they’re looking for” and he’s right. Then we both paused and asked, at the same time, who is actually looking for me. I’m the worst of both worlds – not the stereotypical fun kind of gay and I’m not smart or politically engaged enough to be a misanthropic lesbian, so here we are. I’m kind of like a manic pixie dream girl,  but instead of helping someone learn to love life again, I actually just push them over the edge.

If I did settle down and marry a banker, I think a lot about how I won’t be a good wife, but I think I’d be a really good ex-wife. Being married to me would be hell but I’d be excellent about passive aggressively picking the kids up on a Sunday night and bitching about you to my sister. The same way I don’t think I want kids, but if I do have them, I think I’d be really good at taking ages to put my glasses and say “what am I looking at here” whenever my kid tries to show me a meme.

I don’t want to do stuff to be accepted by people. I was thinking about the time in my first year of uni where I drank a shot of washing up liquid because I thought it would make them be friends with me. In the end I don’t think anyone actually watched me do it and my throat burned for a whole day. It was very stupid. I also forced myself into a washing machine for the exact same reason. 

kat washing machine

Pathetic.

I don’t think that’s hugely about fighting the patriarchy and conforming to society’s standards, it’s more about me being an idiot, but the point still stands. 

Anyway, back in this house I’m still that little girl, terrified about a premature fourth wall break, four cushions propping me up, main light on. But it’s not ghosts this time. It’s my own brain, inside me. Like when Professor Quirrell takes off his headscarf in the first Harry Potter and he’s got Voldemort on the back. I know that’s the second time I’ve referenced Harry Potter, it’s because we did a Harry Potter-themed quiz last night and it’s on the brain. A lot like when Professor Quirrell takes off his headscarf and- well, you get the idea.

My bedroom’s been redecorated because my mum wants to rent the house out. Some parts are still the same. Including the stain on my windowsill from when I gave a blowjob to my first boyfriend, he came, I gagged and didn’t know what to do with it, so opened my window and spat it out onto my windowsill and we spent the rest of the summer watching it slowly crust over. A modern day Romeo and Juliet, I prop myself up against my balcony, look out over the world in lockdown and think, please turn over the tape.  

Much like my internet connection, I am unstable

This has been a very strange time in my life – there’s been heartbreak, I spent Christmas in hospital, my birthday in quarantine, and I’ve lived out of a suitcase since the start of the year. I’m kind of like a gay Paddington Bear, and, now that I’m thinking about it, with largely the same fashion sense. 

Just like my internet connection, I am unstable. Like the Zoom chat yesterday when it dropped out and I got so angry I ended the call and tried to listen to “Killing in The Name” by Rage Against The Machine but couldn’t load it because, oh yeah, I don’t have any internet, I have to suck it up and live with it. 

 When I’m depressed it often feels like your brain has been taken over by a clueless intern who hasn’t been given the induction. I’d quite like to stick L plates to myself so people drive really slowly around me, and can’t get cross when I momentarily blank on which side of the road we drive on, decide to take a 50/50 chance, get it wrong and my examiner has to grab the wheel, causing an instant fail.

Tenuous metaphor aside and as much as I’d like Jesus to take the wheel again this time (my examiner’s name was Jesus) (ok no it wasn’t but imagine if it was), I have sadly meandered back into the pits of thinking about topping myself. 

In The Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel sang, “hello darkness, my old friend”. In my brain’s cover version, there’s a verse where darkness is actually forced to take out a restraining order against me because I won’t leave it alone. 

I harbour a lot of resentment towards myself which, sadly, no amount of posting thirst traps on Instagram can sort out. 

I saved up and had two therapy sessions before the lockdown happened. In the last one, I got so frustrated I didn’t go back.  She’s been trying to help me work on my confidence – weird because I didn’t explicitly say I don’t have any.

This happens a lot with friends too, they often say, you just need to work on your self esteem. Which is true, but after a while, it does make you wonder – is it that obvious? Long answer: yes, short answer: double yes – you’ve worn the same outfit for four weeks in a row.

I think I get up in the morning and at some point between that and shutting my front door I subconsciously douse myself in eau de l’ow self esteem and absolutely reek of it, but have no idea that that’s what other people see, too. 

Mental health is invisible but in some ways it’s also really not, and I am a case study for that. I came downstairs yesterday and my sister said I look like “the poster girl for mental health”. I agree, here’s what I’ve worn for the past three weeks. The only difference is that when I’m in bed, I take my socks off. 

Back in my therapist’s office, while I sat stinking up her room with self resentment, she asked me what I see in the mirror. I said, well, I don’t really give myself a chance to look. And she said, “well why’s that?” And I said, well because I’m not really letting myself think for that long. If I’m looking at myself in the mirror, I’ve got music on and I’m singing along. Or I’m watching Friends in the background, so I’m not looking there, I’m looking anywhere else but there. 

She said, “well, why are you doing that?” and I said “because I’m scared”. I explained I watch the same thing over and over, I do the same things over and over, don’t let any feelings in. Because I’m scared that if I do let those in, I’m going to get back into the place I was in back in 2017 when I tried to end my life.  Because if I don’t have my coping strategies in place, I’m afraid I’m going to make one bad call and my entire life is going to fall apart. I constantly feel like I’m one bad decision away from a complete and utter breakdown. She said “well, you need to let yourself feel things” and that’s when I got very angry and left the session never to return, because, duh bitch, obviously I would if I could. Also 50 quid is a lot to be told what you already know. 

Sometimes it’s a toss up between whether you want to pay rent so you can live or whether you should pay for therapy so you can live with yourself. And, sadly, rent comes first. 

But weirdly she’s been kind of prophetic now I’m trapped back in my family house because – jokes on her –  thanks to lockdown I can’t afford either. And now and there’s nothing I can do except wallow in introspection and let those feelings in. And I HATE IT. 

I would like to be emotionally numb, watch Homes Under The Hammer and let things fall apart. I’m such a deer in headlights about making decisions in my life, I’ve accepted that it’s totally fine if the car hits me, because I couldn’t possibly have seen it coming if I’ve got a podcast about Scrubs on.

Also, you know what else? Every day I spend in quarantine I think about the moment I was packing, looked at my vibrator, thought nah, this won’t be for very long, travelled all across London, and how much I fucking resent myself. 

I’ve been volunteering with my family doing a food drop every week to the sick and elderly. It’s been nice to feel like I’m doing something helpful, but a lot of people don’t actually know they’re on the register for it and they’re now classified as elderly – and a lot of them are not happy to find out via me. I feel like the Grim Reaper but instead of a scythe, it’s a cardboard box full of pasta and loo roll.

I’ve also been running. My mum is a personal trainer so we have a treadmill. I texted my friend Andy to say I was on a treadmill and he asked if I was on a drugs trial, which sadly says a lot more about me than I’d like. I chalked it up to a one off but turns out this seems to be largely the collective opinion of my friends. 

Basically, like Batman going to those caves in arguably the worst of the Batman trilogy, (honestly I hated it so much my left hand is balled up as I type this) I’m trying to rebuild myself again, baby. And your girl does not like it one bit. 

But I reckon some of you might be using this time to do the same thing, maybe. And if so, maybe keep an eye on this blog so we can feel it together? But also, two metres apart. Fuck, even the idea of that is turning me on. 

Lockdown stats before I go:

Books read: Zero

Scripts finished: One. Barely. 

Number of awkward silences on Facetime when we’ve run out of things to discuss: a zillion

Number of times I think about that vibrator, sat in the cupboard under my sink, what it’s thinking about and whether it’s missing me: every goddamn fucking day. 

Alright, I’ve got to go – I think darkness has blocked my number by this point, but I can’t be sure unless I call it every thirty seconds to check. But I’ll be back

Dreading water

When I’d been seeing my first boyfriend for a few months, he invited me to come and meet all his friends for the first time. And go swimming with them.

It was difficult to say no because he’d already met all my friends – Ellen – several times, and at one point had rubbed his foot against hers for quite some time when we were playing Capture The Flag on Call of Duty before she asked him what he was doing and he realised it wasn’t my foot.

So off I went, with Ellen, obviously, to find a bikini.

We’d been shopping for underwear together before. My much cooler and feminine sister had been buying Gilly Hicks underwear for years. It sounds fine that you’ve got a sibling that can show you cool stuff, but mine’s three years younger than me.

I can best describe our relationship as one time we were on holiday and looking at jewelry at a stand. The man behind the counter started chatting to us and found out we were sisters. “Ah, so you’re the boss then?” he said, looking at me. In front of a whole market stall and my sister, I had to reply “no”.

So, copying her in a bid to be more popular, for Christmas Ellen and I decided to go to Gilly Hicks, which had a deal on at the time; 5 pairs of underwear for £20. We traipsed down the high street through the rain, and spent hours choosing different ones – even one thong. I’ll just sit here and readjust my beige, period stained underwear that let you guess which one of us chose that.

We then walked back to meet her mum in Kingston car park, excitedly carrying out our paper Gilly Hicks bags like trophies in the horrid December rain. I was particularly excited about the paper bag, so I could use it to carry my packed lunch to school in on Monday. All the popular girls brought their lunches in with paper bags from different stores – Abercrombie was a firm favourite. I’d watch them, and think, my god, what I would give to sit with you all, and eat my sandwiches out of a black and white torso of a damp, shirtless man. Not like this shit bag from Lidl, which by sixth form I was waiting and eating on the bus home after school. Still though, all the old people on the bus must think I’m such a loser.

“Shall we have a look at them?” I said, excitedly, in the car on the way home. Ellen got hers out and we all said how nice they were. Then I went to get mine out, reached into the bag, and realised my hand went all of the way through, and out of the bottom. We then realised that at some point the wind had burst my paper bag open and somewhere on the highstreet all of my underwear must have flown out into the street. Merry Christmas to me.

So here we were, back again, this time at Dorothy Perkins, trying on bikinis. I found one in the sale which was essentially a push up bra, but the cup size was way too big. It made my tits look massive, as long as you weren’t standing close enough to realise that my boob stopped a good inch before the bra cup.

Then, on the day of the meeting, I drove me and my boyfriend to Merlon Rise – the same pool my class had swimming lessons in when I was at primary school.

We used to have swimming lessons every week, where I’d sit on my own on the coach, eating dry cereal and sugar lumps out of tupperware because of my low blood sugar. If I was lucky I’d sit with Catherine, but she was very popular and people would book her to sit next to them weeks in advance. “Same time again next week, Catherine?” they’d say, as I peered on, staring at them through the gap between the seats behind, sucking on a Ricicle.

Our dinner lady Mrs Richards would come and supervise the changing room. And thank god she did – one time I put my swimming costume on and was about to get into the pool and I didn’t realise my entire lip was poking out the side and Mrs Richards had to tell me to tuck my labia back in. Imagine! Nearly turned as red as the rubber latex swimming cap on my head. I almost looked silly for a second.

Not this time though. I had my Dorothy Perkins bikini on. Whoever suggested the pool thing is kind of a genius; it’s the perfect excuse to see what your mate’s new girlfriend’s body looks like. May as well have just sent them nudes and a CV attached, if only my nice underwear wasn’t scattered across Kingston high street. I wasn’t going to look like a loser though this time, because I also had a full face of make-up on – lipstick and all. Nobody could possibly make fun of me now. I’d nailed it.

I walked out, like chilly a debutant at a chlorine-themed ball, all his mates turned around. I gave everyone a little wave, and lowered myself into the pool.

Instantly my bikini top dribbled open like a fountain as soon as enough water filled up, my nipples flapping about. Using one arm to hold my tits in, and the other to wipe away the mascara that was now all down my face, I successfully made small talk with his friends for nearly an hour. Somewhere now, I think, Mrs Richards is looking down on me and smiling. I don’t think she’s dead, but she was really quite old when I was at primary school, so you never know.

I was so pleased with myself, I almost didn’t hear it when I emerged on the other side of the pool to overhear one of his female friends say to the other, “she is quite boring though”.

WordPress has just charged me £50 for this domain so here’s a fucking blog post

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51 pounds, if you’re getting technical. That’s the same as a ticket to Disneyland Paris. Right, fuck the Teacup ride. Let’s do this. I’ll fill you in on my week.

Sunday night, the taps in the house I’m lodging in in Shepherds Bush started gurgling. I didn’t notice, Alex my flatmate did. Alex is incredible – I thought the TV in the living room had been broken for the last two weeks while she’s been away in Nigeria, but then she came back and showed me that I just needed to change the batteries in the remote. Honestly, game changing stuff.

On Monday night, the toilet gurgling got worse, and also there was this eggy smell coming from the sink in the kitchen, which I just assumed were Christy’s farts, who was over to rehearse with me. He then asked me if I needed to go to the toilet, and we both worked out the smell was actually coming from neither of us.

Finally on Tuesday night, our downstairs toilet exploded. Exploded. Out into the downstairs floor, across the hallway. The kitchen sink also exploded with poo, too – which says a lot about Christy’s farts. It was everywhere. My flatmate Gerard – a 60 year old criminal barrister who, on my first day in the house, warned me that the area was “very ethnic” and not to bother recycling because we sell it all to China – was the first to discover the gates of a faecal-based hell had opened up in our house.

The plumber came yesterday morning. I let him in and showed him where the toilet was. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea, he then told me I definitely should not be drinking the water, so I laughed, said “yeah I know” and pretended like I hadn’t already had three cups of tea that morning. About an hour later he shouted up to me that it was sorted. I shouted back “amazing” and closed my 14 tabs’ worth of research into Cholera.

I came downstairs. “I don’t clean it up though” he said, with a smile and off he went. I then spent four hours cleaning up pellets of shit.

We can’t have shoes in the house, and I’m so anxious about abiding by the rules of the house that a lot of that time was spent working out which one was more important – mildly irking my landlord, or treading in actual poo. I decided to go with wearing shoes. It was close though.

I’m at a weird stage. I’ve moved out of my mum’s house, I’ve started a new job. Things are moving forwards, whether I want them to or not. I went home to see my mum last weekend and we went for a pizza. It was nice to see her, she was kind enough to wait at least twenty seconds before asking my opinion on the ISIS bride. 

About a minute into the conversation, she put her favourite song on in the car and turned it up loud so I had to stop talking. It was “don’t you worry ‘bout a thing” by Stevie Wonder, used in my family’s favourite film, Hitch. Fair enough really, it’s a great song and I’ve not stopped listening to it since, despite the fact it was now being used as a mechanism to drown me out.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this financially devastating blog. To make it worth it, here’s a link to a cat answering the phone which I’ve had to watch on repeat to get through the day, and also a link to Nelly’s Hot in Herre – an absolute banger if there ever was one. There’s more I could tell you – I wear glasses now (what) and I like hummus (fuck), I still feel sad (NO!), I’ve pretended to be in an online relationship with my sketch partner for a show that’s caused so much drama it probably won’t happen anymore (oh dear),  I visited a sex therapist last year (tell us more), I’ve started being more open in public about the fact I like both girls and boys (we know), and-

Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing

Don’t you worry ’bout a thing, mama

Kat Sadler: The girl who doesn’t know what she wants, and is afraid to get it

An enemy of an enemy is my friend. Unfortunately, I am my own worst enemy.

In the confusion of trying to work out whether this means I am friends with myself or not, I have created several more enemies inside my brain. Chances are that some of those enemies are also enemies with each other. I am now infested with friends and enemies and I don’t know who is who, but they’re all me, so I think the best thing to do in this situation is to try to become friends with myself. This is tricky because I am the worst.

Whenever I am performing at a gig, it feels like that there is me on stage, attempting to perform comedy, but there’s also another me in the audience, on the front row, watching me, and she absolutely fucking hates it.

She hates every single second of this. “Who let this tiny baby bird on stage?” She says, angrily, right in the middle of my set. “Why is she so frightened? She makes me angry because she’s taking five minutes of my precious time away from me. And what’s with all the bloody chirping?”

At the same time, there’s this other part of me, a tiny voice that says, “bird seed”. No, it doesn’t say that. It says, “hey, remember when that person said that joke you did was funny? Remember how that felt better than anything has ever felt in your pathetic life, and you rode that pitiful high for weeks?” That voice hates me as well, but she can’t argue with the delicious endorphins, because she wants them too, the selfish bitch.

I was recommended Propranolol for stage fright by a friend, which I made an appointment with my doctor about. I got so close to getting it prescribed, and then at the last second her screen flashed up, outing me for having asthma. Propranolol can trigger an asthma attack. I said I was willing to risk it, but at this point she had stopped listening and was busy trying to shoo me out of her window with a massive tea towel.

I am built on fear. Sometimes I think the only reason I allowed myself to be born was because of my fear of enclosed spaces.

feeling mild.png

Feeling MILD.

Everyone is the protagonist of their own story, but I have typecast myself as a background character.

I’m a big wuss. I see so many pictures of people out, enjoying themselves in the sun, sipping margaritas. The closest I get to drinking a margarita is when I’m making a cup of tea to drink in my bedroom and accidentally spill a bit of sugar on the rim.

I don’t really drink. But when I do drink, I get insecure. One of the ways this manifests itself is I start changing my friend’s names in my phone to “best friend”. I get insecure a lot, and this has happened so often that now everyone in my phone is set to “best friend” and I have no idea who I’m texting anymore. Which is a nightmare, because I’d really need my best friend in a time like this, and I’ve accidentally texted someone I stopped speaking to in year 11.

I’m also bizarrely in a stable relationship at the moment. I’ve started as many Netflix shows as physically possible with him to minimise the risk of him leaving.

I don’t have much else to say about it really, apart from recently we were alone in my house very late, and I heard a noise outside. Classically, I started to freak out about the idea of someone breaking into the house, and he spent twenty minutes calmly explaining to me how safe we were, and how the unlikely a break in would be.

The next day he told me that he then waited until I fell asleep to freak out, plan a detailed escape route for us out of the house and how he would negotiate if we were taken hostage. I think that’s love. Or gaslighting, I’m not sure. I’m going to go with love for now.

I should probably text him, but I really don’t know which ‘best friend’ he’s saved under.

***

Audience Kat (reading this, from the other side of her laptop): What a fucking piece of shit this blog is. I can’t believe I wasted my time trying to read it. That baby bird metaphor that went nowhere? That bit about a boy at the end? Jesus Christ, I’ve just vomited all over the floor. She’s the worst person alive, and now she’s going to share it, and the endorphins of a single like will make her feel like writing this was worth it. What a loser.

Me: Wait! Give me a chance! I can do this! I can find my voice, I can-

Audience Kat: Sorry, did someone say something? All I can hear is chirp chirp chirp.

Me: But I think I can really-

Audience Kat: CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP.

Me: Chirp chirp chirp.

Young, single, and ready to cry the second someone asks me if I’m okay

The more I panic about jobs, the more I have to remind myself that jobs are just the thing I do in the day to pass the time until I get to eat again. A good job just means the wait between getting to eat again is less painful.

I don’t know why people think I’m bad with money when I get so many letters saying all my payments are outstanding, but unfortunately earlier on in the year I completely ran out of money.

I had an interview at a fancy London juice bar which I’m scared to name in case they track me down and juice me. I headed upstairs thinking I was super qualified and ready to shine in this interview, but to my horror I emerged into a room full of over 20 stunningly beautiful people in their 20s. I nervously stared at my phone, seeking the solace of my friends, but unfortunately they were all preoccupied giving me useless advice.

stop texting in interviews

Six interviewers came out and explained their juice story. No amount of glitter on my face could make up for the terror of having to tell a room of people what my “aesthetic” is.

They did a quick-fire round of questions. “You!” One of the employees pointed at a terrified but well styled man in the circle. “If you had to join the army tomorrow, what would you do?” The guy thought for a while and then said “…join it?”, which everyone seemed happy with.

“You!” A beautiful girl with almost crotchless dungarees pointed at me. “If you were going to make me a smoothie, what would you make me?” I thought about it for a bit. Then I said, “I’d probably ask you what you wanted and then I’d make you that?” They all looked at me like I’d shot her in the face with a gun. I made an excuse, gathered up my stuff and excused myself from the room.

It reminded me of the time in university where I thought I’d give street dance a go. I went to one class, and the girl running it made little groups of us perform the routine she’d taught us at the end. They were recording it on their phones for the street dance Facebook page. I froze. Right when it got to my turn, I legged it out of the room. To this day, when I hear the start of Beyonce’s Flawless, I fight the overwhelming urge to run away as fast as my little, rhythmless legs can carry me.

I had a counselling session in the woods with my mum’s old therapist. We walked around the fields for a while and talked about how to best work on my confidence.

A lot of this just meant shouting by feelings at some very far away, nonplussed sheep in an adjacent field. He suggested I pace up and down the stage when I perform stand up to a room of people so I occupy the space first before I say anything. I tried this out once at a gig last week and think people thought I was having a breakdown.

My dream is to live my life with the confidence of a newspaper that’s been left on a tube seat that everyone is afraid to move.

Sometimes for confidence I go to a cubicle and do a starfish inside the cubicle. This involves standing with your arms up in the air and legs splayed against the cubicle walls. I watched a TED talk which said that you can convince yourself you’re in control if you take a pose that’s dominant, so I tried to make it part of my warm up process. I starfished at a gig very early on and did not realise there was a window directly behind me. The man outside having a cigarette found thoroughly more amusing than my actual set.

I also put glitter on my face for confidence too. I feel pretty when I have sparkles on my face. I probably look like a lunatic at important meetings with a face full of majestic sparkle town, but I don’t care, cause I’m a glistening boss queen. I’m only joking, I don’t have important meetings. I literally put glitter all over my face and sit in a café until it shuts. It’s fucking pathetic.

I’m learning a lot about boys and dating. The same does not go for them. One boy I saw for a little bit asked so few questions about me, it was like someone had told him that I was in the witness protection programme and his life would be in mortal peril if he did.

“So what’s your favourite sexual position?” My friend Hollie asked me over drinks in spoons.

“Missionary and over quickly” I replied, after a long sip of my coke and a big think. She laughed for a long time, we decided that I need to go out into the world and explore myself.

I want to be a strong, confident and independent woman on dates, but also it’s difficult to hide the relief I would definitely feel if I guy actually ordered my food for me. I want to be the kind of girl that you gaze at wistfully on the opposite end of the tube platform. Not the girl whose face is currently shoved into the armpit of a commuter on her way home.

I’ve been trying to explore myself sexually. It’s a bit of worry that my sex life resembles an M&S cake.

m&s cake sexual position

It’s had its dangers – last week culminating in a boy attempting to seductively bite my T-shirt, accidentally getting my neck skin, and me crying for ten minutes.

I also attempted to 69 with a boy, which just ended up with me naked, on all fours, frozen in terror like a wild animal in the night that’s just heard a predator rustling in the bushes. I’d suggested 69ing because I’m worried about guys getting bored when they go down on me. That’s the saddest sentence I think I’ve ever typed to you, reader, and I’m sorry you had to read it.

Also to add a final dose to that humiliation, I accidentally sent a sticker to a guy I’d been on one date with and not heard back from in weeks.

cant commit sticker

The worst part was, I was only reading the chat for clues to where it all went wrong. But I think I’ve just managed to answer that myself.

Beauty is in the eyelashes of the beholder

I have so many awkward interactions in the day I’ve had to start going to bed earlier just so I’ve got enough time to lie there and relive all of them.

My anxiety is bad. I’m anxious about whether I’m anxious enough to be seeing someone about how anxious I am.

I have trouble committing to dates to meeting up with friends, because a huge part of my anxiety is simply deciding on a plan. If I got my way, every plan I had would be made on the spot, instantaneously. That way I don’t have the time to worry about every single part of the encounter in the run up to it. And I worry about everything.

Oh, everything. Having anxiety-induced IBS is a big part of this worry. You can spot one of us instantly. We already know where the toilets are in any given building, and if we’ve stayed at your house we know how well the toilet flushes – which often correlates directly with how early we leave your house in the morning. It’s a “quick like a band-aid” approach to friendship, and hugely flawed.

But lying in bed and chain-watching Riverdale, possibly the worst piece of trash that’s ever been on Netflix, then watching fan videos of the top ten kisses of two characters I’ve latched onto, I’m beginning to realise perhaps it’s my own character I need to ship with someone, and maybe its unhealthy to live vicariously through two two-dimensional characters in poorly written, thirty-minute increments. Even if that is far more convenient than my life will ever be.

So out I go into the world, with my little woolly hat, two pairs of beige pants on and a carton of Ribena for the commute home. Doing the casual thing. Literally everybody is going the casual thing. I say this because I really hope everybody is, and it’s not just me that men are doing this to as a way of keeping their options open.

The first casual date I went on was way back in April, and I handled it really badly. It was a date that came right after a break up, like, scarily close to when my break up happened, and I remember leaving the date and thinking, “oh, it’ll be okay, maybe I’ll have a new boyfriend by Sunday.”

Unfortunately, I did not have a new boyfriend by Sunday. The guy didn’t want to see me again, but did it by saying he was busy until I got the message. Totally fine – I was probably too funny for him: intimidating. But it was an introduction to this world of the casuals that I’ve not been part of before. It’s a bizarre world. Mostly because I am the least casual person on the planet. I’m formal. Would probably be a bit weird if I showed up to dates in a full suit and tie though, armed with a binding contract of all my terms and conditions (also wearing a suit and tie – it looks adorable, you should date both of us).

Every time I meet someone new, I’m surprised they can’t see my brain screaming behind my eyes. The ideal date for me would be someone patting my head and going “it’s okay”. Can I put that in my Tinder bio?

Dating is carnage for me because I play a different character in every relationship dynamic I’ve had, romantic and otherwise. As much as I want to be myself, I just don’t think a guy likes to be interrupted mid sentence with “sorry but I’ve just pulled out three eyelashes, do you want to see them?” despite how excited I am to show him my bodily harvest.

It takes a while to figure out the character, and hurts when nothing more happens romantically because it’s a rejection of my whole persona, and this entire world of myself I created for the person – rather than accepting that just they weren’t interested in seeing me again. It’s like I’m an artist holding out a piece of their work they created specifically for the beholder, and the beholder going, ‘yeah, it’s not for me actually.”

You what, mate?

I sculpted myself into this twisted Picasso mess for you, you dick. The least you could do is unquestioningly love it, even if you don’t understand it. This whole gallery is on fucking fire now and it’s your fault. Have a look at these three eyelashes and fuck off.

The last date I went on, during the approach to the boy who was waiting on the other side of the road, I fell over on the curb. I got back up, tried to laugh it off, ended up inhaling several strands of my own hair and choking on it, then having to fishing the damp clump of hairs out of my mouth.

Then when I sat down I hit my head on one of the light bulbs above the table in the cool bar I definitely did not belong inside. Like I was being punished by a cartoonish representation of what a bad idea it was to go on a date and leave my house. I hate those fucking light bulbs. Who on earth thought the light bulb should be the universal sign of a good idea? Put a fucking lampshade on, you luminous hussy. Also, where are the toilets please?

I don’t tell him how early I was going to have to go to bed the next few days. I’m going to have to go to bed at bloody 4pm to get a full screening of this monstrosity.

They say you are what you eat, and I’ve been eating a lot of my feelings this week.

I’ve eaten so much that I have created a comfort blanket’s worth of junk food under my skin, and I’m uncharacteristically warm for October. Which is a relief, because I can’t fit into any of my jeans.

Most of this week has been spent conflicted about the downfall of Uber. I’m viewing its collapse as another blow to mental health services. Now who am I going to drunkenly discuss getting back in contact with my estranged father with at 4am? I really felt like I was getting somewhere with Georgios. And not just because we’d arrived outside my house and he was telling me to get out of his car.

I like to think of myself as a Fold Digger, which is my word for still living with my mother at 23 because she’s the only person I know who knows how to fold a bed sheet.

I’ve been using a lot of dating apps recently, particularly Bumble. It’s a great app if you really want to want to find out which pictures you took of your ex they’re now using to attract other people. I don’t feel so bad though because I know you can’t crop memories out of a picture. Unlike my face, which you absolutely can.

I freaked another guy out this week, in the middle of trying to decide whether we wanted to use a condom. We’d debated for a while until he said, “Kat, no offence, but I don’t want you to have my baby”

Which, in hindsight, is a very fair thing to say. However, at the time, oh you bet I was offended. In my head I started justifying why he should absolutely want me to have his baby. I’m maternal, fun and I make great toast. In fact, I was kind of offended he hadn’t asked me yet to have his baby yet. What an idiot.

I haven’t seen him since, so I’m guessing he found another person to not bear his child. Meanwhile I’m being ghosted so hard my phone’s getting featured on Most Haunted.

I got stopped in the street by a guy who asked me for my number. I’ve not once been able to remember my mobile number, but if you ever need to contact Lombard Direct in 2002 for an unsecure personal loan, it’s 0800 215 000.

I asked him if he had Facebook, because he could add me on there. Then he said, “no thanks, I don’t add strangers on Facebook” and walked away. Men are going out of their way to reject me on the streets of London.

The thing is, my relationships usually last somewhere between the three day wait for him to call you after the first date, and the five second rule when you drop food.

I’ve started trying to work on myself a little bit, get some of my self esteem back. Trying to live my best life.

baby boy edit 3

Been thinking about squatting so condom guy might notice me, but him asking me to get off his property probably isn’t the Say Anything boombox moment it is inside my head.

I’ve also started getting my eyebrows done a little bit too often because I like the feeling of her cradling my head and I’ve been craving the soft warmth of human contact.

Last night I only remembered to shave one leg. Shaving is a stressful process because I always do it in a hurry and sometimes the razor blade squeaks like its actually screaming, like its in physical pain and disgust. I’ve started calling my razor my Babe Blade, so it makes shaving seem like a fun game instead of just a constant unending battle I will never win. Having only one leg shaved actually turned out to be quite nice because I sleep on my side and it kind of felt like I was being spooned by someone else.

I read a lot of the rush hour crush messages in The Metro. It’s becoming one of my favourite things to do. A little while ago, a tiny part of me thought one might be about me.

This turned out to actually be quite stressful to deal with because then I spent the rest of the train journey thinking about how I would reject the person who wrote it because I would never go out with someone who would write a rush hour crush, they’re fucking sad.

On closer inspection, I realised it didn’t actually say “to the weeping girl with work trousers tucked into her fluffy bed socks” so crisis averted, phew. I’ll still give him my number. He might need a personal loan from 2002.

Shower Business

In early May this year my friends and I filmed a silly sketch called Shower Business and put it on YouTube for a laugh. The premise of the sketch is that I get my best ideas in the shower, so I decide to run a business from there.

In the recent few months, this sketch has gone from having under 500 views to 17k views and we have no idea why.

“People are researching you!” said my optimistic best mate Sara, who plays my assistant in the video. “They want to know who you are!”

Well, I am doing a three-hander at the fringe this year.

Maybe someone, one person in the eight people that have come to see the show, had been a comedy bigwig. Maybe they searched me on YouTube, found this nugget of comedy gold and shared it to their thousands of followers.

A little part of me thought, this is it. This is the video that’s cracked show business.

Until the last few days. When some confusing comments started trickling in.

shower business commentsI don’t own tall boots. I wear trainers with orthopaedic insoles because I have hooves instead of feet.

I began to think that perhaps that I’ve been mixed up with some sort of heel-wearing comedy actor, or model. Had I worn tall boots to a recent comedy gig? Does the comedy industry want me to dress more sexy? Perhaps taller? Do I mention mud in my comedy set? I don’t recall doing that, but sometimes I improvise riffs and it’s anyone’s guess what can happen when Kat gets on a roll. But this sketch is set in a shower, and the shower environment is integral to the joke.

To clarify where my fans were coming from, I decided to check YouTube analytics.

shower comments 2.png

Minxmovies sounds like an odd name for a comedy-sharing platform, but I suppose can be a bit of a minx sometimes when it comes to my sassy personality and fierce quips. So I Google it.

shower comment 3.png

My heart has just dropped into my clothing, dresses, jeans, knickers and panties.