The Darkest Hour Never Comes In The Night

Written: 15/04/2018

I share this in light of Mental Health Awareness Week. I have found that with mental health that pretending to be okay whether you are or not can be the easiest and also hardest thing. Your health and wealth don’t determine your happiness, they may make it more cushy but you cannot buy happiness. Right now I’m taking each day at a time, listening to my mind about what I want in all aspects of my life and what is important to me. In a cruel but clear reality, I realised a long time ago that my best writing came when I felt the lowest within myself. I used to think that all I had to do to write a bestselling book was drink a significant amount of alcohol and tap into the deepest parts of me. I’ve yet to try it to confirm if that is the case. I’m sharing this because it’s raw, it’s honest, and because I haven’t published anything in a long time despite having an abundance of ideas.


Let me start by telling you that isn’t the story I thought I would write. Let me start by telling you that it hurts more than I ever imagined possible. Let me start by telling you that time isn’t making this easier for me.

It’s crazy, is it not, that of all the different grounds the soles of your feet will tread on, no two experiences can ever be exactly the same. What two different pairs of eyes look at won’t see the exactly the same thing. Therefore, it’s the same with heartbreak, betrayal and mental health.

To avoid tears in yet another public place, I shall not delve into the devil of the details of my recent woes, but I wish to metaphorically unclip the world from my shoulders, pull the knife out of my chest and the foot off my throat and breathe again. And for me, it is not only reading but also writing too that helps me to unload. I know the answers to many of my questions that I don’t want to face, but I can’t seem to find the key to the locket of my heartache. I don’t know how to go on, but that I will go on because I don’t have a choice to do anything else. Every time, every year I should probably say, that I feel that I’ve ended up in a situation/ I’m experiencing something a cut above anything else in terms of difficulty to soldier on through, life seems to add a new level to the game.

I thought I knew where my life was headed and somehow the rug has been pulled from under my feet and I’m swimming in the unknown. And it’s probably my own tears I’m swimming in. Perhaps I was the creator of my own fall. I thought I knew what heartbreak was before, but I now know that was definitely not heartbreak. It’s been weeks now and I still don’t feel any closer to “over it” than the day it happened. And it is almost another level of cruelty that nobody seems to empathise with your pain. How does someone tell you that you’re their soulmate, to then go to not wanting to be around you a moment longer in the blink of an eye? How can you dog ear the future with someone and then suddenly decide that your life would actually just be better altogether without them? You’re left wondering how what you perceived to be a bump in the road was actually the road to ruin. You’re left reading self-help articles online as to how you continue to wake up, go to work and go back to sleep each day willingly. How can you go through mountains of difficult situations with one person and then not be able to overcome a mole hole? You read that who you’ve become isn’t “the woman he fell for” and you know you let yourself be suffocated by invisible pressure to get to the top of a ladder that doesn’t actually have enough rings for you to yet reach the top. You know that you subconsciously used your comfort zone to mask the frustrations of your own life and now you’ve no choice but to take the bull by its horns, to face the elephant in the room and not keep making excuses for yourself.

I want to say “the first few days were the hardest” but they weren’t, they were just the ones with biggest quantities of tears. You’ve gone from playing pretend engagement at the jewellery shop to not being able to enter a cake shop after seeing wedding decor and realising in that moment that may never be you now.

And then when you’re taking the steps to turn your life around when you remember that life is to be lived and not just plainly endured, the one person you confided in turns on you with the snap of her fingers because you won’t succumb to her beliefs on a situation. She’s pegged all the dirty laundry high enough for it to be seen by everyone on the most public of washing lines. She used to support you, encourage you to believe in yourself and now she’s publicly calling you an unlovable poorly paid loser. She’s cut you off so she can’t receive the replies that you were never going to send because you were not going to bark back. She’s publicly disowned you for putting morals above money. It feels like whilst you were picking yourself up of the ground, she has intentionally come along and round-house kicked you in both your knee caps and made getting back up a near impossibility. You wonder what you did to deserve all this pain. The tarot cards keep telling you that ‘better things will evolve from the debris’ of your current situation, and that you have to let yourself grieve for what you’ve lost. Yet, it seems as though the world would like you to remove yourself from its existence. Surely karma is done with you now?

The tears stain your steering wheel, your face is red with the exertion of tears as you’ve spent your lunch break bent over your steering wheel sobbing your heart out whilst 3 Doors Down belt out ‘Here Without You.’ You’re so depressed that other people don’t want to do anything but pat you on the back. You reek of sadness and that is not a perfume in which others want to bask themselves. You can’t seem to call your best friend with anything positive to say, she’s thousands of miles away having to coax you out of a panic attack before you actually do choke on your sobs on a dark and deserted street. The stench of your sadness is overwhelming. They say that ‘tears don’t mean you’re losing’ , but no matter how many you shell out, you never feel like you’re winning or on a tie break either. People like to say that “you’ll meet someone else” but can’t seem to understand that the idea of actually being with someone else physically, mentally, emotionally repulses you enough to dig your own grave and lie in it. How do you ever trust someone who would go so far out of their way to hurt you? To willfully throw you under the bus, reverse back over you and rip out your jugular. She’s now verbalised that niggling devil on your shoulder, if she thinks that lowly of you, what does everyone else say behind your back?

They say that time heals all pain, but the clouds have never actually been so dark and dismal above my head. I know worse things happen to people, and in time even more dreadful things will happen to me, but sometimes it’s hard to escape the sound of your own madness rattling around your brain. To grieve for the dead is one thing, but to grieve for the living? That’s tough. The act of being able to be delete all photographic moments with you so fast like you never happened, like it was never them that pursued you and not the other way around really stings. Many ask “why do you care so much?” They say “how can you be so bothered by people who obviously aren’t bothered about you?” The doctor will not put you back on anti-depressants, being a strong believer that changing your job, increasing your exercise and spending more time outside will somehow help a broken heart.

Let me finish by saying that the darkest hour never comes in the night. Let me finish by saying that I keep flicking through this chapter to see the ending and the beginning of the next but it isn’t there to be found. Let me finish by saying that depression is a darkness experienced differently by every single soul. Maybe a silver lining will one day show up, but at the moment it is hard to see when it’ll appear.


Am I the Only One?

It’s strange when you start living life at roller coaster speed with brimming commitments and responsibilities to have it come to a sudden halt with something as simple as a bank holiday or being on annual leave. It’s like the thoughts you’ve pushed aside are the angry villagers in the Beauty and the Beast remake beating violently down the door (your brain) until they finally make a way in. And you’re flooded with the time and space to confront them during the week and not just the weekends. Am I the only one who feels this way? Is this the step up from the extremes and contrasts of literature student life? Is it a remedy or a temporary buffer?

I’m 22 and I’ve definitely had my share of mental health issues. There I said it. I didn’t make it figuratively pretty or relatable I just said it. It’s 2017 and it’s okay to do that, right? If that’s so then why do people use that against you when they want to? It’s like someone grabbing your arm and full on punching you in the face and you’ve no control over it because of the one time you conceded control in the past. I’ve come to find some things aren’t worth talking about because some things don’t seem real until the words have oxygen attached to them. Until the names get faces and voices to humanise them. And they become an irritating dark cloud in a perfect blue and cloudless sky. Am I the only one that thinks this? Is reputation etched in the walls of the buildings you once knew and the gravel on the ground?

It’s almost ironic to say you’ve had episodes of crippling anxiety in the past, but have now reached a point where you couldn’t care less. Am I the only one that has reached this point? I’d do anything for an easy life, provided I can take a trip every so often and have hobbies. I get irritated by little things. What a luxury is it to sit and moan with an unfiltered sense of entitlement.

Am I the only one to notice how fake the world is? That Katy Perry got it right when she put music to the brutal fact that we are all indeed chained to the rhythm. That we spend our lives creating seemingly perfect versions of ourselves that society accepts on its rigid spectrum. We live a world where it’s acceptable to let friendships be reduced to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram likes. A world where you’ll be given the cold shoulder for not having watched a video your friend shared 2 days ago. A world where we’ve never been more encouraged to sit down and be the couch potato generation; and then be scrutinised because you can’t seem to find the time to move as much as you used to. A world where an opinion that isn’t shared by the majority is about as welcomed as serving dog poo on fine China and calling it Mississippi Mud Pie. Does freedom of speech really exist if you can be punished if people don’t like what you’ve said? How did we become a world where we’ve never been more in each others pockets,  yet we’ve never been more out of touch. A world where to not be associated with someone on social media is like physically slapping them.  You didn’t say happy birthday to your kid in a status or your dad on father’s day to Facebook instead of their face? Well you’ve obviously got a “bad” relationship. Why “waste” money on a card when you recycle an old photo and add it to a forgettable status/post/tweet? Am I the only one that sees or believes that this is the world we live in? When did we become so detached by becoming so attached?

You read this and think I’m depressed. I’m currently not. I’m currently frustrated. Am I the only one? Do other people think that the title social media is an ironic title? My Facebook is just a catalogue of people to look in on every so often, and maybe 50 ‘friends.’ It’s never been more invasive, yet I sit and scroll aimlessly anyway and update regularly because that’s what everyone does- that’s how people remember you’re still alive and kicking. I once joked that I learned who my friends were by deciphering who I’d have over for a cuppa in my house. It was an agonisingly small list. 

Am I the only one that strives to be better, but never feels like they get very far? Am I the only one who likes everything work wise but not enough to sacrifice anything to have a “career”; yet doesn’t regret going to university? Is it wrong to want a life and not a career? That what you really wanted was to find ‘the one’, and now that you’ve found him, everything else seems so utterly pointless? It’s like having questions and no concrete answers (haha). Does guilt ever subside? Am I really the only one that sees life as a merrigoround of recycled trends and opinions? There’s never anything really ‘new’ about the world. Will we ever unchain ourselves from the rhythm? No, we’ll march to a different beat come a new decade or a new government. The world can be a beautiful place and it can be a lonely one, and I often wonder if I’m the only walking a tightrope of approval in order to get by.

Am I the one that wonders why the only way to make money is to airbrush the less attractive parts of your life out and brown nose your way to the top? When did journalism always insulate that everybody had the same opinion? Has it always been that way? Will I ever get through my Netflix list before they bring more shows out? Is keeping up with trends necessary in order to be relevant? Will I read every book that takes my interest? Will this be the year I “make something of myself”? Am I the only one that feels like they are home to the weight of the world on their shoulders? Is it social anxiety that makes me ignore people I know in public and not the ones I don’t? Since when did trying to be different mean that everyone is now in some ways the same? Why is there an app for everything? Am I the only one to ponder these things after noticing them?

In the words of Sam Smith, “I know I’m not the only one.”  🏃💭

Something I Could Never Forget

July 2016

I went to see my Nan alone one sunny Sunday evening on my own. I felt that it was important that I went alone. I remember that Nanny talked about random things and I went along with it. I told her random things about my life that I knew she wouldn’t remember just to keep her engaged. When the doctors and nurses came round for the routine checks, Nanny became unsettled. She always does now with people she does not know. I talked to my Nan whilst they did what they needed to do in regards to changing her etc. and they said that she was so much calmer in my presence. They jokingly asked if I ‘could come more often and sit with the other patients.’ My Nan would always tell people how ‘clever’ her grandchildren were and the doctor started to ask me about my degree. She was really impressed about my time studying abroad (Mississippi isn’t your typical place to study abroad, let’s face it haha) and that she wanted her daughter to follow in my footsteps. I was hugely flattered by her words. It was obvious even through the dementia that we were my Nan’s pride and joy.

I sat with my Nan watching Wimbledon after that (it was something we used to do together at her house) before making my way back to Burbage for dinner. As I was leaving the ward, my Nan was watching me walk away and kept repeatedly shouting “I LOVE YOU!” I stopped at the door of the ward and shouted back “I love you too Nanny.” The making of eye contact was like a window into her soul, her way of telling me that she was still in there and she loved me very much. It was a hugely heart-warming moment for me. It was like the sun had briefly reassuringly shone on my back and tried to fill a section of the cracks in my heart. ♥

February 5th 2017

It feels strange saying that I have come to terms with how things are now. In fact, it feels incredibly cold but I feel as though I have done some of my grieving already. The old equilibrium of my life before May 2016 has gone and I have come to accept the new equilibrium because in both of them, I get to have my Nan in my life and that will always be priceless. That isn’t to say that I won’t be devastated when I don’t get to have her in my life anymore, but I am coping a lot better than I was before. I’ve come to realise that being so devastated about the sudden decline of my Nan’s health was a sign of how blessed I’d been to have so many memories of and with her. And even with this new equilibrium, I’m blessed that I still get make more.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed, so savour the sweetness of your yesterdays. 

-Lisa Berrie 2017.


‘It’s 04:03 and I can’t sleep’ in Ibiza

The following post is a stream of late night thoughts occupying my sleepless self whilst on holiday in Ibiza visiting some friends in September 2016. I hope it makes for good reading, and perhaps a good cry too.


I stand in front of you and you no longer recognise me. It’s so much harder than I could ever imagine this to be. The thousands of miles of conversations all gone but safely stored to my memory. The time bomb is coming for me again and I’ll never be ready to live without you. My heart tears like cheap paper at the mere thought of losing you. My throat gets so unbelievably tight that I sometimes I think I might swallow the thyroid gland that doesn’t function correctly for me. The cactus has set up home in my throat without ever signing a lease or paying a penny in rent, and I give in so easily that I come to loathe my lack of emotional strength.

In my head I cry hot frequent tears that keep streaming down my face, so incessantly that my skins gets so sore it peels off. I was SO close to freedom from my commitments to education, only to have the carpet of reliability ripped so roughly away from me that my heart has a frame for its piercing and probing burn. One too many a salty tear has left me bitter in my sorrow. I am so angry in my head, I want to scream at the obscenity of my misfortune, even though I know that other people love and care for you just as much as much as I do. I’m angry at myself. Disappointed. I had visions of you reading the blogs I’d told you about and being nervous about what you thought, because your opinion would have mattered most to me. Have I got it in me to read my writings aloud to you? It’s unlikely. Even in my most convincing of fronts I’m also only human. I wanted to craft the perfect piece of prose to convey how much better my life has been for having you in it, for knowing you, for being related to you.

Deep down I think you know all of this, and now I’m suddenly so grateful for the poloroid photos I insisted on being taken at Christmas, despite loathing how I looked at that time in my life. I realise that my pain comes from my fortune- that many people aren’t fortunate enough to have such loving grandparents to form miles of memories with; whether it’s Friday night in front of the TV or day trips out. So whilst I acknowledge that nothing lasts forever, I’ll be sure to create many more moments I can go back and reflect on, forever and always floating around in my bulging memory.

(Title taken from the song ‘If You Only Knew’ by Shinedown, from the album The Sound of Madness).


Turning 21 with an Amsterdam Adventure

For months on end, Ellis and I had been planning on taking a trip together abroad before she moved to Ibiza and the Easter break granted us that opportunity. Amsterdam had been at the top of my travel to-do list for a long time, so to be going on a foreign adventure with one of my closest friends was an exciting prospect!

Day one (31st March 2016): Newcastle-under-Lyme/Manchester/ Amsterdam

On Thursday morning we woke up early and Ellis’s lovely mum Dawn made us a quick breakfast before we hit the morning traffic on the way to Manchester airport. I’ve never personally flown from Manchester before so this was a new experience for me too. We were out the door at 7:08am and made the airport with plenty of time to spare, having already checked in the night before. We went straight through customs, both of us tired out of our minds. I forgot to take my transparent bag of liquids out of my bag and had to wait about twenty minutes just to get my bag back. The security at Manchester Airport were probably the nicest I’ve ever encountered though, so I didn’t feel bad about my rookie blunder. After this we went spritz crazy in duty free and got ourselves coffee as Costa. As we waited at the gate, a toddler kept going over to a group of lads and asking them for crisps which was adorably amusing.


View from the Manchester Airport runway.


The flight itself was short and sweet. We chatted a bit and took photos of the wonderful countryside of North England. I love these views of England, it’s the small things like this that make me wonder why on earth I would want to leave this country on a permanent basis. I only managed a small portion of my book before we touched down in The Netherlands for the first time at Amsterdam Schipol Airport. And it was a HUGE airport! We went through immigration where the official noticed that it was nearly Ellis’s birthday. He didn’t speak much English but said to her: ‘almost…birthday’, which was highly amusing because it was unexpected. We then headed outside in search of a shuttle bus to our hotel when we were greeted with the huge ‘I Amsterdam’ sign, which I’ve seen so many times on my social media and was therefore glad to be able to get my own photo. We took some selfies before getting individual photos. Ellis said: “get in the d. In it, not on it” –innuendo fully intended. People were helpful outside the airport and it wasn’t long until we arrived at our hotel and checked in. After freshening up we bought day passes for the bus and headed into the city centre.

It took us about 30 minutes to get to the city centre on the bus but it was so great to finally be in Amsterdam! We were both extremely hungry so we got a hot dog (we’d read recommendations to try the street food and who doesn’t love a hot dog?) but this failed to fill a hole. We decided to have a proper meal and get a snack later on. We went to a fairly cheap Italian restaurant with me getting pizza and Ellis getting spaghetti bolognese. We sat for a long time talking before heading out and walking the busy streets of Amsterdam. Bicycles and scooters were everywhere and we saved each other’s lives many a time! We walked up to Dam Square as this was on our list of places to see. I got myself a replica Van Persie shirt before losing my cool at the sight of so many macaroons where a girl told me the shop had 21 different kinds of, so naturally we went in and Ellis got to try her first ever churro.

After this, we headed towards the palace which was truly glorious building. It was getting a lot colder outside so we needed to keep walking. We decided to head to Jordaan since Ellis had read about it online. We walked a fair distant before deciding to ask a shopkeeper of a fancy dress shop for directions and he congratulated me on the success of Leicester City in the Premier League. We had to backtrack on ourselves and eventually ended up in Jordaan. We saw some street art of Van Gogh and took some pictures alongside it as well as some giant plastic clogs. We sat in McDonald’s for a while before heading back to the hotel and staying up later than we had originally planned by watching True Movies that were too good to turn off.

Day 2 (1st April 2016): A Slice of Culture and a Slice of History

As a result of our film binging we ventured out around midday into the city of Amsterdam, heading straight for the Anne Frank House as we felt that it was important to visit such an iconic, symbolic and historic place after reading her diary. We queued for about an hour before finally getting inside. The staff had given around little booklets about the house whilst we were waiting in line and one quote from Otto Frank really made me think about how much society has and hasn’t changed since then and now. It made me think a lot about Donald Trump’s presidential campaign- using a religious group as a scapegoat for the nation’s failings.

Anyhow, the house itself was bigger than I expected and being in the house of such oppression and isolation was both humbling and harrowing all at once. Watching interviews of those who had known Anne Frank at school etc made my heart ache because their words really brought her to life. She was, by her own admission, not a saint and the raw quality of her diary shows that. I think what made the diary so successful is not just the tragic death of its writer but the fact that as someone said in of the videos played in the house, unlike other Holocaust narratives, you could feel Anne’s pain without seeing the horror side that was the cold and callous concentration camps. The most striking thing for me of all though was the actual size of ‘Kitty’ (her diary) itself. That tiny diary touched the hearts of millions. It opened people’s eyes to the suffering that propaganda, prejudice and persecution can cause. All that suffering just because of their religion. I wrote in the visitor’s book: ‘at the end of the day, human life must always come before any religious belief.’

After the house we headed back to the bustling city centre that we’d become particularly familiar with our time in Amsterdam. We’d got McDonald’s and eaten it on the way to the house so we went to a small café for lunch after a coffee in Starbuck’s. We decided to split up for a couple of hours to see the different things that we wanted to see. We’ve both travelled solo before so we didn’t offend one another by doing this. I headed to the Van Gogh Museum because although I’m no expert in art, I distinctly remember falling in love with Sunflowers in primary school. I noticed that Vondelpark was on the way to the museum and I’d read about it in Madison’s blog the night before so I decided to take a walk there first, in order to carry on our tradition of ‘walking in each other’s footsteps.’  It was such a relaxed and quiet place sandwiched in a bustling city and I really enjoyed such a simple walk alongside people just going about their lives, whether they were hanging out with friends, dog walking etc. what I enjoyed about it was that I could just simply BE for a while and not think or worry about what’s ‘next’, in every aspect of the word. I watched a dopey dog drop his ball twice in the pond and be too scared to reach for it and his owner would smile and come and get it for him every time (is that not true love right there?) Little things that made life enjoyable. ❤ When I eventually arrived at the museum, I was in awe. It housed not only the works of Van Gogh but also the people who inspired him and the people his work inspired. It was truly surreal to see his works with my own eyes and learn more about him too. I’ve taken to buying postcards of paintings I like on my travels since I can’t afford the real deal and I bought new Van Gogh ones for my room.

After two hours I left the museum to meet up with Ellis again but in typical me style, I got lost. I tried not to panic but when I realised I didn’t know where I was going I headed back to city centre so that I could use wi-fi to contact Ellis, and thankfully she wasn’t far away! Ellis bought some Chinese food and let me finish- all those memes you see about this in the perfect summary of our friendship. We took a VERY long walk to the Ice Bar, only to be told that they were sold out for the night. We’d been on our feet all day and by that point my knee was killing me. We instead decided to wonder over to the Red Light District to see the infamous place for ourselves. It says a lot about the representation of women in the media that we weren’t shocked by what we saw. It was basically just a live viewing of Mulvey’s Male Gaze. The way they were propped in the windows reminded me of Barbie Dolls in their boxes. Woman as commodities. I was surprised that there were no male prostitutes but I later learned from my cousin Lauren that it existed by wasn’t nearly as well known. We didn’t stay there long before heading back to the city centre again and getting the shuttle back to our hotel.

Day 3 (2nd April 2016): Flower Power

On our final morning we ventured out the church by the Anne Frank house as they offered view of the city from the top. However, only six people were allowed up there at a time and we couldn’t get a suitable time slot before our flight. We headed to The Bulldog for brunch and ended up staying in there for a while. We walked over to the Flower Market after lunch and just strolled around looking in various shops despite not being able to buy much because we only bought rucksacks with us. We bought some sweet treats after some more walking. The day ended up being very relaxed as we knew we needed enough time to make our flight at the airport. We sat by the fountain for a while, talking and eating our churros and pancakes. It got cold fairly quickly and as Ellis was telling me a story I got stuck in my snood but didn’t want to interrupt her story- it was very amusing. As the evening dawned, we made our way to the bus and went to the airport. We took a final selfie before we boarded and my rucksack and I accidentally sent a man “flying” as I snapped the photo.

Although our break was short, we had a lot of fun and it was our first trip abroad together. I liked Amsterdam a lot despite the overwhelming smell of weed!


Third Time Lucky with Paris

As like many other Britons, France was one of the first countries I ever went to abroad, since crossing the channel is not a time consuming affair. But despite doing five years of French language at school and walking away with a B in GCSE French, I somehow hadn’t mustered any kind of affection for the place, even though my surname is French since my father’s family fled France during the revolution and settled in Scotland. Maybe I didn’t “j’adore” France because it’s been so closely integrated in British upbringing (as has the long standing sporting rivalry with our world war ally), and therefore couldn’t appreciate the contribution the French had on my daily life. I’d been to Paris twice on school trips in 2010 and 2012, my excitement fuelled by the media and one too many a romance novel. Whatever I was expecting, I didn’t get on those trips and I was bitterly disappointed with Paris and made no rush to immediately return.

However, after 2.5 weeks of travelling all over England with my American pal Madison (who visited me before going to Paris to study abroad for 5 weeks), I found myself being roped in to giving Paris a third chance. Madison loves France, and had studied in Strasbourg for a semester in 2015. She asked me to visit her on the weekend of Bastille Day and because tomorrow is never guaranteed, I was at the departures entrance of Birmingham airport on Friday 15th July 2016, 2.5 weeks after a tearful goodbye with Madison at Dollis Hill underground station in London. I’d opted to fly rather than have my first solo experience of the eurostar, because a flight was significantly cheaper. However, the price was the last thing on my mind when I awoke to messages telling me to check the news immediately. A terrorist attack had occurred in Nice whilst people were celebrating Bastille Day. Another devastating tragedy for France, as photos showed a country in mourning. It was news you don’t want to hear when you’re about to travel to the country that has been attacked, and it showed as my inbox flooded with messages to be ‘extra vigilant’ and to ‘stay safe.’ Fortunately, the flight to Paris was quick, but I immediately regretted layering up, for I was really sweating when I touched down at Charles De Gaulle airport. After some initial panicking and asking lots of people for help, I finally had a route and a metro ticket to my hotel. My anxiety settled when some locals helped me find my way and I could finally relax.

Madison was unable to meet me for a few hours as she was obliged to have dinner with her host family. I killed time with reading and social media. I made a short venture to an computer shop to buy a new adaptor as I’d mistakenly brought an American one with me. I bought a domino’s pizza for dinner because I wanted to have something I could finish quickly before Madison messaged me with a meeting place. We met at the stop Place de Clichy and I was concentrating so hard on not getting lost that I didn’t even see her when I stepped off the train and she shouted my name. We hugged and headed to the Sacre Coeur for an amazing view of Paris from the steps. The downside was that the area was known for pick pockets and I was grabbed a few times by men trying to sell crap to you. Madison saved me by stepping in and pulling me away and I grateful that I wasn’t alone. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t slightly frightened by the ordeal. Still, we didn’t let it spoil our night, and we gushed about the latest developments in our lives. I’d just graduated from Keele University with a degree in English and American Literatures and Madison had transitioned well to life in Paris. We ended our night walking the streets and heading over to Notre Dame before parting ways for our early start the following morning.


Day 2: Châteaux Galore!

The next day we were up bright and early for a day trip outside of Paris. The journey to our first destination Chateau de Vaux le Vicomte took about an hour, so I took the precious time to carry on reading the book Madison had lent to me, desperately hoping to finish it before I flew back to England. The first château was spectacular, and consisted of unbelievable interior design work and mounds of space. I went to Versailles in 2012 and I have to say that the attention to detail on artwork in France in general is just second to none. It’s truly a sight to behold, the owners must have been choking on their wealth. The gardens intrigued me the most. There is probably villages the size of it and I was just in awe for the duration of our visit. The location was ideal for iconic wedding photographs, as many couples were perched around the grounds with their photographers, trying to take photos worthy of a place on the mantelpiece. We had lunch in the café and brief browse in the gift shop before heading to the coach for our next destination: château Fountainbleau.

Unlike our first destination, this one was not in the middle of nowhere. The artwork and furnishings was equally as impressive as our first destination and we were once again in awe of our surroundings. Fountainbleau was considerably more crowded and after we’d toured seen everything we wanted to see, we headed outside to sit by the lake, topping up our tans and progressing through our books as we did so. There were a few rowing boats and ducks on the lake, basking in the sunshine and just basically being the picture of peacefulness. Our coach driver was nowhere to be found when pick-up time rolled around and we learned from other passengers that he’d been delayed. We got to know some of the other passengers whilst we waited, talking at length to an art teacher from L.A about travelling. When we got back to Paris, we went to the infamous bookstore Shakespeare and Co. and leisurely browsed the shelves. We were in there for so long that we used dinner of quiche and salad at a cosy place called la fourmi ailee, as a break from the shelves before returning the have a second browse! As the sun began to descend on a bustling Paris, a rollerblading performance caught our eye near Notre Dame. Paris was lively and clearly the place to be on a Saturday night.

Day 3: French football and the sweetest goodbye

On Sunday we were both feeling exhausted and under the weather, so I set out for the PSG stadium alone and agreed to meet up with Madison afterwards. I’d hoped that I’d be able to do a tour now that I was alone because I hadn’t wanted to drag Madison around something she had no interest in, but the stadium, and almost the every single shop in the surrounding area, was closed. I decided to walk around the stadium and take it in from the outside and there were other tourists doing the same thing. All around the outside of Parc de Princes were photos of stars both past and present of the club, most notably for me being Zlatan Ibrahimović (Sweden) and David Beckham (England). I took my time taking photos before eventually getting a coke in a bar with WI-FI so that I could message Madison. We met an hour later and went to McDonald’s for lunch, before heading to the cemetery where Oscar Wilde was buried, Père Lachaise Cemetery. The Importance of Being Earnest is my favourite play of all time and it’s also the only theatrical performance in which I have not lost concentration. His grave is so popular that there is glass case around it just to protect it. The graveyard is ridiculously huge. It’s unbelievable. I couldn’t imagine being dead and taking up so much space. After finding the grave of Proust, we slowly ventured to an Indian restaurant and got cocktails, as my knees were hurting from a long week and were threatening to buckle. Will they ever be what they were before? We both took time for social media and reading, in which I completed my mission and finished the Bill Bryson book that Madison had lent to me. We then ventured out for dinner of what were basically like the oatcakes you get in Staffordshire (not a literal cake) before setting off for the iconic Eiffel Tower.

On our way to there I spotted a bakery and finally got to devour my beloved macaroons. Madison got an ice cream, which was amusing because it was stupidly messy and she looked so adorable and young trying to eat it. We sat for a while in a local park and had one our talks about life, love and so forth. Because we became so close at the end of my time in Mississippi, we didn’t get to do many nights of being normal university friends like I did with Taylor. Whereas I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to travel with Madison and sadly not yet Taylor. It’s strange, but it doesn’t alter the importance of either friendship to me. We eventually get on the metro for our last stop of the night but when we reached the stop, we didn’t get off. I was confused. We literally went past the Eiffel Tower and still didn’t get off. I joked that I hoped she wasn’t going to punish me for our earlier difference in opinion by making my knees walk an unthinkable distance. “I’m only 21 and I need my knees”, I said jokingly. We eventually got off at Tropcadero and I followed Madison like a lost puppy to a square with the most breath-taking view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up in the colours of the French flag to commemorate the victims of the Nice terror attack. It was a spectacular sight. I felt a surge of love for France and my French heritage. It sadly didn’t sparkle for us, so we took one last selfie together and made our way back to the metro.

The Paris metro is fairly similar to the London Underground, except that rush hour doesn’t seem to exist because it is busy ALL THE TIME! People cram into the metro like livestock. I’m telling you, there was probably more room on Noah’s Ark! Anyhow, after two weeks away from Madison, I noticed that there were many moments when she would speak in an English accent over the weekend and not notice what she was doing, until I pointed it out. I joked that if it continued the next time our paths crossed (whenever that may be), that I’d find the subconscious convergence just as amusing. The reference to time seems to strike a chord with Madison, because she suddenly enveloped me in a heart-warming and almost tear-jerking speech on the metro about how our paths will most definitely cross again and she’d go out of her way to spend time with me again, in any corner of the globe. She said she’d even get a layover in Birmingham on the way to another destination just so that we could be reunited again. It’s in that moment that I realise that I am genuinely important to her, despite all my digs at her for her lack of response or communication with me. But she flew all that way to spend time with me and her words are exactly what I need to hear because I continually refuse to promise her a next time out of a fear of disappointing a face so full of youth and ambition. As we reach her stop and the goodbye looms, we hug for a long time. I don’t cry this time and she whispers in my ear that she’ll “see me soon”, so I let plant a kiss on her cheek and watch her go.

I wouldn’t say that I “j’adore” France (yet). I’ve only ever been to Paris itself for 3 days at a time, so I don’t feel like I’ve given myself the opportunity yet to truly know the place and develop a feel for it like Madison has done. The weekend with Madison was great, as our trips together always are, and I know that I’ll return to Paris again in my lifetime. Sometimes adventure is seeing things through the eyes of someone else, and after spending so much time with Madison, I know that I need to work on my travel independence again if I’m ever going to get through my travel bucket list. Madison is so many great things in this world but constantly remaining true to who she is and what she wants from life is something to be admired. The only sad thing about time is that rather unfortunately, and rather greedily, there will just never be enough of it spent with the people you care for the most in the world. ❤




Dumped by Normality

Tuesday 28th JuneCrash. Bang. Wollop. Normality was over in a one short phone call. I was standing in McDonald’s by Wembley Stadium getting some breakfast with Madison before we set out on our final day of adventures when Nana rang me, asking me where I was before stating: “I’ve got some bad news.” I thought she was going to tell me that I couldn’t park my car at the house that night or something similar, so when the words: “Roger just rang and said that Nanny has had a stroke and she’s at Leicester Royal Infirmary,” I couldn’t believe it. Immediately the shock turns into hot panicked tears, and I’m crying my eyes out in McDonald’s whilst getting more frustrated with the inadequate service of the employees. When Madison realises I’m really crying she pulls me into a hug but I don’t let it last long because I’ve got my glasses on and it’s uncomfortable, not to mention the fact we’re in public. My chest feels raw, like a cactus lodged in my airways reminding me that the dark cloud of grief is on my tail, waiting to break my heart once more. A stranger asks me I’m okay and I tell her what I’ve just been told. She takes my hand in hers and does her best to comfort me, asking me about university and not at all being the kind of person I’d expect to meet in McDonald’s. I call both of my sisters and I get their voicemails. They either know what’s happened, are at the hospital or they’re not awake yet. In a panic I call Katrina, choking on my tears because I don’t know what to do and my parents are out of the country. She repeatedly mentions putting me on a train there and then to go back home a day early because driving is not recommended by the DVLA when you’re upset and unable to focus. I know that seeing Nanny immediately will bring out the rawest of cries from my chest and make other loved ones around me feel even worse, because that’s how it was last time Nanny was in hospital and the thought of an extra drive to London to get the rest of my things is unbearable. I agree to go home the next day, even though I can feel the weight of withheld judgement from Katrina and Madison for not going immediately, even though there is nothing I can do to help at this stage. I finally manage to get hold of my sister Louise and Katrina is a Godsend, taking them both to the hospital and checking up on me throughout the entire day.

Only last month Nanny had fallen and broken her hip. The fall brought some other health problems to light and I was in a flood of tears when in one indescribable scene, we thought we’d lost her for good. She was making good progress in her own home now with Roger having returned from India, so the stroke is a huge blow. Only a few days ago I’d gone round in a hung-over state and had a cup of tea and some breakfast with Nanny before the drive down to London and she asked me about the extensive travelling I’d undertaken with Madison all across England. I sat on the sofa and confessed and complained about how tired and unwell I felt each day at driving more frequently than I’d ever done in my life, despite the fact I’d enjoyed being busy with new adventures and new places. We talked about the EU referendum and she felt sorry for David Cameron, claiming that: ‘he seemed a nice chap’, to which I responded: ‘Nanny, it’s not about who’s nice and who isn’t.’ My Nan is the kind of person that would buy us all presents on one of our birthdays so that the other two don’t feel left out or any less special. I’m convinced that she literally has a heart of gold and I’ve got letters sent to me in America and a lifetime of memories to know that she is the person I get my ‘gentle nature’ from.

As I slowly chomp on my meal, Madison says: “it’s not your fault this happened, I don’t want you to think that.” I don’t respond. What can I say? It’s obvious that she’s uncomfortable, who wouldn’t be? I can’t find the words to warrant any kind of response so I let the silence fall around us. It hits me that I’ve been well and truly dumped by normality and it’s unlikely we’ll be the same once we get back together in the future. It strikes me how we leave the days or normality without a second thought, but we never know when the days of normality are going to leave us. So my guilt is placed in what I perceive in hindsight to be wasted moments of my life, with temporary friendships and hasty drives back to Stoke to finish my readings for the upcoming week, when I could’ve spent lost minutes with my Nanny Pat. Something is my fault, and the guilt is ringing in my ears as the cactus in my chest continues physically remind me of my devastation.

When we eventually leave McDonald’s, Madison says that she we should just go back to Nana’s house because I’m just going to be thinking about this all day and she isn’t interested in seeing Wembley. That stung. Wembley is important to me and I love having a 5 minute walk around the outside of the stadium when the opportunity presents itself, but I get in the car and drive back, knowing that she must be thinking awful things about me right now but Nana already told us she’d be out all day so we’ll have to continue with our plans and head for the tube station. I’m also not ready to say goodbye to her before necessary, even if I do go and visit her in Paris. The thing about having international friends is that every goodbye you have could potentially be the final one and after 2016, I’ve no idea when/if our paths will cross again. It takes reaching our destination and answering a few phone calls before I’m fully composed and we end up having a really good last day together, even getting to watch Coldplay warm-up for a concert in Kensington Gardens. I get my university results and it takes a spike or two off the cactus in my chest- a 2:1 in English and American Literatures and a 1st in my dissertation, which I wasn’t at all expecting!

The next few days that follow upon returning home are difficult. I quickly learn how to get around Leicester Royal Infirmary and Roger prepares me for what I’m about to see when I visit Nanny. As the days pass, the visits become more difficult as Nanny refuses to be helped by the doctors and nurses and keeps taking out the force feeding tube. Her mood varies daily due to the medication for the stroke and it’s not easy to make sense of the words she’s saying to you. It’s incredibly difficult to watch someone you love more than life itself deteriorate in front of your eyes. My heart doesn’t feel like a jenga wall anymore but a burst dam, with every crack of heartbreak leaving tears surging from my eyes or forcing my throat and I into silence before we draw attention to ourselves. I stop wearing my glasses during visitation because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t recognise me with them on anymore and that’s not because of the onset dementia. Whilst I acknowledge my sensitive nature, others do not and I’m constantly bombarded with the lines of ‘she’s had a good life’ and ‘that’s life, Lisa’, when I confess that I’ve never known life without Nanny and I’m ready to find out what that’s like. It’s not like I expect Nanny to live forever, but after every health scare and fall over the years she’s gotten back up and continued to live her life, so I’ve come to expect her to always be okay. She even refused morphine when she broke her hip!

Losing someone in stages is just as difficult as losing them all at once, regardless of their age. Long gone are days of normality where I could pop round to Nanny’s for tea and chat aimlessly. Long gone are the days when Nanny would be so happy to have company that she’d stock the house with all the junk food your heart desires and you’d go home 3lbs heavier the next morning. Long gone are the days when I’d get a phone call each time Keele University was on the television. It’s hard not to feel robbed of the future photographs I intended to take with Nanny. I knew she was unsteady on her feet so I’d planned to spend more time there once university was over and take her back to the cities and towns she had fond memories of from thirty odd years ago. That was supposed to be our quality time, not endless hours on hospital wards watching her slowly give up the fight and I’ve a right to mourn what won’t now be and the loss of normality. I know that I’m blessed to have had the opportunity to form such strong attachments to my grandparents, but it doesn’t make the pain any easier to deal with, even if things ‘could’ve been worse.’ It doesn’t matter how many times you experience grief, (or even end up writing a 12,000 word dissertation about the representations of grief in Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones and Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees) it doesn’t make it any easier knowing that the dark cloud will eventually envelop you. Because at the end of the day, ‘nothing hurts like love.’ So for now we continue to run the hamster wheel of not knowing what is going to happen, but sitting at her bedside remaining positive that she’ll make enough progress and return home to Burbage, to the place where she belongs. ❤