In Defence Of Being Visible

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I am happy with myself. I have flaws and insecurities, as every person does, but I wouldn’t change who I am, even if I could.

This is not glowing self-praise, nor blatant narcissism, but it still feels rather strange and alien to declare that I am happy with myself as a human being. It’s been so ingrained into my mind now that I must preface every compliment I give myself with a quick self-deprecating jab to remind myself (and to assure others) not to seem uppity or conceited.

Isn’t that bizarre? Is it not a strikingly forlorn habit that distancing yourself from your own kindness has become so normalised?

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The Valentine’s Chronicles

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My first Valentine’s Day of any significance happened when I was at primary school. I must have been ten or eleven years old, and was shyly handed an envelope at school, by a boy named Martin, before he dashed off in an embarrassed, awkward hurry.

Back then, I was a very different me to the girl, woman, I am today – this was in the days of bootcut jeans, tracksuit tops and mousy brown hair. Before dark dye, before my daily ritual of false eyelashes and overdrawn lips, and before I’d had my heart bruised and broken by a string of different boys.

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