Tag Archives: love

On first kisses, worst kisses, transience, and being a hurricane in the form of a girl

My first kiss was also my worst kiss. I was at a school disco at the tender age of 14, dressed in a beige Pocahontas-style fringed top that my mother had decided was the height of fashion, when a slightly gossipy overly-enthusiastic friend approached me to ask if I would ‘pull her mate’. As a late bloomer, I was insecure about my flat-chested, awkward tiny frame, thick dirty blonde hair and rabbit teeth, so I jumped at the opportunity to experience my first kiss and become more like the super glamorous curvaceous teenage girls surrounding me, who smoked, said ‘shit’ and drank Bacardi Breezers on the weekend. One of them had asked me on that same night if I remained a ‘VL’. For anyone who didn’t grow up on the west coast of Scotland in the early 2000s, ‘VL’ was teenage slang for ‘Virgin Lips’, and was definitely a state with which one did not aspire to be associated.

I walked to the centre of the dancefloor where my acne-ridden bespectacled beau awaited me. We’d never exchanged two words but he was in the year above me at school so I believed this made him a mature choice for my first kiss. There was no physical attraction on my part, being an undeveloped 14 year old with confusing lesbian leanings, who was pretty convinced that Heath Ledger’s character in ’10 Things I Hate About You’ was the only male worth pursuing. Nonetheless, it was now or never, so I nervously approached the pale nerdy teenager standing before me. My confusion about not knowing what to do was quickly assuaged when he clamped his larger than average jaw around my mouth and proceeded to dart a cold wet tongue in and out of my mouth, disarming me completely. After thrusting his tongue repeatedly at me, the young man would pause and allow me to move my tongue nervously around his mouth. I’m not sure how long the kiss lasted for, but all eyes were upon me, and it felt like the longest moment of my life.

The next day, gossip followed me through the hallways – the quiet geeky girl had kissed a fourth year, and this was shocking news. Even my Maths teacher asked me about my encounter, and then commented in an amused tone that she didn’t know I had it in me. Despite my misgivings about all this attention, I definitely changed in the eyes of my peers that day. From then onwards, I was no longer simply the weird short skinny girl who spent suspicious amounts of time in the library – I had a name, I was a viable option for boys to admire, and this attention was amplified over the course of the following two years, as I developed larger than average breasts, dyed my hair blonde and started wearing pleated mini skirts to school.

Having found my first kiss to be somewhat of an anti-climax, I ignored boys for about a year after this encounter, until I met A. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, A was probably the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen up close in my short life. With high feminine cheekbones, striking eyes and a ponytail, he was just the right mix of masculine and feminine qualities that stirred up feelings in me I didn’t know I could feel. We went on our first date in town with his friend as a third wheel, before going back to A’s house. When he walked me to his close door, we paused inside the flat building and he kissed me deeply and passionately. It was everything I’d dreamed that my first kiss would be, except it wasn’t my first. It didn’t matter though – by all standards that mattered, A was my first love. We had a perfect four month long love affair and, looking back, I honestly believe that at only fifteen, he was one of the loveliest men I would ever date.

After A, there came many others, but none of them made my heart flutter as he once had, so I convinced myself that he was the one and I’d made a mistake ending our relationship. Over the coming years, I became addicted to chasing these beautiful transient moments with strangers, friends and partners, trying to replicate the magic of the first time.

As the years passed, so did many short-lived flings, one night stands, and messy long-term relationships. I was always searching for something. I kissed bad boys in dark corners, played with strangers in alleyways, and told boyfriends my deepest darkest desires as we smoked cigarettes in the middle of the night. I became obsessed with transience, convincing myself there was no greater joy than in a single moment, and that these moments must be constantly interspersed with reality to make it more bearable.

In every relationship I entered, I thought that we needed to tell each other everything that had come to pass in our lives. The words would come spewing out, and I would reveal too much too quickly. After a couple of months, the relationship would blow up in flames, because that intensity cannot be maintained long-term. If I didn’t feel an immediate connection with people, I dismissed them as not worth my time. Club nights became like gold to me, as I could interact with many people in a setting where alcohol was readily available, allowing us to talk frankly and honestly. I stopped caring about ‘real world’ issues like money, university and work, because I believed that the secret inner life of people was more compelling and relevant than paying bills on time.

I’d always thought of my intensity and passion as being endearing traits. I thought of myself as ‘not like other girls’; more compelling, more honest and mysterious. The men I slept with told me they’d never met anyone like me, someone who felt everything so deeply and threw themselves into everything full force. Around the time before I started dating my now husband, I fell for a guy who told me I was too intense and he couldn’t handle it. This hurt my feelings, and I spent some time reflecting on whether there was truth in what he’d said. It seemed to me that I was caught between two extremes. Men would either become obsessed with me, begging me never to leave, gripping me in the night in fiery passion, or they’d run away frightened. It was the same with my friends – I’d make what I thought were deep, intense connections with people, and then they’d tell me they couldn’t handle my force of personality, and cut me out of their lives. I began to beat myself up, believing that I was messy, intense and unlovable in the long-term. I told myself I was the type of woman who people loved in the short-term, but not worthy of any long-term commitment.

In around 2010, I found some new friends, who took me seriously and listened to me when I spoke. They were interested in the things I had to say, not just my physical actions, and this completely revolutionised the way I thought about myself. My passion, my intensity, my sexuality, these were all factors of who I am, but they didn’t define me. I wasn’t a one dimensional character in a quirky rom-com who the main character ditches for someone more stable but less interesting. I was a complex being with thoughts, and I was fluid and changeable.

When I had my first kiss with my now husband in 2010, I knew for sure that this was love, true love, and not the superficial transient love I had relentlessly pursued for years. The kiss was simple and magical; as we stood at my flat door, full of red wine and optimism, I politely asked him, ‘Will you kiss me please?’ and nervously glanced at the floor. Gently, he placed his fingers under my chin, tilted my head towards his, and gave me the tiniest, sweetest kiss of my life. I knew in that moment that love didn’t need to be rushed, and it didn’t need to be destructive or painful to feel good. Over the time in which we dated, I kept expecting the relationship to become codependent and destructive. I kept expecting him to turn me into his ideal pixie dream girl, and was repeatedly surprised when he treated me like an actual human being. If I made a mistake, he didn’t lose all faith in me or fall out of love with me, because he wasn’t under any illusions that I was anything but a human being.

I still love the thrill of the chase, in all aspects of my life, and I really do believe there is magic in human connection. I still enjoy the odd moment when life seems to have paused and, to paraphrase that wonderful young adult novel, ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’, in that moment, you feel infinite. I still have days with my husband where everything feels perfect and magical, and like we are falling in love for the first time, and I have moments with friends where we bond so deeply, or laugh so hard we cry, that I realise we are all connected on this planet. When humans are young, we tend to think the world revolves around us alone, but I think it is extremely important, as a human being, as a vegan, as an environmentalist, and a humanist, that I, and those around me, respect our space on this earth, and those beings around us who occupy their own space. The world is not ours; we’re just living in it.


x L x

P.S. I’m collecting first kiss stories! I’d love to hear yours!

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Tis the season of guilt and shame

I’m a big believer in second chances. Having made a lot of silly drunken mistakes in my teens and early twenties, I understand what it’s like to cause destruction and hurt in your quest for self-discovery, so I always like to give people the benefit of the doubt when they act like assholes. This extends to giving friends and family second, third, fourth and fifth chances even when they have hurt me beyond repair. Over the last few years, I believe my friends have come to rely on my high levels of patience and tolerance, to the point where people occasionally take advantage of my kind nature. It was in around 2009, when the long-term bully I had called my best friend for eighteen years sent me endless text messages of outright abuse in a disproportionate reaction to some journal entries I had posted that mentioned her name, and I came to the realisation that I had to develop thicker skin.

In the months following my fall-out with my toxic ex best friend, I was an utter mess, crying constantly and torturing myself with an endless cycle of guilt and shame, going over and over every mistake I’d ever made during the years of our friendship, telling myself that I was the cause of her inappropriate behaviour. This all happened five years ago, and at nearly twenty-nine, I am older and wiser now, still tolerant and patient, but less willing to stand for abuse and bullying of my friends or myself. I told myself that I had moved on from my self-loathing guilt spiral, and that I could take anything the universe threw at me. I was wrong.

The winter season in Scotland, and around the world, is a difficult time for many people. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and find the long dark nights utterly torturous, as I’m starved for just a slither of sunlight to bring me out of my dark moods. I invested in a SAD lamp a few years ago, and while it hasn’t entirely cured my seasonal depression, it does offer a little boost on the darker days. That said, Christmas brings additional stress that I always forget to account for when November hits, and I’m only ever reminded when I’m sitting crying on my husband after my family’s annual festive argument. It’s easy for me to get distracted by the shiny lights and cheery music, forgetting that Christmas is always a difficult time for families and friends.

Just when I thought I had it all figured out this year, the universe threw me a curve ball, and I reverted to my old cycle of guilt and shame. A friend of twelve years behaved inappropriately at a social event at my house, and was asked to leave, to which she reacted by sending me a barrage of personal messages that drew attention to all of my past errors in judgment, and essentially told me that my other ex friend had it right about me – that I was a cold and uncaring person who would never maintain a long-term friendship.

I slipped back into my old habits, reiterating the toxic thoughts that had haunted me constantly five years ago – ‘I’m a toxic and damaging person, undeserving of love’; ‘Sooner or later everyone will see my inadequacies and leave me for good’. Of course, this meant that when my family’s annual festive argument occurred, my defences were down, and the cruel words hurled around the room cut me deeply, leaving me believing that I couldn’t trust anyone.

A week later, I came home from work to a Christmas card and a cat calendar that my fearfully strong grandparents had posted through my front door. I’d been beating myself up for a week, worried that my family had all turned against each other, and that I would be left spending the entire festive season with my husband and cat, but my family had all but forgotten the drunken bickering, and was ready to move on.

We cannot choose our families, but we can choose who we allow into our hearts, who we forgive and who we move past in life. For so long, I’ve been desperate to please everybody in my life, and never once did I consider if they were a worthy source of my worry. The Dalai Lama tells us to, ‘Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible’, and he is absolutely correct in this assertion, but it’s important to note that kindness does not equal weakness, and that sometimes relationships fall apart despite our best efforts.

We are constantly evolving beings, and the people who remain in our lives long-term are often those who respect our evolution, willing to move on from our past misdemeanours as they realise we have learned and grown from these experiences. Too often, the people who have been in our lives for the longest want to keep us in little labelled boxes, and they fixate on who we were five, ten or twenty years ago, rather than the people we’ve become. Families are particularly talented at this unwillingness to see our self-growth, but it can also happen with long-term friends and partners.

This Christmas, I recommend that everybody tries to avoid making assumptions of their loved ones’ behaviour and reactions. We are all learning and growing every single day that we are on this incredible planet, and it’s okay for people to grow out of certain behaviours and friendships. You have an opportunity to be kind and forgiving this festive season – don’t let it go to waste.

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Breaking Cycles of Abuse and Learning to Stop Playing the Victim

I was fifteen when I started dating my first boyfriend. At that time, I was in my gawky pubescent phase, short, skinny, mousy, pale with a gap in my front teeth that has never properly closed. I’d just moved up to a C cup bra, and was slowly beginning to take on a more womanly form. I wore baggy Tammy Girl jeans because I was too small for the ladies jeans department, teamed with black tank tops and tight-fitting mesh spiderweb blouses.

When I got together with this boyfriend (We’ll call him A), I couldn’t believe my luck. I was so awkward, not at all like the beautiful girls with their straightened blonde hair and perfectly manicured nails, those who paraded down the school hallway like they owned it, while I inched quietly by hoping that no one would yell an insult at me. So when A called my house to ask me out, I hung up the phone and screamed with joy. He was the first guy I’d met who made me want to kiss him – strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones, deep dark eyes, and long dark hair he wore tied back in a ponytail; a mesh of masculine and feminine beauty, he stood out from the pack.

I was with this boy for a total of four months, which began with a fluttering of butterflies in my tummy, heart pounding in my chest as he kissed me at his front door for the first time. Before long we were inseparable, speaking on the phone for an hour every night, gripped fiercely onto one another as we swayed quietly to Savage Garden’s ‘I Knew I Loved You’ when it played in a friend’s bedroom, completely unaware of our surroundings.

When Winter came, and the streets iced over, I wore stupidly clunky silver heels to a party, and A carried me across the ice in my knee-length black tutu skirt. I thought to myself that this was true romance; there was no greater love than ours. After about a month of dating, he told me he loved me, and I returned the sentiment.

Our inevitable break-up occurred when I dumped A for an older ‘cooler’ guy, who manipulated me into breaking up with A, telling me that I was beautiful and special, then later smashed my heart into a thousand tiny pieces, telling me I was ugly and stupid, leaving me lost, guilty and alone. I self-harmed in my Mum’s bathroom, slicing up my arms with razors because I thought it was what I deserved for the hurt I had caused. My school friends furthered the guilt complex I had developed by telling me that I was toxic, that the pain I had caused was irreparable, a system of beliefs that would follow me throughout my adult life.

By the time I started dating S, at the age of 18, I felt like an old hand at heartbreak. I told him of the hurt I’d experienced in the past, and we opened up to each other for the first time, exposing our past lives like open wounds. I was not cautious with my emotions in those days, and I was quick to trust and open up to a new love. I told S of the guilt I had felt in my previous short-lived relationships; I told him that I was a poisonous force, who picked boys up and then dropped them callously; that I couldn’t be trusted and was undeserving of love.

In the beginning, S did exactly the job that was required of him. He fell hard. Right away, he was more interested in me than I was interested in him. I liked that he listened to me, and I felt I could tell him anything without him using the information against me. He wasn’t beautiful like A – he was awkward, skinny and hard-looking, with russet-coloured hair and bright green eyes. I wasn’t instantly attracted to S as I had been to A, but the more time we spent together, the more I warmed to him.

We soon fell into the same habits as A and I, becoming inseparable, following each other around like lost puppies, but as we were older now, with fewer restrictions on our behaviour, the relationship was much more intense than any of my previous ones. We sat up till all hours, pouring our hearts out like there was no tomorrow, making promises of forever. I lost my virginity to S, and within a year, we were living together in a grotty little flat, determined never to spend a night apart.

Pretty soon after moving in together, the cracks began to appear. S would ditch a family event for band practice, completely suffocated by our clingy love affair, and I would get angry, asking why my family didn’t matter to him. S would shout at me for not doing the dishes, calling me all the names under the sun. I would stay out late drinking with my gay best friend, then come buzzing on the door at 5am having forgotten my keys. I had a few drunken fumbles with friends, as I was itching to get away from our suffocating relationship, and S would scream at me afterwards, repeating the same hurtful things I had told myself my whole life – that I was toxic, selfish and undeserving of love.

He kept tallies of all my mistakes, then used them as ammunition against me in our fiery screaming rows. We stopped touching each other – he would refuse to hug me if he was angry at me, telling me I wasn’t deserving of his love. If he was really angry, he would threaten me with, ‘I would hit you now if you weren’t a woman.’ It got to the point where I wasn’t allowed to go out with my friends – S would make the excuse that he didn’t like them or that they were a bad influence on me. As I had nothing in my life outside of S, I became isolated and spent my days playing video games and waiting for him to come home.

Before long, I realised I needed out, but S had done a wonderful job of convincing me that I had no friends, and needed to keep him on my good side in order to avoid ending up alone, so I was frightened to break up with him. My subconscious knew it was time for me to end the relationship, so I did the unforgivable, and had sex with a friend I found attractive. After we slept together, the friend asked me to keep it quiet, so as not to jeopardise his relationship with his girlfriend. I think part of me had believed that the friend and I might end up dating, but this was a fantasy constructed by me as an outlet from my confining and toxic relationship. In the end I told S about the indiscretion, and he threw me out of his house (by this point we were living with our parents again). When I told him I loved him, he replied, ‘No you don’t. You can’t love anybody. You’re too in love with yourself.’

Throughout my entire relationship history, a common theme had been apparent. I was 20 years old and I had not been single since the age of 15, because I was constantly seeking another human being to be my cushion, my security blanket, my saviour. I was genuinely terrified to be on my own and face up to my own insecurities, fears and destructive force of personality, so I clung to people that were wrong for me in the hopes that they would protect me from myself. The men I was dating were the worst people to counsel me through my issues, because each of them wanted to be the white knight, saving me from myself.

I was the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, oddly beautiful, adventurous, clever, bohemian, destructive, endlessly screaming ‘save me’ at the lonely clever men who passed; moreover, I made men feel good about themselves, listening for hours to their crazy ideas and engaging with them on a deep intellectual level, fucking them whenever they asked, whilst filling the role of status symbol – I was the girl they’d always dreamt of owning; smart but humble, pretty but not too pretty, brilliant but unsure, endlessly generous with compliments, love and affection, too insecure and frightened to leave. I was trapped in a cycle, being bullied by egotistical yet insecure little boys, but it was a cycle of my own making. I was doing the equivalent of standing in the fast lane with a sign reading, ‘RUN ME OVER I’M AN EASY TARGET’.

After S, I was single for a while, but this didn’t break the cycle. I entered into a deep depression and essentially moved in with my male best friend, R, who treated me like a punching bag. We developed a destructive and clinging relationship much like my previous one, except this one was (mainly) platonic. We would sit up all night drinking red wine, smoking Marlboro Lights, and indulging all of our darkest, deepest thoughts and fears. We loved each other because we were compelled to love each other. We were both selfish, broken children seeking answers, and trying to find them through each other. In the dark of the night, he would turn on me suddenly, if I said the wrong thing, and become aggressive, informing me that he was helping me through my problems, and that I should be thankful for his influence.

During this period of my life, I also began sleeping with a man called B. He enjoyed hurting me and I didn’t stop him, because I felt I was deserving of pain and abuse. R became jealous of B, and for a long time I moved between them, scared to be alone and look after myself. Being caught between two abusers was more appealing to me as a 20 year old than having to face up to my depression and insecurity on my own. The whole thing blew up when R drunkenly confessed to being in love with me in order to try and convince me to break up with B.

I removed myself from the clusterfuck with B and R, moving straight onto M, who was sweet to me in the beginning. He was the first man I’d been with since A who didn’t intentionally want to hurt me, and so I decided he was the one and things got serious quickly. Although M was not directly abusive towards me, there were a lot of problems with the relationship from the get-go. He was unreliable, often lied to avoid getting into trouble, and took no responsibility for his life. We met when we were two lost souls looking for the other one to guide us, and our relationship was founded on this lack of direction. Once I started to grow and change, we stopped having common interests, and the relationship failed to function.

We were together for four years, during which time it became apparent that M was never going to grow up, and it was time for me to get my life together and move on. I was now in my early twenties, and I’d achieved practically nothing. I’d dropped out of University, had no job, and was too socially anxious to leave the house. I was on anti-depressants, I’d made two half-hearted suicide attempts over the last five years, I’d had an eating disorder, I’d lost a lot of friends, and I didn’t even know what happiness was anymore. I’d spent so much time clinging to men to save me, and when they hadn’t been able to do so, I’d forgotten to save myself.

When I was 23, I finally decided to take some steps to improve my life. I went back to University and finished my degree, and when I’d worked up the courage, I ended my co-dependant relationship with M. I’d realised that I couldn’t keep relying on the men in my life to fix everything for me. I got a part-time job in a gift shop, and worked my butt off for two years, during which time I obtained a second Masters degree, while balancing a part-time job to pay my rent on a small flat that I shared with a friend. This was a challenging time, I cried a lot of the time, and I told myself that I’d never get through it, but I made it through, and doing so made me realise that I was strong, and capable of more than I thought possible.

In my mid-twenties, I started seeing Bob. I knew straight away that this one was different from the others. He was five years older than me, and had already gotten his life together. He had a stable job, and a nice flat which he paid for on his own. At first I was sure he would realise what a flaky, poisonous, destructive force I was, and the relationship would blow up, so I kept trying to drive him away. Despite my best efforts, Bob didn’t leave. He didn’t save me either, but he helped give me the tools I needed to save myself. We worked together as a team, and when I didn’t have the strength to fight for something, he offered support, love, understanding and patience. We have now been together for four years, and last year, we were married. Being with Bob was like learning to love all over again. Everything else felt like a trial run.

A few nights ago, I was at a party one of my few remaining school friends. She repeatedly mentioned names from my past, including friends from high school who I stopped speaking to years ago, following eighteen years of systematic bullying.

I thought of my best friend from high school, who had told me for years that I was poisonous, toxic, selfish, undeserving of love, and that eventually everyone would leave me alone. I thought of A, and how I’d dumped him with no explanation, and how I was still torturing myself for a mistake I’d made in my mid-teens. I thought of S, telling me it was impossible for me to love somebody else because I was too in love with myself. I thought of all the friends and lovers and the hurt we’d caused each other, and I choked up with guilt and insecurity; a seemingly inextricable knot formed in my stomach, and I couldn’t breathe temporarily.

When I got home that night, I confided all of my fears in Bob, about not being able to break cycles of abuse, insecurity about the people who had cut me out of their lives, and guilt over the hurt I’d caused. Then Bob said to me, ‘These people didn’t cut you out. You cut them out when you decided not to go back to the abuse.’

All of this time, I’d felt guilt over the relationships that had ended destructively, because I’d made mistakes, and hurt people, and been told repeatedly that I was a bad person. The reality of the situation was that these people had caused me hurt as well, but I was taking the blame for all of it. I’d believed that I needed to break the cycle of destroying everything I touched, that I was a damaging person who needed to learn how to love unselfishly, but in fact, I needed to break the cycle of forming relationships with bullies.

If you are caught in a cycle, you should know that you alone have the power to break it. Ending it is a frightening prospect, but coming out of the other side is like waking up, and realising that you never ever have to go back into that nightmare.

Bob and I on our wedding day last year.

Bob and I on our wedding day in April of last year.


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