Author: Flynn

I put too much pressure on myself for this blog. For some reason everything I write on here has to be some long form ramble-y blog entry. It’s almost like the having the freedom of a blog with no cut off point is in itself restricting. Like I feel that I have to attempt in some way to fill a page that just keeps on extending. In reality I end up with paragraphs and paragraphs of waffle. I can feel myself doing it now.

I write often as it is. I carry a journal with me everywhere I go, I write mostly in coffeeshops. Even if I limit myself to one sheet of A5 a day. Open, empty your thoughts, move on. I don’t realise how useful I find it until I find myself unravelling having gone days without dumping my thoughts onto a page. It’s less that it improves my mental health, more that it sustains it. I rarely feel dramatically better for having written, but I feel exponentially worse when I don’t.

I’m going to challenge myself to write on here more often, even if sometimes it may just be a carbon copy of something I’ve wrote in my journal.

How am I feeling lately? Strangely, I don’t know? Not being fully aware of how I feel is honestly quite alien to me. I don’t love it. Am I happy? I’m not happy, but I’m also not NOT happy. Am I sad? Not really. I feel quite lonely, but in reality I’m no more alone than before. Tuesday I nearly cried on the train home from Nottingham. My tear ducts felt like the slightest little thing would lead them to burst. For the life of me I couldn’t tell you why. I felt empty, but at the same time my chest felt heavy, as if the slump in my posture was caused by a heavy heart and not years spent hunched over playing video games. What I do know for sure is that I’m definitely in a funk. I have no idea what’s caused it, and I also don’t know what’ll drag me out of it. I’m doing all of my usual strategies, writing, light yoga, getting outside, phone friends… Still in a funk, not entirely sure what’s going on with me. I’m sure I’ll snap out of whatever this is eventually. What’s the alternative? -Shrug emoji-

This blog doesn’t have to have a point, an overarching theme, an anything… It doesn’t need to anymore.

Big love,
Flynn.

– I wrote this in notes on my phone on the train to Nottingham, I haven’t proofread or formatted a god damn word. Enjoy? –

Change needs a better PR team. The marketing department has been doing a terrible job for way too long. Change when it’s forced upon you is, rightfully, a horrible experience. Getting fired, getting dumped, both – obviously – fucking suck. But not succumbing to change when it’s the right thing to do, sticking around for longer than you should, choosing the comfort zone over progress, staying in a relationship that doesn’t work for you, is a sure fire way to unhappiness. Yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s difficult. Yes, it’s horrible uncomfortable at times. But what’s the alternative? Settling? We all have a friend in a relationship we KNOW isn’t happy. Who’s embraced the “comfortable” option of having the company of someone who is right enough for them. I’m not ok with that being that friend. Sure, change is scary. But if turning 80 and looking back at a life full of “what if” moments is the alternative, that’s fucking terrifying.

Lately I’ve been thinking about change a lot. I went down to London a few weeks ago and something switched in my mind. I need to do something different. Some part, almost every part of my life needs/needed a change. You shouldn’t actively compare your life with those of others, but sometimes the differences are so stark it’s impossible not to notice them. I’d become comfortable. Unfortunately comfortable and happy aren’t synonymous with one another, although it may seem it at times. While I was very happy with my job at the coffeeshop, I enjoyed my interactions with 90% of the customers, and I laughed with my colleagues, I wasn’t happy with the direction my life was heading. The lack of direction, I should say. I was stagnant. This post isn’t about work but a change in direction, for better or worse, feels very necessary.

When I look at myself, I feel like introspection is my greatest strength while also being without doubt the main cause of my own pain. I am, unfortunately at times, firmly tuned into my feelings. I take self reflection very seriously. “Today this happened, it made you feel this way – why? Why did/didn’t you react? Yesterday that didn’t affect you at all, but today it did. What’s different?” Some days I have all of the answers, other days my brain speaks German while my heart speaks Zulu. My gut normally refrains from interacting, only to pop up with an “I told you so” hours later. Bastard.

Last year I took a break from even considering dating or making new friendships. I took the year to unpack the clusterfuck that was the year before, and how that had affected me both positively and negatively. It wasn’t fun I won’t lie. We like to talk about looking at our flaws, our insecurities, the things we need to address. But actually putting in the work to dig and uncover the realities is rough. It’s not enough to say, “This kind of behaviour affects me. There we go, I know that now. Fixed.” Why does it? What’s the root? What’re you going to do about it going forward? How’re you going to provoke the change that means you‘ll be better prepared to cope in the future? That takes time. It’s not a fun conversation to have with yourself. If you asked my memories of 2021 are, I’d struggle to tell you. I went to London for a few days? I went to Barcelona for a week? I have maybe 3 photos of myself from the entire year. What happened in 2021? Very little – externally. What changed in 2021? My entire relationship with myself, that’s infinitely more important than anything i could post on Instagram. I say all of that to say that I finally feel like I can open myself up to the world again. I’m not saying that I’m in love, or in a relationship, or even dating anyone at the moment. But just having that feeling of being at ease with someone and that moment/thought of “yeah? I feel something. At the very least, I’m open to seeing where this leads.” was an unexpected but very welcome change.

I don’t want this to come across as if I’m high and mighty and have committed to change and I’m seamlessly transitioning into a better version of myself. Lord knows I’m not. Last week I set the goal of “Don’t swallow your feelings.” Let me tell you, I swallowed those feelings like I was dying of thirst and you offered me water. I got ahead of myself, and some went down the wrong way and I spluttered them back up. As feelings do when you try and push them down, they bring themselves to the surface again eventually. I failed that goal miserably – but that isn’t going to stop me continuing to work on it.

I’ve set a daily goal for everyday this month, todays was “to check in with your body, notice any changes” I was going to journal my thoughts later, but I’ll my share my metaphysical response here and see how my knee copes with a slow yoga flow later to check in physically. My feet definitely do not feel grounded. Throughout the day they have flirted with feeling like they’re levitating, and feeling as if the ground below me has the structural integrity of a bowl of jelly. A little bit all over the place. My gut decided it wanted to bring an argument to table with my brain earlier, which was unexpected, conflicting, and made me question my previous thoughts. After a conversation whilst driving I realised that that’s ok. I had previously done what I’d felt was right, I’d acted truthfully, with new circumstances, come new feelings. There’s nothing wrong with that. My heart is full. The way it should be. If it starts overflowing, I need to do more for others. Throughout all of this the weight on my shoulders feels relatively light, these thoughts aren’t as overbearing as sometimes they may seem. Ultimately, I’m in control. My mind is taking its time. Pasito a pasito. Everything isn’t make or break. Stop trying to compete. This is a one player game, you keep trying to make it you vs you instead of you experiencing life. My mouth is zipped shut. I suspect the zip might be broken though, soon it might be time to break it open and give life to instinct. My ears are the opposite, wide open. I’m not great at reading signs, I need to hear them clearly. Open to possibilities, while simultaneously being firmly planted in España. I’ve been listening to almost exclusively Spanish music lately. Some days it lifts my soul, other days I feel like it screams the reality of Brexit and songs about dancing and fucking literally bring me to tears – not ideal.

Every change is an opportunity for better. Every challenge a potential adventure. Change is essential. It’s inevitable, whether you like it or not you’re inability to change is changing your potential reality. In the same way that in indecision, is still a decision. Live life, or let life direct you. Either way, change is all around you. Why not choose the path yourself occasionally?

Love, Flynn! X

This blog is going to be the longest I’ve ever written. I finished writing part 1 on October 6th at 01:13. Sobbing, I clicked save, added a password, and decided this one wasn’t for the world to see. This one was for me, and a chosen 2 close friends who I let read it before I went to sleep that night. Part 2 I am about to start writing now, November 4th, 00:19 (Finished November 5th, 20:54) In the interest of being fair, any names mentioned will be replaced with numbers, or You. I’ll always share my business, but it’s for other people to choose to share theirs.

Part 1: Remains Undefined.

Before you read this, I want to make one thing abundantly clear. You – who will inevitably come to realise this is about you, and you who has no idea who or what I’m writing about. This isn’t for either of you. This is solely for me. This is therapy. This isn’t a conversation starter. This isn’t for you to message me after and ask how I am. You won’t need to ask, and placate me. This will tell you how I am. This isn’t a cry for help . This is just a cry.

Yesterday afternoon I looked at my reflection dead in the eye, and it broke me. I couldn’t hold my own gaze. My eyes lowered, I burst into tears and sank to my bedroom floor. Has anyone in the history of man ever broken down while listening to Pusha T wax lyrical about selling cocaine. I doubt it. 4 days ago I started leaking fluid in front of a quikfit garage. Not my car for once, me. Today the floodgates seeped open outside of what used to be Byrne Avenue swimming baths, I managed to hold them shut just long enough for my Nan to not have to see me cry. Emotionally I’m all over the fucking place, though physically I’ve never felt more rooted to floor.

A few days ago, my friend joked “Hey at least you’ll start writing good content again!” She’s not wrong. I don’t write anything worth a damn when I’m happy. I’ve never been good with positive emotions, I’ve never trust them. My own or other peoples. I’m sceptical of the social butterfly, the extreme extrovert. I don’t trust someone who’s always smiling, they’re up to something or they’re covering something up. But then there’s you. I don’t talk to people, I don’t choose who I’m friends with, they seem to just end up with me, the introvert attached to an extrovert. Not you. I remember the first day I saw you. I hate the cliche that “They had a smile that lit up the room.” – people aren’t lighting installations. This was different. You maybe don’t know this. But I knew from the first glance I wanted to be at the very least friends with you. I can’t explain it, but something about you felt familiar. I can’t smile and show my teeth, it looks forced, it’s like someones holding a gun to my back. My natural facial expression is the visual recreation of the word “ugh.” indifferent, if not slightly underwhelmed. That first day and everyday thereafter that smile screamed genuine. There was no pretence, no alter ego, no ulterior motive. Just “This is me. Hi, I’m about to chat your ear off.”

12 months ago I would’ve told you don’t get too close to me, I’ll let you down one way or another. You or anyone else. In fact, I think I literally did tell you that. Unfortunately I was true to my word. I’m flakey at best, irresponsible at worst. Don’t count on me for longevity, I’ll disappear at the first sight of positive. Misery loves company, and him and I have always been joined at the hip. I’ll wallow in obscurity, completely off the grid. Alone; like I’ve always been. I guess it was a defence mechanism. was. was. was. For the first time in my life I don’t believe any of that anymore. I’ve flaked on a lot of things lately… The Liverpool game, extra shifts, time with friends, group zooms. But not once on you. I have no desire to be miserable anymore, I don’t want to disappear. I want the polar opposite. I want to show you to the world and be like “LOOK. I FOUND A HUMAN I ACTUALLY ENJOY BEING AROUND.” The same friend mentioned above, spoke to me about her relationships. About being able to imagine a life with someone. Imagining a future. A house. The white picket fence. Kids. The lot. I’d never done that with anyone in mind. It was never part of my plan. Plans change. I started thinking, and then I thought some more. Was I against it? Or was I against it with just anyone? For the first time ever it didn’t seem scary. It didn’t seem abstract or unrealistic. It seemed… possible? More than possible, it felt desirable?

Thursday 24th of September was the highlight of 2020. Thursday 24th of September 2020 was the highlight of 2020, and 2019. Life isn’t about the big events. Life’s about the little moments that make feel alive. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more content in a moment? If I have one doesn’t immediately come to mind. Safer – ironically at the hands of the least safe driver I know. We drove for maybe an hour and a half total that day. I smiled the entire way. I kept making this noise, like that laugh you do when you look at memes by yourself? The nose breath thing? That one. I couldn’t stop myself. Like a pig in shit. A kid on Christmas. It wasn’t even a big deal, but it meant the world to me. It was a milestone I’ve never reached with anyone else. I didn’t run for once, I didn’t hide me or you, and it felt fucking marvellous.

2020 has had a lot of truly horrendous days. A whole lot of them. But none of them hit me quite like yesterday. It had nothing to do with cancelled plans, it had nothing to do with the grim weather, it had nothing to do with what I ended up doing. It had nothing to do with Liverpool getting tonked 7-2, though that didn’t help. It had nothing to do with the wasp that stung me while I was in bed – bastard. It had nothing to do with my dog waking me up howling every 2 hours throughout the night. Yesterday my bubble burst. It’d been close in the days prior, but I’d kept it together relatively speaking. The reality I’d built up in my head came crumbling down. Most days I love silence, yesterday it nearly killed me. Yesterday felt like I was waiting for a parcel to be delivered, I was looking out of the window every 30 seconds, any squeak or vibration I thought I heard sent me scrambling back to that pane of glass. Nothing. No post on Sundays. Only to find out at the end of the day that it’d been returned to sender. You missed your chance. It was right there, and you weren’t present enough to take it.

Yesterday all of the yoga, meditation, Alchemist inspired, airy fairy, spiritual, positivity shit, I spew on a daily basis wouldn’t save me. “Control what you can control”,”be present”, “you are enough”, “speak it into the universe”… Suck my dick, I’m hurt, let me be hurt. Yesterday was the “it’s not your fault” scene from Good Will Hunting. Except I didn’t have a Robin Williams to grab onto, just the voice in my head telling me “it’s all your fault” and the paint stained sleeves of my jumper. You fucked this up, Flynn. Whether they’ll admit it or not, you fucked this up. You did what you always used to do, you ran. You ran because things can only be good for so long. You ran because nobody could possibly feel this way about you. You ran because you couldn’t possibly open up. You ran because you don’t recognise what’s good for you and what’s not. You ran because when one thing goes wrong you tear the whole building down. You needed help when things were going wrong. You didn’t need to be alone, you needed someone to get you out of your own head. But stubborn as ever, you declined all who were forthcoming.

I’ve cried more this week than anytime in my life. I won’t lie, some of it is related to you and your actions or lack of. But 95% of it is because of me and mine. It’s because of this reality I’ve built up in my head. This outlook I’ve chosen to take. That if I try, if I try really hard, harder than I’ve ever tried with anyone ever. If I show you me, the real me. I don’t want to be nonchalant about everything anymore. I don’t want to be indifferent. I don’t want the no plan-plan. If I show you that, it’ll overcome the first time around. That it’ll make everything better. That a box filled with some chocolate buttons and a mixtape, or a trip to Chester Zoo would erase it all. Knowing full well that’s not how life works.

Lately I feel like I’m in a labyrinth. Weird start but go with it. Like I’m completely in the dark, and every now and then a there’s a light at the end of one of the hallways. But every time I walk towards it it slams shut and another light behind me comes on. I change directions and walk towards it but once again it dims. Left, right, up, down. Over and over again. I don’t know whether I’m back where I started or somewhere completely new. Either way I’m still lost. Lost, but looking for a way out. Hoping that the right door stays open just long enough. This time, I’ll be present enough to run through it.

Love,
Flynn. x

End of part 1.

Part 2: Defined.

The part 2 I’ve written in my head multiple times over during the last few days is far more scathing, more scornful, and far more vitriol infused than what I’m about to write. For as much as it may be merited, I was raised better than that. There will be no specific tales of your actions; a scriptwriter would have a hard time accepting them as plausible plot lines. I’ll stick to me, and what I did and or didn’t do. How I felt or was made to feel. Standards are to be raised, not lowered to suit others. I’ve got nothing to hide. I found strength in vulnerability.

Wow.

I thought I cried back when I wrote part 1?! Monday afternoon. I’ll get to that. Reflect first. A lot of what I wrote in part 1 remains true. I felt those feelings. They were valid. Was I right to feel them? Was I right to second guess myself?

I take absolute responsibility for everything relating to me disappearing when I did, absolutely. My choice of defence mechanism was then, and remains now, a pathetic one. Any pain caused then was entirely my fault. Was. Distant past. I owned that. I made every effort to overcome that. That’s not a rectifiable mistake, but a base from which to grow. Grow I did. I threw myself out there for the first time in years. I should’ve felt disgusted at my actions, , I did, I should still, and I do. But in my heart I know that moving forward I did everything possible to show I wasn’t that person anymore. I’m proud of me.

I was unequivocally right to second guess myself. Not because I was my sense of judgement was off, because that’s exactly what the world you’d concocted was built upon. For months I’ve doubted my every action, my every thought. I’ve wondered endlessly why the actions I knew to be positive were constantly met with negativity, with feigned smiles and empty platitudes. I refuse to blame myself for being open to trusting you. Everyone gets my trust until they show me otherwise, and boy did you conceal the truth well. I refuse to blame myself for wanting to believe in love; for the first time I actually felt it could be real. I wanted it to be real. I fucking believed it was.

I broke myself down in front of you. Time and time again. I laid my flaws bare for you to see, to try and make you understand why I thought running was an acceptable choice. How every situation I’ve ever been involved in which vaguely resembled a relationship has ended with one party being unfaithful. Every fucking time. How Person 1, slept with an ex 2 minutes after telling me they were tired and going to sleep. How Person 2, essentially used me as a stop gap until she saw her ex for the first time in months and threw me immediately by the way side. How Person 3 saw me as a way to get out a situation they no longer wished to be in but couldn’t escape. How Person 4 left me to stay in her house while she went across the country to visit another partner in waiting. How my parents have never been together for my entire life; and what it does to your idea of love when your only “successful” relationship reference point is your grandparents arguing and fighting about alcohol on a daily basis. Nobody else knew all of this. That was probably the first time I’ve ever been that vulnerable to myself, let alone to another person. My deepest insecurities; you used them against me.

Months ago I poured my heart out onto the pavement in front of you, in broad daylight as people walked by. How all I wanted was to feel like your actions reflected the words you spoke to me. You spoke about how you wanted commitment, and a future when at that very moment you were the furtherest thing from committed. I shared my soul with you, only to now realise I was sharing you.

Monday afternoon I finally plucked up the courage to confront my fears, I’d stared at my phone for 2 hours the night before. My thumb hovering over the send button. My entire body shaking like a dog out in the rain. Fucking terrified to have the truth confirmed. Much like the Titanic – made in Northern Ireland found home in Liverpool – my heart sunk hours after I’d discovered the cold hard truth. It took 2 hours for the Titanic to sink. It took me the same amount of time to pull my shellshocked corpse out of my car after that message came through. Unable to move, unable to string a sentence together, nothing but heaving and uncontrollable sobbing. As I sit here writing this (Now Thursday evening) my left eye is still twitching every 10-15 minutes, fortunately my tear ducts ran dry 2 days ago.

In part 1 I wrote “Yesterday all of the yoga, meditation, Alchemist inspired, airy fairy, spiritual, positivity shit, I spew on a daily basis wouldn’t save me.” Well, on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, they came to my rescue. You can’t cry more when a 40 degree studio has evaporated what little liquid hadn’t already found its way onto the sleeve of my hoody. Yoga kept me grounded – not on the ground, dead. Grounded in the knowledge that I am, and always have been, enough. Grounded in the complete understanding that everything I did was being met with hesitation for reasons that had nothing to do with me. Grounded in truth. You have no control over others, not even those you’re closest too, especially not those you loved.

I don’t know how to end this post. The last few months have been the happiest, saddest, most convoluted months of my life. It’d be completely inaccurate to say that I’m over it. There are moments where it takes every fibre of my being to keep the rage inside me trapped inside my sternum. There are moments when crying doesn’t suffice and the only emotion readily available is laughter. I’m not happy. But I’m also not sad. For the first time in months, I’m centred. My emotions aren’t being dictated by somebody else. I’m not second guessing my character. I’m not thinking “Is it because I’m a drop out? Is it because I’ve moved back home? Is it because I’m stuck in a job I hate? Am I just not good enough?” No Flynn. No. No. No. Not at all. It’s because you weren’t the only one.

You were played. Not for the first time. Probably not for the last. But that’s no reflection on who you are as a human being. You might be broke, you might be living at home, you might be feeling really fucking lost lately. But you’re a decent guy, you’re honest, you’re kind, your moral compass points north more so than ever before. But most importantly, after this fiasco, you’ll never doubt that again.

Love,
Flynn! x

I painted a thing a few weeks ago. It’s the first time I’ve ever freely painted anything. No classes, no reference image, no idea what the hell I was doing. When it was “finished”, I realised it was missing something. I set my brush down, drove back to the art shop, grabbed some crazy expensive paint markers, and scrawled the word ‘love’ over the top of it in giant block capitals. Now it was finished.

Love.

Love is my favourite word to write. I don’t know why.

Romantic poetry is my favourite kind of poetry.

Rom-Com’s are my favourite kind of films. Especially the predictable ones, I watch them completely unironically. I have terrible taste – I agree.

I love, Love.

Yet, I rarely express love. If I do, it’s masked as a joke, or it’s something so completely unrelated to the emotion that it’s often unrecognisable. I don’t like that about myself. I find it really hard to express myself open and honestly. I’m working on that. I’m working REALLY, REALLY fucking hard on that. My first instinct has always been to hide from sharing, to hide from opening up, to run away. I’m not that guy, I’ve never wanted to be that guy. But at times, I’ve absolutely – regrettably – been that guy.

I’ll freely admit I love football, I looooove yoga, I love Peter Crouch, I love Panic! at the disco’s first album. All things, Peter Crouch potentially excluded, that don’t love me back. All things I don’t really love. I enjoy football, I need yoga, I admire Peter Crouch, and I like the dulcet tones of Brandon Urie. I’ll so willingly announce my love for them for the whole world to see. But I won’t do the same for those I actually love, why?

Loves a funny thing. What is it? Every decent definition I’ve seen lacks something. It’s fitting, but it isn’t quite right? Google reckons it’s simply “an intense feeling of deep affection”… nothing more, nothing less, as simple as that? Surely not? Some say love hurts, surely not? That sounds like a toxic relationship that might be better left alone. I asked a bunch of people, and while their definitions were all adequate, they were only just that. Adequate. No offence.

“True comfort” definitely! But just that?

“heightened emotions” Absolutely! But that also happens in stress, and sadness, and joy, and alcohol induced states! Surely something else separates love?

Every definition started out as just a few words, and within seconds grew into a sentence, a paragraph, a full blown conversation. Clearly, the collective cannot decide. I took some comfort in that.

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This post is all over the show. Which is fitting, really?

For someone with such miserable luck in relationships, and “love”, I think about it often. Which is strange, for someone who has never actively searched; or thought much about love in relation to himself? I wondered a lot when I was a bit younger. Am I capable of that? Is love something that the universe has ready for me? For the longest time I thought I wasn’t. That I could never. Years ago one of my friends made an off hand comment that he could see me being asexual. which at the time wasn’t a word that was exactly in the lexicon of the general public. It panicked me? At the time I associated attraction with love, and I couldn’t get his comment out of my head. Was I!? Could he tell at a glimpse that I felt little to nothing inside? How!? Is this “normal”? I soon realised he was completely wrong, as was my association between attraction and love.

I think part of the reason to why I think so often about love is my past. Have I ever been “In LoVe”? I guess that depends on what your definition of “in love” is? Have I ever had heightened emotions towards someone? Absolutely. Have I ever felt true comfort. Absolutely. Do I think I’ve been in love? My brain wants to say yes? But my heart says no.

For the sake of clarity, and not to come off like a nob, all the relationships – if you want to call them that – I’m referring to, are very much finished.

My heart says no. I don’t think what I felt was love. Maybe it seemed that way in the heat of the moment, but life experience and hindsight tell me otherwise. For me, there’s a fine line between infatuation and love. Holding someone up on a pedestal – isn’t love. Sacrificing yourself at someones expense – isn’t love. Non-reciprocal “love” – isn’t love.

Experience is better shared. While I feel as though my experience in love has never been shared, I don’t doubt for a second that love shared is exponentially greater than infatuation. Exponentially. Shared pain is easier to deal with. Shared laughter is louder laughter. I don’t doubt for a second that reciprocated feelings of “love” trumps infatuation every time.

I took a love language quiz a few days ago, feeling confused, and almost blind to my own understanding of how I feel love. The answers highlighted what I knew all along; but had been to ignorant to my own emotions to understand. For those of you who are like me and are/were unaware of the 5 love languages they are as follows; Quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service, words of affirmation, and finally physical touch.

According to this quiz – how reliable it is, is questionable – Gift giving is my least relatable love language. 3%. I completely agree. Gifts mean very little to me. I’m picky, I have a hard time receiving them, and an even harder time giving them. I’m a gift card birthday present kinda guy, you buy me one, I’ll buy you one – sorted. I’ve given maybe 2 thoughtful gifts in my entire life, maybe that’s a consequence of it meaning so little to me to receive them.

Acts of service and words of affirmation came in behind with 13% and 17% respectively. I am my own biggest critic, and I’m independent to a fault. I struggle accepting help, and more so accepting praise when I don’t feel it’s deserved. Example. My final year Interpreting exam. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as unhappy with my academic performance in my entire life. Straight after the exam I had to attend the Spanish Film Festival I’d help organise, my mood couldn’t have been lower. I was furious at myself. Seething. My tutors were delighted. I finished with 73% my highest mark in that module. The grade meant nothing, I felt I’d let myself down, and percentage points would do little to change that. All that being said, when the stars do align, and I’m genuinely proud of something I’ve done I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel nice to have someone else be proud of me too – though I absolutely won’t show it.

In second place was touch. 20%. I don’t have a whole lot to say about this other than it’s pretty evident how near to my heart I hold you if we’re in anyway physical at all. That might just be a hand on the shoulder, or leaning on you when I’m tired. Anything more than that and count yourself in the chosen few. If you don’t get at least a fist bump, or a high five from me – for the love of God don’t touch me. I don’t like it at all; you’re basically a smelly stranger on the bus to me.

In first place was quality time with 47%. 47. Percent. When I really think about it, this comes as no surprise to me. No surprise whatsoever. But why is this so important to me? The more I think about it, the more it has to do with my own insecurities than something someone else can do for me. Every relationship I’ve been in has been started on shaky ground. An ex still lingering in the background, a current partner still – regretfully – involved, other options available. Lies, deceit, mistruths, all of that. It’s easy to buy a gift to try and impress someone. It’s easy to text something you don’t really mean. The same can be said for being physical with someone. You can’t lie about quality time. You can try, but the truth comes to the fore pretty quick. It’s difficult to not keep looking at your phone, it’s difficult to keep attending plans you don’t really want to go to. The light in your eyes goes out real quick when deep down you don’t want to be somewhere with someone. The vibe changes, the conversation dies out instantly, it’s obvious. With my past, I’ve always felt hidden. Like I was this undercover second choice boyfriend , like I was second fiddle until a better option returned to the scene. So the one thing I know I needed most to feel loved, Quality time, was never given. This isn’t some “oh poor little Flynn” sob story piece. I’ve been an asshole in the past, but there are plenty of posts on here about that. Just ask me, I’ll happily tell you. I’m trying to be better, I am better, acknowledging the past is a part of that. Someone actively choosing to spend time with me, and being present more than just physically, means the absolute world to me. We could watching paint dry, or skydiving, it’s irrelevant. We could be eating a 3 Michelin star meal, or a piece of toast, it makes absolutely no difference to me. Active presence is the only thing on the menu for me.

Am I worried about what the future has in store for me with regards to love? Terrified. I’ve never thought more about my future more. Will I ever feel more than infatuation? Will feelings be reciprocal one day? Will I ever be able to describe what love is? I have no idea, but I sure hope so. I hope so to all over the above.

That’s all I can be right now, hopeful.

I end every post the same way. Always have.

Love,
Flynn! x

I’ve written a few of these posts in years gone by. One I remember vividly, the others less so, but I have no doubt the sentiment contained in this, is an echo of many a previous blog entry – I’ll try to refresh some stale ideas. I guess I’m still trying to learn.

P.s. Don’t try to find those posts, they’ve long been hidden in the deepest corners of blog sites of old.

Edit. I jotted down a blog entry on my phone yesterday morning, then I wrote it fully last night. Thankfully, I reread it this afternoon before posting it. It was maybe the most contrived, overworked piece of writing I’ve ever produced. Needless to say, this is take two. The premise remains the same, hopefully with less bullshit.

But first a bullshit setup is necessary. Sorry, not sorry. Stop reading, whatever. Idc.

As much as I love yoga, the airy fairy spiritual thing I don’t really identify with too often. When I think spirituality, I think the universe, I think higher power, which – yeah – I dabble with. But that doesn’t come into my mind at all when I think of yoga. Yoga is all about me controlling me. Or trying to at least. Some days it’s about trying to put my leg in positions my arthritic knees would rather I didn’t. But most of the time, it’s about digging me out of places I’d rather not be in.

Weirdly, focusing on me saves me from me. I’m not schizophrenic, I don’t think(!?). Most people look at a yoga class and think “How calm, look at everyone relaxed and focused.” God, if only you could hear my internal dialogue. Yes, dialogue not monologue – this is a full on conversation. In a 60 minute class at least 20 minutes are filled with

“So today sucked. XYZ happened and …”
“Jamie, stop thinking that, we’re in yoga class now. Focus on you’re breathing…”
“Yeah yeah, ok… But do you remember that thing that happened in 2004 that you’re still not ov-”
“Will you just shut the fuck up and breath.”
“What did so-and-so mean when they said “ghjrgdgjktsghsugo” ? Was that meant for us?”
“BREATH.”

Another 15 minutes are filled with thoughts that my quaking ankle may give way at any moment, 10 are filled by “we must be nearly at the end now? I’m shattered.”

But amongst all of that, there are 15~ BEAUTIFUL minutes. 15 glorious minutes that make the whole experience worth it. Like the universe hit the pause button on my life. In that time my brain is completely numb; it’s silent. The pilot has fell asleep in the cockpit. But this flight isn’t not spiralling out of control. I’m completely still. It’s smooth sailing from here on out. My heart isn’t riding a rollercoaster it didn’t realise it had signed up for. It’s beating, albeit probably too fast. But for once it’s due to exercise and not emotion. Instead, the co-pilot has taken over the show. Spoiler, the co-pilot is waaaaaaay better equipped to fly than my brain ever could be. Gut instinct takes over. Conscious thought has gone out of the window, effort has dissolved, competition doesn’t exist anymore, the outside world is outside my reality. It’s just me. An almost hollow version, moving, silently within myself. And it’s fucking bliss.

I operate 1000% better when my gut is in control, yet I ignore it almost religiously. I’m a moron in almost every area of my life, but my instinct is rarely wrong. Yet, like the idiot in an argument that I am, I think I know better. I over analyse, I look at all the possibilities. What if the spade is in fact – not a spade? What if it’s a pitchfork trying to be a spade but it’s just not there yet? What if it’s a multi-purpose tool? If you want it bad enough, you can turn it into a spade? Call it what it is, Flynn, and deal with it. I forget their exact words, it was in broken English, but someone once told me “Only ask a question if you’re ready to hear all possible answers. If you’re not ready for something you don’t want to hear, you’re not ready to ask. You’ve got two choices, accept the answer, deal with it and continue, or, move on. There’s no changing the answer.” That sentiment has stuck with me for years.

You’ll never hear me talk about these things, but I dwell on things a lot. I sit in silence. It’s not one of my finer traits. I let thoughts fester until I implode or explode. 9 times out of 10 I implode. I have this belief that everything that can go wrong along the way will, but at the end of the day things will still turn out fine. I find some comfort in that, but it does mean I accept some suffering along the way. Suffering that very well may have been avoidable. Suffering sounds really severe, let’s not be too dramatic here like. I accept shit days, is what I’m trying to get at.

I’ve seemingly ran out of steam to continue this post. Maybe my gut has taken over for once outside of the yoga studio. Maybe it’ll only last 15 minutes here too. Who knows. What I do know is that I should trust it more often.

For now, enough job applications, enough rambling into my keyboard (This was a shit show.) I’m going to sit by the sea. Hopefully there’s a high tide. Everything feels better by the sea.

Trust yourself. Trust your instincts over everything else. First impressions stick, there’s a reason for that. I believe in you deep down. Even if I think myself out of it.

Flynn!
xo

 

I haven’t written anything for the longest time. It’s been like 9 months?

I’m giving myself 30 minutes, no distractions, no excuses – write something and post it at 11:33pm.

Something not quarantine related, god knows I’m sick of every conversation being intrinsically linked to how we’re all stuck at home. How are you spending your time? What’re you baking? Are you being productive? – If not, why not? You’re wasting this time you’re never going to get again. I get it. This is UnPrEcEdEnTed.

How are you? Genuinely. How are you? Not “ok yeah, not bad, plodding along.” How are you really within yourself? This might be the first time since last June where I’m actually being present. Present in my own being. There is currently nothing in my mind that’s distracting me from myself. I’m not being productive – sue me, I’m not anxious about how much I hate my PGCE (I quit, but that’s another blog), I’m not concerned about my future, I’m not even thinking about when this might be all over and what I’m going to do. I’m just existing? This is not to say I’m happy, but I’m definitely not unhappy either given this situation.

Life’s funny. Even when it kinda sucks you have to laugh. I scrolled through ALL the photos on my iPhone library the other day. Some from great times, some from times I’d rather forget, a few from times I’d definitely forgot. I’ve looked over all of the empty notebooks I’ve amassed over the years. A few years ago I stopped dating things I wrote in them. Turns out the date is irrelevant, but the tone of the writing was everything. Maybe reading it took me back to the wrong point in time; but it did take me to A point in time.  A point in time that clearly meant something to me, a point in time where I wasn’t the same person I am now. For better or worse, this isn’t a vertical progression. There are aspects of my life that I haven’t improved in, in fact I’ve regressed – which is totally fine. Other areas I’m unrecognisable. I’m infinitely more empathetic than I was at 22, but god damn I’m worse at verbally expressing my feelings and I didn’t even think that was possible.

Now it may feel like I’m not doing anything which in the future will be memorable. I’ve wrote on numerous occasions that “this year will be left out of the memoir” but none of them will be left out in the end. Right now, the only thing that matters is self-awareness. Do I accurately reflect myself? Do I look in the mirror and see what I want to see in myself, or who I actually am. Not who I present to the world, who I know myself to be.

Right now, I know I’m not “making the most of this time” by societal standards. Right now, I’m a bit of a fuck up if we’re honest. I’m not searching for what’s next.

Times up. This isn’t in the right order. This is unfinished, unedited and confusing. Which in a roundabout kind of way is fitting.

Hopefully this is the spark I needed.

Flynn! x

Oh Flynn, Flynn, Flynn.

When will you learn?

Maybe some day? Maybe never.

I struggle with love. With feeling loved and with expressing love.

When people used to ask “what’s your type?” I used to give an honest answer, nowadays the response is “emotionally unavailable.” I’ve often found myself attached to people who couldn’t love me back. It’s happened far too often for it to be ‘coincidence.’ It feels like more of a personality trait. It’s one of the more self-destructive traits I have. I fully acknowledge that this is a me problem, not a ‘them’ problem. I put myself in that space knowing the potential repercussions. Maybe it’s subconscious? I see someone I think I can help, or someone I want to be around knowing I shouldn’t but doing it anyway.  Maybe it’s a choice? Have I been choosing lose/lose situations?  I like to think I’m smarter than that? I’m not sure that I am.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love these past few months. About my capacity to love and to feel loved. Or my lack thereof. At times it worries me. It worries me on both sides of the spectrum, the void I often feel in moments when you’d expect you should feel/express love, as well as the depths I can feel both love and lost-often simultaneously. Emotions are scary.

Feeling loved is strange for me. There’s a fine line. A tightrope that has to be walked for me to feel loved. Not suffocated, nor isolated; not needed, nor necessary, but loved. I’m fully aware that I run when people get too close and are too interested. I hate feeling like the person NEEDS me in their life, but I crave feeling like I’m wanted. Sometimes that puts me in difficult situations. But at the same time I’m not going to fight for someone to show an interest in me. I understand that’s counterproductive and that I’m a walking contradiction. But hey, that’s me.

People say you “fall in love.” That one moment it’s just there. I’d say it’s more of a stumble. That uneven pavement – I hope nobody saw that – kind of stumble. They did. Everybody saw it happening, everybody except for you. Oh but you fall, you fall out of love. You fall with all the grace of Jackie Chan in every movie he’s ever been in. Launched, unwillingly, from the fifth floor balcony hitting every doubt soaked rooftop and memory filled washing line on the way down.

Love is vulnerability. It’s being fully open to yourself and for someone else, knowing full well the potential repercussions. That’s terrifying. But the reward? The reward. The reward is something else. The reward is that whiff of the first summer bbq, it’s the salted sea breeze, it’s the intro to that song you haven’t heard in ages, it’s seeing the waiter bring your food when you’re starving. It’s all that and so much more. It’s clouded judgement. Clouded by optimism, hopes, dreams, what could be.

Love is turning your life’s brightness up to 101% instead of quivering in power saver mode. Yeah, you’ll spend weeks on end consumed by what could’ve been. You might never look at the colour yellow the same. Or maybe you might not be able to listen to your song again without flashbacks.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s worth the risk.

Love,

Flynn. Xo

I’m pretty low lately, and I can’t seem to figure out why. I find myself zoning out a lot.

I’ve got this pressure built up in my stomach, like I need to get everything out into the open. I find myself wanting to scream. Scream out at the top of my lungs. I feel like I need to cry. But I have nothing worth crying over.

Has anything drastic happened in my life to make me feel this way? Nah. Not really. I hate work, this is true. But that’s not it. That’s now drawing to a close, and I’ll soon be free. It’s something else. Something deeper, something more personal.

I feel alone. Really. Fucking. Alone. Which I know makes no sense, because I spend pretty much every waking moment surrounded by people. But in my experience feeling alone in a crowded room feels exponentially worse than feeling alone in your bedroom. Coming home brings with it old memories, and I know I’m holding a lot of them in. Which, while it might not be the best thing for me, is definitely the best for those around me. People move on, and so should I.

I have this sort of self imposed rule with people. It’s a stupid rule, but if I don’t follow it I feel like I’m in some roundabout way less? So the rule is, if i invite someone to do something – go for a coffee, go watch football, whatever – twice, without them trying to rearrange, or invite me to do something, then I won’t ask anymore. Ever. Two strikes and you’re out. Not three. If they invite me to do something, then the rule resets. Why do I do this? Well, as bad as it is to feel alone, it’s worse to feel as though you’re imposing your presence on somebody else. Nobody wants to feel like that person hanging on at the cliff edge of a social setting. The person who’s there, but nobody really knows why. Anyway, the rule is slowly, one by one, eliminating everyone I know here and that’s a pretty tough realisation to take.

Being home isn’t all bad. I’ve loved what little time I’ve spent with those select few people here. I really have. Part of me wishes there was more time, but I also recognise that isn’t and won’t be the case.

I search for purpose a lot. Which is a huge part of why I feel like I hate my job. I don’t feel like I contribute anything but to increasing consumerism. But it’s hard to accept that as a friend I’m not really contributing.

I guess I’m just sad lately. It’s kind of hard to openly admit that without a plan of how to change it.

This blog is incomplete, and perhaps entirely over the top. Maybe it’s not true, but it is my reality. I don’t want to write anymore at the moment.

I need to stop listening to Paramore so much. The teenage angst is taking over my attempt at finding the positive in everything. Fuck.

Flynn

X

1. I fucking hate that song.

But I guess it kinda fits what I want to write about. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about where I want to go in life, which inevitably brings about reflecting on the past. For better or for worse, that’s what’s been on my mind lately. Reflection can be an amazing tool. A great way to grow yourself as a person, as well as a way to evaluate who you actually are. It sounds great, but that’s not to say it’s not painful at times.

Especially when you’ve fucked up as often as I have.

You probably haven’t noticed, but in the last week or so I’ve deleted every single post I’d ever uploaded to Facebook going all the way back to 2009. In doing so, I was able to read through blogs that have long been dead and buried – which thankfully will never see the light of day again.

I particularly looked at how my relationships with people have came and went over the years. It was interesting, but strangely difficult. Maybe because I’m not ok with how some of them ended. Maybe because they were my fault – some definitely were. Maybe because I’m not “over” situations I thought I definitely was. Maybe just because at the moment I feel really alone. Maybe I just need to stop reading love poetry. I guess, I’m at a point in my life where everyone has either “moved on” or is in the process of doing so, while I feel like I’m stuck on a treadmill. I feel like I’ve stagnated as a person.

Where’s the growth lately? Looking back over the years I placed myself back in times where I had no idea I was going to live in 3 different countries in 2 years. A time when I was all but clinically depressed. Times were by comparison I was on cloud 9. I guess that’s the problem with social media, you only see the extremities of the social condition. The highest highs and, if like me you choose to document, your lowest lows. You don’t get to see the weeks of gradual change, the ok and the mediocre.

I realise that this post is all over the place. I’d say I’m sorry to you, the reader, but I’m not. It’s a fairly accurate display of my thoughts right now.

Back to my point.

Relationships. In a more general sense, I find it hard to let people in. Like, really in. Mainly because I don’t want to let them in. I don’t feel the need. I have friends who, in reality, know next to nothing about me. Friends that I see everyday. Friends that I talk to everyday who know practically nothing about me. This, as you can imagine, makes forming an actual relationship rather difficult. Again, because 99.9% of the time I absolutely do not want to be in one.

I guess, because now I’m at a point in life where traditionally people would start to settle down the pressure(for lack of a better term) feels more… real? I’ve always been content with being single. I’m happy alone. But I think now, it’s almost like another “Well, what’re you going to do with your life?” Situation. It feels like pressure. To put it another way, if I went home and told my parents I’ve got a girlfriend and she’s pregnant they would say “congratulations!” rather than “Jesus Christ, Jamie. What the fuck have you done.” Nowadays I guess the “have you got a girlfriend?” question, is more leading than inquisitive.

But ooooooh that pesky 0.1%. Oooooooh that negativity. The thoughts of the past. The worries for the future. The feeling of being lost. The best relationships I’ve been in, all of which have obviously ended, haven’t been forced. I didn’t actively look for any of them. I some how found myself in them. So I guess, that’s how I’m gonna go forward: continue bundling my way through everyday life. Let’s see if I find a career path, a relationship, or a sense of purpose.

Love,

Flynn!

X

(P.S. Mum, if you’re reading this. I’m not depressed. I’m just very, very, bored of uni. Love ya xoxo)

2am, I’m wide awake. Typical.

I’m laid in my bed, I’ve been here for the best part of about 4 hours. I should be stressing about my exam on Tuesday that I’m in no way prepared for… But I’m not. I’m laid here evaluating my life. I know, risky. Usually my existential crisis goes 1 of 2 ways.

1. OH MY GOD. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WHEN I GRADUATE?!

2. OH MY GOD. HOW AM I EVEN GOING TO GRADUATE!?

Tonight, it’s a little different. I’m not the biggest fan of looking backwards. The past is gone, it’s over, move on. But tonight that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I’m thinking of all the people I have in my life, and those I don’t have anymore. I don’t mean the people that’ve died – I mean the people who, for one reason or another, are no longer a staple of my everyday life although they used to be. People I’d speak to everyday. People I’d see everyday. I’ll be honest, I’m not much of a people person. Hell, some of my friends have labelled me a sociopath. I’m terrible at keeping in touch with people. Really, really, really fucking terrible. It’s not because I don’t want to be in contact with these people… it’s because… Well, I don’t really know why it is. I guess I’m just not good at it?

Some people just sort of fizzled out of my life. Maybe I met them somewhere abroad, then we didn’t keep in touch. Maybe it was just circumstance that kept us together at the time. Maybe it was because I moved away. Maybe something major happened, maybe some feelings got hurt. Maybe because of a mixture of things.

All of this is totally normal, this isn’t some deep and profound blog post. All of you reading this have lost contact with someone at some point. It’s not unusual (I’m fighting every urge to not quote Tom Jones.) But these people definitely still pop up in my head from time to time. Hell, probably more often than I’d care to admit. I guess this is a part of getting older. People have started to have a much bigger impact on my life in the past few years, and yet those people seem to fade out. I find myself reminiscing on “the good old days.” That’s not to say the people who remain in my life aren’t impactful, of course they are. I guess I just prefer to dwell on the loss rather than the victory.

I don’t really know what direction I was hoping this blog post would go in. Like most aspects of my life, I didn’t really have a plan. But I guess, if I can convey anything it would be this.

Dear if the shoe fits, wear it,

I’m sorry we lost touch. I’m sorry I’m not better at replying to text messages. If you feel like it was your fault, I’m almost certainly partly/mostly to blame. I hope you’re well, I hope whatever it is you’re doing makes you happy. On the off chance you ever get the desire to send a “hey!” Just know I’d love to send one right back at you.

All the best/ciao/adiós/au revoir,

Life’s best shared. Even if it’s tougher that way.

Love,

Flynn! X