it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

i’m back with my little words of wisdom from turning 21 in december. the world stayed the same, but here are some realisations i had. life doesn’t end at sixteen, but it doesn’t begin at twenty-one either. you’ve always been living it. you just gotta learn to open your eyes.

posting this in march, because why not? you’ll see*

yours, even at a year older
libby griffiths

twenty-one things i know at twenty-one

1. not a lot

but…

2. waiting for the right person is always the right choice

3. nothing compares to having a sister

4. the greatest gift of all is paper and pen

5. keep records of family members: handwriting, voice memos, photographs

6. self-care looks different for everybody

7. warm drinks warm the heart

8. discipline > motivation

9. ‘je ne sais quoi’

10. hot showers fix almost all problems

11. if 10 doesn’t work, try a tub of ice cream

12. fresh manicures help you feel more put together

13. never trust someone you met strictly online

14. sentimental gifts are worth more than anything overly materialistic

15. girls' hands are designed for carrying multiple items at once

16. learn whether you’re a gold or silver person asap

17. if you find the good in something, it will never be truly bad

18. learn to change the narrative to better suit you

19. clearing your mind, then returning back is the guide to not giving up*

20. you are a mosaic of many different people you love

21. yet, you are so uniquely yourself

i wrote this piece only recently, despite the event happening over six years ago. i will never have the words to describe and explain what i felt. i only hope this gives a slice of insight into what happened to many of us after that day. 

as always, dedicated to my sister & those we lost. 

yours,
libby griffiths

p.s. the original piece was uploaded for the courier, you can find it here.

If you would’ve asked me at fourteen if I wanted to talk about what I went through, I would’ve laughed, cried, and screamed in your face. Especially if you were my family.

When it happened, I did not talk. I went mute about it all. If the word ‘bomb, ‘Manchester’, or ‘Ariana Grande’ were mentioned around me, I froze. And I lashed out at everyone I loved. I was an abomination of anger, hatred, and everything I did not want that event to teach me. 

Looking back on it now, I want to hold that version of myself to melt the frustration away. Tell my school how damaging they were to my physical and mental health. Shout at the man who told me to ‘suck it up’, and tell him how much he would change the way I think about myself forever. Thank the woman that hid me away in her office so I could escape the world for an hour a day, and tell her how the escapism she provided me with got me through it.

Most of all, I’d give the biggest apology to my younger sister. For putting my pain above listening to hers. For abandoning her when she needed me. For not being an older sister, not protecting her, and not being there. That is my biggest regret, and probably always will be.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a time machine. And, a hug isn’t always a solution. But if I could, I would try to express my feelings in words, something I’m grateful to be able to do now. I forgive that version of myself. And I hope the people I hurt forgive her too. 

Being able to say that comes from copious amounts of work. Being misdiagnosed. Finding the right therapist. Finally getting medicated. And, eventually, making it out the other side. Funnily enough, I told my therapist I was writing this article, and the first thing she said was “This is huge. You’re ready.” I agreed with her because I am. And I say that with confidence now.

I had always wanted to write this. Put into words the experience that shaped the way I live my life. But, I was too scared. I didn’t want to be pitied, or for it to take away from some of the incredible stuff I’ve done. I didn’t want to be known as the girl that survived a terrorist attack.

As much as I can ignore it, and refuse to admit it, I will always be the fourteen-year-old with the dangerously obsessive Ariana Grande phase. Something I moved on from a long time ago because of the embarrassment and want to detach from the trauma associated with it. 

I’ll always carry that version of myself with me. I am grateful for the person I was, and weirdly enough, what that experience taught me. Because I did make it through it. I am okay. Okay enough to retell my story and let my fourteen-year-old self exist in words on a page.  Until I’m ready to say hi to her again. Hopefully, it won’t take six years this time.

original piece written for the courier, find the article here

and more of my work, here

i’m back. sorry to have been gone for so long. but sometimes we have to abandon our passions in order to progress in other areas of our lives. that’s just the way things go.

i return to you having completed (and survived) my first year at uni, moved out of my childhood home, and as the runner-up for writer of the year at my university’s media awards! with all my life changes and challenges, why not add another to the list? so, i quit therapy. 

throughout the latter half of my life, i’ve struggled with finding the right therapist and method of healing that works for me. at the start, i was utterly opposed to it. my first therapist had an ugly home. the wall-to-ceiling mirrors that mimicked and mocked my expression, and the most uncomfortable red chair. i hate red, and i hated her home. so i left after barely attending any of our scheduled sessions. looking back, i’ve kept one of her letters to me all these years. so, i think that counts for something. maybe it was just the red chair i hated so much. 

a couple of years later, i’d had enough. i wanted so badly to find something right for me. to unpack all my emotions and lay them out, to have to pack them all up again and move on to the next. i was so upset and confused and frustrated. each time, all my emotions get thrown out, and thrown back into the same bag. the same routine, each time getting messier and more careless. i felt like nobody really cared, or understood what i was going through for a very long time. the baggage became almost unmanageable. then i met amber.

amber was kind, and gentle. she helped me a lot. i opened my bags, laid everything out and she refolded everything neatly away. from meeting her i was able to release my article ‘surviving a terrorist attack’, get myself into a healthy relationship, and overall - look at life differently. 

without her, i would be an entirely different person. i owe a lot to her, and she exists in a lot of me. in my deep breaths on my yoga mat and my panic attacks in the bathroom. i keep her number saved in my phone in case i need her again, i guess it brings me some sort of comfort for the future. 

i think if fourteen-year-old me knew we’d have someone like amber, we wouldn’t worry so much. and it’s probably why i feel so at ease now. the past is the past, and i won’t ever have to feel like i did back then. while quitting therapy was scary, everything else i’d already been through was scarier. and i am okay, at least i bloody hope so after all that money i spent1.

that’s all i have to say. a few short words in a love letter to my therapist. i won’t say much more, because the relationship we share is very personal. but, if you are able to, get a therapist. one of the best luxurious decisions i ever made for myself.

see you again, soon. let’s hope it doesn’t take another year for me to upload! 

yours,
libby griffiths

i first came across this question, like everybody else, watching ‘Call Me By Your Name’ on a late spring evening with my mum. easily one of our most tenderly shared moments together. i could write an entirely separate essay on the beauty of this film, but i won’t, or i fear i will never reach a conclusion. i gave my mum a scripted excerpt from the movie for her birthday, and it lives quietly in the corner of our living room. a heartbreakingly poetic monologue in which elio’s father speaks to him about unconditional love. now, it exists in our space as a continuous reminder of the beautiful relationship i share with my mother, and how much i adore her. again, i could write another essay on that, but my love and words are never ending.

in the movie, elio first hears ‘is it better to speak or to die?’ on a late spring evening, when his mother reads to him a translation from ‘Heptaméron’, whilst gently and soothingly stroking his head. 

A handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess
And she too is in love with him
Though she seems not to be entirely aware of it
Despite the friendship that blossoms between them or
Perhaps because of that very friendship
The young knight finds himself
So humbled and speechless
That he's totally unable to bring up the subject of his love
Till one day he asks the princess point blank
Is it better to speak or to die?

later in the movie, elio revisits the meaning of the question with oliver by the poolside, and unknowingly, speaks the question into the fate of their own relationship. the handsome young knight does not speak. neither will elio, nor oliver. it is a beautiful tragedy, to watch two lovers remain silent. but do they really remain quiet, lips sealed tight? even a slight murmur of the question already borders on ‘speaking’. the words don’t ever fully ‘die’, and the feelings are definitely still present. is it possible the question exists on a spectrum, and there is an in between, where most informal relationships breathe into existence, including elio and oliver’s rather queer relationship?1

in my humbling experiences of being the designated ‘single friend’, i am equally as qualified and unqualified to raise this idea of a middle ground. watching over successful and disastrous relationships as a bystander has shown me evidence of a limbo where nobody speaks, but nobody dies either. i don’t think the question was ever made to exist on a spectrum, but evolution has rendered new types of love and connection. everybody loves a shakespearean tragedy. there is nothing more horny than the betrayal portrayed in ‘Othello’ or the existential despair in ‘Hamlet’. if being the ‘single friend’ has taught me anything, it’s that modern day love is just a contemporary, live-action shakespearean play.2 however, if you think of the question as simply as it is written, ‘is it better to speak or to die?’, is it appropriate to add a sub-section? or is that just the easier way out to answering this paradoxical mystery?

this is my lightbulb moment. after all the countless backspaces, all the replays of the soundtrack, and turnovers in my mind. i may have figured out my perspective. what if, ‘is it better to speak or die?’ isn’t a question at all, but rather an answer itself. say if this middle ground does exist, which clearly the evidence is not lacking to say it does, isn’t that simply the answer? neither elio nor oliver speak or die, yet simultaneously their actions speak for themselves and [spoiler alert: their feelings die at the end.] is it better to speak or to die? or, can you do both and neither simultaneously? when the handsome young knight asks the princess “is it better to speak or to die?” he is simply asking her what he should do, he is already confessing his feelings indirectly. so really, the paradox does not solve itself. because as humans, sometimes our love for another is too complex to be put simply. 

thanks for reading. missed doing critical analysis, and what better way to prepare before uni than to write about one of my favourite films. dedicated to my mum.

take care.

yours,
libby griffiths

i finished my exams a year ago. after, i was expecting to enter the ‘my year of rest and relaxation’ era, minus the heavy prescription use. a year full of resting, recuperation, and pleasure. a hedonistic break from the clockwork cycle of the education system. i wrote a short list of things i wanted to accomplish in the freedom i sought out. the minority i have accomplished, and others i dropped in pursuit of something else. i tried desperately hard to search for my narrative, and my niche. but i think i lost part of myself in the discovery of my identity, which is rather bittersweet to think about. a huge part of me was lost to grief, and another chunk gained with other super cool accomplishments. i struggled to figure out how to balance the feelings of grief and gratefulness, when the two could co-exist appropriately, and when to choose between them. i don’t think i figured that part out, and i’m not sure i will. they both sit quietly in each other's company, acquainted but not too friendly. and i think the reason they co-exist peacefully, is because they’ve decided a new year begins in august. to be truthful and honest, 2022 has been a rough year so far. and unfortunately i am a ‘new year, new me’ type of person. to fully reset from the wreckage and tragedy that was the first half of 2022, i’m ending it here. and beginning again, figuratively rebranding august as the first month of 2023. 

so, a fresh start is on the horizon. the days are longer, vitamin d is nurturing the soul, and a new chapter is approaching. usually, when a new year begins, many will make a list of resolutions to abide by for the year ahead as a resource to encourage health, wealth & happiness. a lot of these will look like quitting bad habits, or trialling something new. reforming your identity and reshaping morals in a new chapter, forgetting and forgiving all the mistakes from last year. almost like they never existed in the first place. as i’m rebeginning, i thought it to be only appropriate to replicate a list too, partially to make sure i don’t go wrong again, or that i don’t make any more mistakes. for my revisitation of my resolutions i’ve decided to reflect on some goals i made at the beginning of 2022. most of which were goals to accomplish after school, like travelling, learning tarot, and getting a part-time job. things to make me feel like i was still making a small contribution to society. i never learned how to read tarot by the way, but i’m not sure that’s a huge loss to my life.

now i’m sat here with five empty spaces waiting to be filled with my newly updated resolutions for the rest of the year, or the year ahead, or just in general to feel like i’m bettering myself. and to feel like i’ve accomplished this, i’m letting grief & gratitude take the lead in making the list. to make edits where needed, and place gentle reminders as a footnote to everything i do. most of my resolutions aren't quittings, but negative thoughts that i need to let go of. a lot of the change needed in my life is within myself, within my mentality. not to be mushy (no pun intended) but sometimes i could use a little sweetness in my bitter life too. anyway, here are a few of my little reminders, resolutions, five commandments, etc.

1. find a routine made for fulfilment and pleasure, and live within it
   

2. perfectionism is a detrimental virtue
   

3. cherish all the little moments, keep them in your pocket for easy access when needed
   

4. spontaneity is the foundation of greater friendships
   

5. home is not a place, but a feeling

that is all for today. look to the shorelines, the waves are my friends. they will bring you little notes, love letters and mediocre poetry, hidden in murky bottles. you’ll find me in there.

yours,
libby griffiths

*inspiration from this post taken from @alokvmenon on ig, they are a genius and i think their work is absolutely wonderful.

do you ever find yourself getting lost in the fictional world? then you start questioning your own identity and existence due to these characters, and a vicious cycle begins its course when you start adapting yourself to the media around you - losing your true self in the process of it all.

to wonder at your own complexity is complex in itself, and paints you as a very narcissistic, selfish, and conceited individual. but that is our truth. at our human core we are hedonists trying to grasp individuality in our paradoxical identities. who am i? who are you? what do i steal from you and claim as my own? are we sharing parts of the same soul? who is original, and who is the clone?

my paradox is that i am Ottessa Moshfegh in that i exist boldly in my own space and have no care or consideration for my peers, but equally, i am Evelyn Hugo in that a part of my soul is curated to be a product of society - and i am lost in which version of myself is real and which is falsified. both of these characters are detestable, but reluctantly we adore them. why? maybe because they represent the shame we feel within ourselves, and they exist so ruthlessly and fruitfully with it. they’ve figured out the secret to living, and they carry their shame in a way that makes it seem so easy and lightweight. they forgive themselves, yet we punish ourselves. these tangible characters are easily digestible for the mind because they are so painfully real and true to reality. but, a huge part of them is still fictionalised for the benefit of entertaining the reader. who am i trying to entertain? and who is my reader?

all these questions uplift this cycle in which we do not know our narrative. do i really like writing or am i just trying to be Phoebe Waller-Bridge? life is like two truths and a lie - in which we’re trying to figure out which is which. maybe i’m trying to fix myself into another mould because i’m escaping my insecurities. maybe i’m trying to be like somebody else because i actually don’t like myself that much. but, a lot of my personality traits that i adopt from others are things i truly enjoy.

how are you feeling, and where does this post find you? are you curled up in your bed with the windows ajar, welcoming a night-time breeze? or maybe you’re tuning in to the hum of rush hour at a busy train stop, surrounded by strangers with destinations unknown? my theme today is solitude, and learning to be comfortable on your own. sometimes your own company is the remedy you so desperately seek. try spending a day completely on your own, treat yourself to a coffee with lots of additive sweetness.

now, what is ‘the emma chamberlain effect’, you may ask? picture yourself eating fresh strawberries in your car, or laying in bed to waste the day away. both of these activities are acts of solitude. being alone, and genuinely enjoying your own presence. personally, i think solitude is a great thing. learning how to be alone by yourself, and genuinely enjoying your own company is such a great tool in growing through life and connecting with others. you are the only constant in your life, get acquainted my dear.

emma chamberlain is the muse of solitude. the way she portrays her aloneness and how she fills her day with meaningless but equally joyous activities is actually, rather motivating. all she does is record herself lying in bed most of the time. when i watch her videos alone in my bed, stress eating a tub of ben&jerrys, listening to her rambles - i feel better about myself, because i watch her doing the same exact thing as me.

i feel this is difficult topic to discuss, you’ll either understand, or you won’t. maybe i’m just hiding my real thoughts and feelings into something that’s more easily digestible. maybe it’s my inner media student wanting to blanket everything with pop culture.

to make it easier (for both you and i), here is a gentle quiz to guide you on your journey with solitude, whether you’re an expert or just taking the first steps. answer these questions honestly and you’ll receive a maison margiela replica scent.
(sorry, i’ll stop with the pop culture references soon, or i won’t. who knows.)

take my quiz to uncover more about yourself

yours,
libby griffiths

it’s been awhile hasn’t it? i’m so glad to see your face again.

the first time i ever struggled with letting someone go, was one of the most painful, and insecure periods of my life. i couldn’t figure it out, maybe because i was blinded by my vulnerability - or my naivety. to simplify it; it sucked. big time. i still think about this person to this day, the impact they had on my life and how quickly they vanished. re-evaluating the event now, maybe it was because i was mourning someone that was still living, but just not in my life, in their own. this sounds selfish to begin with, but i think the whole idea of letting go is transforming selfishness into altruism, in a way. i’m not entirely sure that’s right though.

more recently, i struggled with grieving my grandparents (in the early stages i published one of my poems, titled ‘grief’ on my substack.) and now, i’ve had terrible news about my beloved dog. unfortunately, nothing is immortal. you can wish upon millions of shooting stars and blow kisses at dandelion heads, but nothing will change fate and inevitability. the best you can do is prepare, my friend. but even then, how do you prepare to let go? what is letting go? when is the phrase appropriate?

i’m still trying to figure out the answers to all these questions, but having lost many of my loved ones either to death or disappearance - i feel like i’m slightly more equipped to tackle the subject for you. and for myself, because i don’t know how i’m going to cope with losing my furry friend. however, as an expertise in losing as many family members in the shortest time span as possible, i feel i’m slightly more qualified to speak and share my thoughts with you on this topic. i’ll be as gentle as i can be.

i dealt with grieving my grandparents by swimming. the way a body of water will hold you so tenderly in a warm embrace, and still allow you to pass through as you please. they used to tell me i was a fish, or a mermaid, because i spent all my time in the pool when i was younger. this carried with me, and will, for a very long time. every time i’m greeted by a body of water i think of them, and their embraces. what i’m trying to say is sometimes it’s the little memories and associations we need to hold onto, or let go of - whichever applies. with my dog it’ll be a copious amounts of things, he was with me through every day and every stage of my life. i’ll remember him on the walk outside of our house, in toast, in his favourite chicken toy. these things feel like a pull in the right direction, but i suppose there is no right direction when dealing with grief.

as i’m currently righting this part, it’s 03:38am and i just said goodbye to my dog. my life feels very upside down right now, almost like i’m transitioning from my sweetener era into my thank you, next. this won’t make much sense unless you’re a raging ariana grande fan, like i am. but let me have this, okay?

i felt like i was stuck in this obsessive healing from trauma phase, but these past few months have thrown a lot at me. i still have a lot to learn, and go through apparently. my thank you, next era is upon me - having the best and worst year of my life. i lost my grandparents, my dog, all whilst juggling a part-time-but-full-time-hours job, preparing for a show with loreal, and entering britain’s opening for the world’s biggest beauty pageant. all of which is way out of my comfort zone. and all of this has only happened within the span of four months, thanks a bunch 2022.

the way i’m coping is with these small memories. i look back in my camera roll and see happier times surrounded by my dog and grandparents - and look forward to recognising those feelings once again. i still hold the sadness knowing they’re gone, but what i take away is much more powerful than i’ll allow grief to steal from me.

that, i absolutely refuse to let go of.

as always, take care.
yours,
libby griffiths

how do i navigate the process of grief if my mind is all muddled?
i do not know where this begins nor ends.
all i feel is an abyss, an uncomfortable limbo.
the in-between of unbeknownst. 

my body feels like a weighted magnet against my bed,
succumbing to the reality of how heavy emptiness feels.
everything in life has a new shadow, death.

my work clothes remind me of your funeral,
sunflowers are no longer a welcome of spring,
but the farewell of your spirit.

i don’t think i’ll ever be ready to say goodbye.
but this poem is a start. i don’t have a nice
ending line, a bidding farewell.

but i guess you didn’t either.

authors note: this one’s been sitting in my drafts for a long while. but finally, i feel ready to share. dedicated to my lovely grandparents. i miss you both so dearly.

take care,

yours
libby griffiths

this is a long overdue draft, meant to be uploaded on monday (oops). but i keep changing my mind on how to communicate and organise my thoughts and answers to: why do i want to be a journalist? what type of journalism satisfies me? who inspires me to want to do this?

originally i wrote this post with heavy notes on that last part of the question, mentioning some of my favourite authors, poets, and referencing fellow substack users and their incredible publications. but, i wasn’t being honest with you guys - or myself. i’m hiding behind other journalists because i don’t know what defines me as one, yet. and that’s okay. i am nineteen. i’m not supposed to have this all figured out.

the honest part:
i don’t know why i want to be a journalist. i was dodging the truth with references to other journalists and authors, taking the direction of the conversation off myself. i felt compelled to give this inspirational reasoning as to why i feel so passionate about journalism, but i can’t quite communicate that yet. because i don’t know why.

the truth:
i want to be a writer, it says in my ‘coming soon’ post how i used to write little stories at my grandmas house when i was younger, and she kept all of them. i think there is something so raw and beautiful about how a few words on a page can have such a huge impact on somebody else’s life. i want to be able to recreate that feeling for others. sometimes i feel as though my writing doesn’t have that power, so i hide behind other writers, and make a little commentary instead. don’t get me wrong, i love doing this and simply adding my own little notes and perspectives. journalism is my lifelong passion - but it started out as writing my own material and evolved into making educated responses and critics to already existing material. i guess i just grew up, left my fairytale land of make-believe, and now i’m in stuck in the real world.

i remember writing my personal statement, and the first line read:

“Media influences society. Being raised in a generation heavily involved in political outcries and post-feminism, it is hard to escape the merging of reality to online.”

i still find this remains true, we’re all guinea pigs testing this new age of evolving technology, and collectively we have no idea what’s going on. or at least, i don’t. i feel like journalism and research is my way of making sense of all this. sort of. like i said in the beginning, i still have no idea. i just get this overwhelming sense of comfort when i am in control of the media i get to consume, the power of knowledge is a weapon.

this is a shorter post, but i don’t really have anything else to say on this subject. ask me again in three years, and i’ll give you a concrete answer.

take care.

yours,
libby griffiths

i hope you are well. a little context for this upcoming post - this article i read is what inspired me to create ‘mushy brain’ in the first place, alongside a number of other factors of course. but i felt compelled to share my opinion, and anger honestly, in an essay format. call me a nerd or a raging feminist or whatever, but you’ll see why.

earlier today i was scrolling through instagram and noticed one of my favourite fashion influencers had shared a story from a ‘new york post’ article, and captioned it “??????” i had the same reaction as i re-shared the story with one of my queer friends, her response being “babe what”. however, i didn’t want to immediately assume the worst and did some quick research with my dear friend, google. and here’s how it went:

me: *reads headline, steam immediately seethes out of my ears*

google: ok, now. is this a good way to respond? how else could we deal with this?

me: write a long essay about how infuriated i am and criticise new york post for insinuating lesbians and wlw are comparable to a fashion trend.

google: i was going to say we could watch some cat videos, but that works too.

folks, this is going to be a long one. grab a coffee, or a tea. preferably a coffee. and listen to this absolute bullsh*t of an article.

clothes do not have a gender. in 2022 i’d hope we’re experimenting with fashion in relation to gender binaries, and abolishing them. if i want to shop in the men’s section, i can do so. and so can anybody else - that much i think we’ve established.

The Post writes a highly problematic and triggering article explaining how “dressing like a lesbian” is becoming the “new trend”, and uses the examples of Zendaya, Bella Hadid, and Kendall Jenner - whom all identify as straight women.

now, this is where i’m confused. how does wearing pants as a woman equal this ideology of ‘queer fashion’? this statement is not experimenting the dynamic of gender binaries and exploration of sexuality, it is simply pushing heteronormativity in a place the exists for queerness only.

something i find really cowardice of The Post, is that they reference a book from Jill Gutowitz, ‘Girls Can Kiss Now: Essays’, in order to hide behind their own implicitness. Gutowitz expresses how lesbian fashion becoming mainstream in the media has validated her own queerness. i get that, and i think that’s great, but i think New York Posts twists her words and meaning entirely. especially when the examples in the article are all straight women that are turning an “anti-glam” fashion trend into “mainstream cool”, that is not very great. straight women should not be the icons of queerness expressed in fashion, and the term “anti-glam” seems rather homophobic to me. lesbians are in fact very glamorous, i’ll have you know.

being in a WLW relationship is not something you can put on and take off at the end of the day, like a pair of pants. insinuating the idea that women who wear traditionally masculine clothes are lesbians pushes heteronormativity into places that exist for queer people only. the definition of a lesbian does not include any mention of men - because it is to do with everything BUT men.

i’m gonna end it there, before i go off on a tangent and scare my audience. thanks to my friend for sending me this article and sharing the rage with me. let me know your thoughts in a comment or a dm, i want to be able to have open discussions.

as always, take care. i’ll speak to you soon.

yours,
libby griffiths

i have something i want to get off my mind. maybe some of you will relate, and maybe some of you won’t. but i hope you can make sense of what i’m about to say.

yesterday (a wednesday night - for context), one of my friends asked if i’d like to join him on a night out. what?! a wednesday night?! now i know my reaction is semi-appropriate, but only if i was middle-aged. but these are meant to be my prime years, out partying and enjoying life.

i am nineteen years of age and i am sick to death of clubbing and drinking. my ideal saturday night consists of homemade pesto pasta and watching a few episodes of the new series i’m engrossed in. currently, it’s ‘killing eve’ and ‘horimiya’, but that’s beside the point. all my friends are out in town, and i don’t feel FOMO at all, not even a little bit. why, you may ask? i really couldn’t tell you. maybe i’ll ask my therapist.

i could count the amount of times i have been on a night out on my two hands, which is a lot less than anyone else i hang out with. i just don’t enjoy it as much as i feel i’m supposed to. clinging with sweaty bodies, trying to balance my state of drunkness and having anxiety about the hangover to follow at 3am that morning. what part of that sounds reasonably enjoyable?

all this accumulated hatred manifests itself when i do actually find myself leaving the house to go out, and i find i’ve ruined my night before the clock strikes midnight. almost like a cinderella story - but the ball is a nightclub, the slipper a vodka red-bull, and prince charming looks more like a middle-aged man who i am running away from instead of towards. actually, sometimes my entire life seems like an upside-down fairytale, if that is even understandable to anyone outside of myself.

what i’m trying to say is, i hope someone out there can relate, because i’m beginning to feel quite alone in this feeling. about a month ago, i went up to my university for a taster session of my course, campus tour etc. i had a lovely day, and all the students were super welcoming and helpful. however, i remember asking one of the girls a question, “where are the best places for accommodation?” immediately she starts listing off the halls with the most bustle, noise, and excitement. now, in my mind, this sounds more like a mixing pot and a recipe for an anxiety attack. but i politely respond “thank you” and move on to my next question. i understand part of moving away to university is the socialising experience of getting black out almost every week day. (don’t worry mum, this will not be me.) but sometimes all i want is an uber eats delivery and a disney movie marathon.

i can’t tell if i feel like a new-born child or if the grim reaper is going to come knocking on my door at any second. i’m at the mental age of somewhere between 9 and 90, but definitely skipping past 19. however, i’m slowly learning that’s okay. not everyday is for a crazy night out. certainly not a wednesday night anyway.

take care, i’ll speak to you soon.

yours,
libby griffiths

recently i was going through some of the paperwork at my grandmas house and found an old story i wrote quite a few years ago, about a vampire boy in love with a human. i’ve always had this kindling passion for writing, of all sorts. currently i’m taking a gap year before going to study journalism at university. but that’s the next chapter.

for now, i will take up my little corner of the virtual world with my various existentialisms, mediocre poems, and unoriginal thoughts.

welcome to mushy brain.
i hope you stay awhile.

yours
- libby griffiths.

(launching publicly sun 20th, 7pm. first official post released mon 21st, 7pm.
“staying in at 19”.)