I'm running out of clock and that ain't a shock.

I'm 6 days away from leaving. I'm 6 days away from leaving an island of family, friends, memories, for an island of family, friends, and memories yet to be made. 

I'm sitting on a train carriage and the man across from me is clutching an oversized bottle of Stella Artois. I like Stella, but the smell reminds me of an ex, and his bedsit, and nights in front of the PS2 playing Lego Star Wars. 
And it reminds me that I think I lost one of my PS2 controllers to him. Just like I lost my DVD (or was it VHS, I was 16...) of the Nighmare Before Christmas to another ex. 

And it's trails of memories like that which I savour, and considering my terrible memory, feel precious to me. Granted, it's not pleasant remembering either of those ex's, but remembering the memories themselves is nice. It's comforting.

Someone commented to me recently that they didn't think I was the sentimental type. But I can be. That's why I have several memory boxes of collected items. That's why I have walls covered in postcards and pictures. But you can recognise the pleasure in remembering times gone past without being nostalgic for them, or wishing that in fact the past was the present.

I'm about to leave the country for anything up to a year, and at times I might be lonely, or homesick, and the memories of all the people I've left behind will battle for space in my mind. Some will come equipped with megaphones, others colourful banners; anything to get my attention.

But when I'm not feeling that way, or maybe despite feeling that way, I'll be in a new country, on a new adventure, making new memories. And that is so exciting. We document our lives so much these days - Facebook updates, 140-characters or less tweets, Instagramming our dinner. Even blogging. There's the criticism that we're so busy posting about our lives that we're not actually living them. 

But how can we resist having an instant memory recall?! How can we resist being able to find out how exactly we reacted to England qualifying for the World Cup or the major storm of 2013. Or our comments on the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics, or even as far back as Michael Jackson's death? It's like reading back old diaries and reminding yourself of all the ancient petty squabbles you had with your sister or the time your parents tried to ground you for doing something or other.
I can look back on my Facebook and the multitude of hair colours and clothes I've had in the last 8 years. I can see with a click of the mouse the people I've been sharing my life with up until now. I can see again all the places I've been: America, Belfast, Bologna, Brighton, York. London. Beautiful, miserable, sprawling and crowded London. I barely know London. I want to know it so much better. I still have time. But for now I can make do with getting to know Cairns, Brisbane, Sydney...

I'm going to miss you. All of you. Ok not all of you. In fact, I'm looking forward to putting some memories, some people, behind me. Hey! Hey you! Yes you, the one that acted like a jerkoff to me. I'm looking forward to leaving you behind. The Other Side of the Sea behind. Don't get me wrong, I'll still think about you, because you got under my skin and you're like a scab that I can't resist picking... But when I'm in a country where I'll be in a bikini because it'll be SO DAMN HOT, I won't want to pick that scab.

I'm not stupid in thinking that by going to the other side of the world, I'm leaving all my troubles behind. How many films have we seen when people run away from their troubles or think they've escaped them only to have them catch up with them? I'm taking my issues with me because they are to do with me. But people run away for a new scene, a new culture, a new perspective. So your issues? They might not matter so much an ocean away. 

So when I'm the other side of the sea, missing some of you, and being finally free of the presence of others, you just need to know I'm ok. But you'll know that, cos I'll have posted it on Facebook. You know, that photo of me on the beach in my bikini, in December ;) 

No Freedom Til We're Equal

Yesterday my phone died when I was coming back from Central London. I had no music. I had to listen to the world. I had no choice.

And on the train home I was across the aisle from a young mum and her son. Her phone rang and she proceeded to tell her father that she had no money. Only £60 in the bank. And the Bright House money was going out on Friday and two of her son's friends were having birthdays this weekend and it was her son's birthday this week and she still needed to get everything for him but how was she going to pay for it all?

What I'm about to say is not a boast, I am not trying to lord anything over anyone. But I have never had to worry about money. Not really. I live with my dad, and I don't pay rent. When I tried to pay rent to my dad, he told me to set up a savings account and pay my "rent" into there every month. So I was paying my rent to myself. I think my dad just wanted me to save more money so I'd be out of the house quicker. At university my student loan never covered my accommodation, because my family had been assessed and it was concluded they could help me out financially. Which they had to. I still worked, but because I wanted to, not because I had to.

I'm not getting out of this house anytime soon, not least because I'm going to Australia for a year and by the time I come back my savings will probably be decimated.

So to hear this woman's fears about paying for things, to hear that she might genuinely struggle to give her son the birthday he wanted, it made me feel uncomfortable.

And that's my understanding of having privilege. When someone elses experience is not equal to yours, and it makes you uncomfortable. It should make you uncomfortable, because only then can you understand it, accept it, and if you can, make steps to correct it. Some shy away from that uncomfortable feeling, and make excuses for it.
I can't change that I was born into a family that is not rich, but is not poor.

I also can't change the fact that I am white. It is frequently noted that the mainstream feminism, the "third wave" is not very diverse. Feminism as a movement has more often than not focused on the experiences and disadvantages that white women suffer. And that is not because the movement is being racist. But because the experiences and disadvantages suffered by white women are not always strictly the same as those suffered by women of colour, and the women propelled forward to lead the movement are frequently white.
That is also privilege.

So now I have recognised that I am privileged in being not-poor and white, what can I do about it?

I can read. I can listen. I can take in what other people's experiences are. I can't change my skin colour or roots but I can learn about other people's roots. I can learn about their lives as experienced because of their skin colour. I have to continue to challenge my own preconceptions - and I do have them, I'm not denying that - of race, sex, age, ability, class, and in challenging my own I can learn to challenge others too. I don't want to be blind to the differences between myself and others. We need to deconstruct the stereotypes, and tear them down piece by piece. Stereotypes of Northerners, Southerners. Stereotypes of old and young. Stereotypes of nationality, or religion. Stereotypes of race. Stereotypes of gender.

Human rights for everybody. I want to be uncomfortable, if it means I become a better person.

The Times They Are a-Changin'

Changes can happen overnight, instantaneously or gradually. But we all change, all the time, and when we comment that someone hasn't changed, we're wrong. That person will have changed, perhaps not in a ground-shifting life-altering way that irrevocably changes who they are, but they will have changed in little ways, by small degrees.

I have changed so much in the last 12 months. Trek is the obvious catalyst to a new perspective of my life. Before Trek, I would never have planned a year abroad in Australia. I cried when I went away on Trek, when my mum and nan came to wave me off. I'm tearful thinking about it now. And that was only for a month.

A year is very different to a month. (No shit, Sherlock)
A year alone is very, very different to a month with a best friend and a random group of people you have to spend everyday with.

34 days left to go, and I'm scared. So scared. I'm terrified because I'm going into the unknown. Fearful of the things I'll find, or won't find. Scared that what I'm leaving won't still be here when I come back. I think the stupid craziness my brain has been dealing me the last week or so is down to me desperately feeling the need to make more roots here.

But the fear isn't stopping me from going. My excitement, my expectations, my desperation to explore, the bubbles of curiosity are carrying me ever closer.

A lot can change in a year. I've changed a lot in a year. I'm not expecting to come back in a year, or however long I go for, and everything be as it was when I departed.

I think that's one of biggest evolutions you can go through. Understanding that things change, and that it's okay. Accepting it, and embracing your own changes.

Evolving Forwards, Not Stuck Behind.

Those Walls I Built, Part 2

Boxes. Lots of boxes. Different sizes. Different weights.

That's how I'd like my mind to be. That's how I would like to compartmentalise the bad memories and the good memories and the grey memories. I could keep the bad memories in a dark corner, hidden from view, gathering dust.

In the same dark corner in which a flame burns. A flame that refuses to be extinguished. A flame that threatens to give life to paranoia, give light to jealousy. It burns bright for self-loathing and held to closely it smokes out my self-esteem.

I am still to work out how exactly I am meant to deal with rejection, and let go of crushes. I feel like every time it happens I haven't learned anything from the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that. 

So I am a bit fed up of feeling so crap over this one thing. I feel like I'm only focusing on it because I'm bricking it about Australia. But I've got shit to do. So whilst I would love to feel the feelings and work on sorting myself out, I think the best thing to do is keep having the small brief cries, and compartmentalise. Like I said, shit to do man. Shit. To. Do.