Darth Maul, Free Sushi and the Bike Alarm.

In early October, at around 1am on a weekday night, a very high pitched, almost bird-like alarm pierced the nights sky. That particular alarm happened to be attached to a motorcycle, that happened to be parked outside my bedroom window.

An annoyance, for sure. But one you maybe make a passing comment about to your partner the next morning, or even forget about altogether. But the annoyance becomes all the more significant when it happens on the hour, every hour.

For 2 weeks straight.

Needless to say, we stopped sleeping properly. We would manage to finally drift off into a slumber and our eyes would snap open again at the sound of the shrill, hellish vehicular melody. It was taunting us. Where was the owner? Why didn't they realise they had a faulty alarm? When will this end!? It became increasingly apparent that this alarm was external, and only went off when the bike cover would flap against with it... or anyone even dared to look towards it. Coupled with the fact that October was pretty solidly gale force wind and rain, this was bad news.

It was laughable, really. The dreaded alarm made its way into many of my conversations catching up with friends or family over Facetime, and they all had the same incredulous reaction. Why wasn't this sorted? Where the hell was the owner? Can't you just get it towed? Sure enough, we eventually had to get the council involved. They came round to assess the noise level and almost immediately decided it needed to be removed. By that time, Ben and I were so sleep deprived we were barely functioning. We had become desperate for respite, and both fantasised about the ways we would pulverise both the vehicle and the owner. Ben opted for a baseball bat, whereas I preferred the medieval approach of burning at the stake, with the alarm shoved in the mouth of this faceless motorbike villain.

Anyway, the bike was inevitably gone the next morning. But by that time, we were burnt out and agitated. The nights were getting darker and I felt myself slip into a grey and foggy headspace, which took me by surprise as I usually thrive in a cozy, cold and damn autumnal setting. I put on Gilmore Girls and lit a sickly pumpkin candle in a bid to try and kickstart my festive juices... but it was a non starter. I began to wonder if I had a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder, which seemed so unlikely when my wardrobe really comes alive as soon as the wind turns bitter. How could I be sad when my knitwear collection had just started to come into its own?

Halloween came around, and a friend and I planned a party. I LOVE Halloween and saw it as a perfect opportunity to throw myself into a creative project that I could share with my friends. Historically, a perfect way to get me out of a seasonal slump. I even decided to finally dress up in the costume I had dreamed of creating for over 5 years (yes, really) Darth Maul. Please don't ask why, because I simply don't have an answer for you.

This was one of the highlights of my entire year. I spent an extortionate amount of money on decorations and my outfit, but it was all worth it as my back up mental health generator was glowing faintly for the first time in a while. I sat on the floor sticking my latex horns onto my bald cap with spirit gum and felt the old me return for an evening. I am a self confessed extrovert - I thrive around social settings, people, friends, food, laughter, games, road trips, parties, and holidays. Dressing up as a Sith Lord drinking a homemade cocktail out of a skull shaped glass playing a pirate themed card game was a sure fire way to cheer me up, and it did. I even have the this picture framed above my fireplace, it makes me laugh every time I look at it.

But sure enough, the moment I wiped off my red and black make up, the familiar grey fog returned. I lay awake and thought of the motorbike alarm. If ONLY the alarm hadn't gone off, then I wouldn't be in this mess! I would have slept more, and stressed about work less, and I would have have had the energy to do more Pilates, and argued with my boyfriend less, and I would have become Tolstoy overnight and written the millennial War and Peace on my lunch breaks.

I love a lot about myself, but one thing I would change in a heartbeat is the way I talk to myself. It's fucking brutal. I sometimes share my self analysis ramblings with the people who know me best and look up to find their horrified faces staring back at me. I was recently having a coffee with my friend Maya, who was my mentor for the Channel 4 writers scheme in 2021, and after listening to me vent about how much of a failure and a sellout I was for 45 minutes, she politely reminded me that I had written a pilot and had an international transfer of a play in the last year. It's embarrassing because I would NEVER talk to anyone else the way I talk to myself - but here's the fucked up thing... I secretly thing it's a good thing. In the annals of my broken brain, I attribute any success I have had in my life to a pretty ruthless - and often thankless- work ethic. In my dark moments, I tell myself I am a one hit wonder. I am a privileged, entitled cry baby who is so scared of being financially unstable that I make cowardly choices and my true potential is slipping away day by day because I'm terrified of failure, so I never fully commit to anything... and all of THIS after being in therapy on and off for over a decade! I am the most settled I've ever been in my life, living in a gorgeous little pink house with my best friend who I happen to also love and a pack of furry animals. Heaven forbid anything actually goes wrong - I haven't left myself any room to manoeuvre.

But as I say... this is clearly all the alarms fault. Because filling in a noise complaint form on the Brighton and Hove council website is a hell of a lot easier than having to face the fact you may need some help, whilst also not knowing where is best to turn to.

Fireworks night - another favourite of mine - came and went without celebration. I felt myself going into hibernation mode; staring at my medium sized screen all day, to sitting with a pizza staring at a large screen until bedtime, then scrolling mindlessly on my small screen until I fall asleep. Rinse and repeat. Brisk walks to the park and the beach turned to battling the wind and rain with my dog Mila bundled under my raincoat, and waiting in the torrential downpour for her to mercifully do her business on a patch of muddy grass so we could run back inside our warm and safe burrow. I wanted to smoke again. I drank in the evenings on my own, and would cry about a passive aggressive email that would usually go completely under my radar. I was seeing the signs, and I ignored them. But Christmas was coming, and there was no way in hell I would be sad at Christmas. I AM Christmas. I was gonna deck my house with lights inside and out, watch my favourite films (Miracle on the 34th Street, Muppets and Klaus, for what it's worth) and watch my niece's face light up as the 6ft polar bears slowly inflate outside my Mums house, as they do every year. I was even going to a swanky party for Ben's work do, with a free night in a posh hotel and all you can eat sushi! What could go wrong?

Well, COVID.

The sushi was delicious... but at what cost? Turns out a super spreader event with an open bar in Heron Tower was enough to infect both Ben and I, and cause my throat to essentially cease to function for 2 weeks. I couldn't talk, eat, or sleep. I cancelled my run up to Christmas plans and prayed for a negative test by the 22nd, so I could go home and be with my family. I couldn't help but laugh (internally). I do NOT subscribe to the feeling sorry for myself mentality - or at least, not for long. 2 days of crying and I am usually back in business. But come ON - give me a break here. I became increasingly isolated and tearful. I lost weight and had panic attacks about opening my emails. My mental health chickens had come home to roost and it was so humiliating!!! Because I had NOTHING to complain about!!! But of course, that's not how it works. Those of you know who recognise what I'm talking about will be familiar with that reality.

It's currently New Years Eve and has been for about an hour, at the time of writing. Ben is upstairs sleeping and my cat Peggy, in solidarity with my late night musings, has ceremoniously thrown up on the floor next to my feet. New Years features pretty low on my list of favourite holidays, so I'm not sure how I will mark it later. Lying awake staring at the ceiling just now I had the overwhelming urge to write, a feeling which has been scarce this year. So I grabbed the chance, went downstairs and opened my laptop to blurt out this kind-of-depressing-end-of-year stream of consciousness. Thank you for bearing with me so far.

Am I okay? No. But I haven’t been okay before, and I am sure I will be again. I fully choked on a pomegranate seed this week and it gave me a short but pretty euphoric high so, there’s that.

I’m just saying, it feels dishonest to be fully HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! right now... and it’s okay if you also feel like you don’t have much left to give going into 2023. It's been a hard year for all of us. I am aiming to talk to myself in a kinder way and prioritise my own happiness in the coming months, and maybe you will too. We have no control of war, or energy bills, or motorcycle alarms, but we DO have the power to change our relationship with ourselves. Which sounds wanky, but if there is one thing that has been apparent for me this year is that when your tank is low, only you can fill it. No amount of free sushi, or pirate themed card games, or latex horns can fill that void.

Going into my thirtieth year with a mostly depleted gas tank in the old brain is not necessarily how I would have chosen to close out 2022, but it’s also actually kind of liberating. I may be a sad little toad now, but even through the grey fog I know that I have achieved incredible things already in my short life, and there will be more. If I only got out of my own damn way.

Happy New Year everyone, and look after yourselves.

Liv x