Fulfilling my promise

To my knowledge, I've never made a promise to my boyfriend of three-and-a-quarter years. I used to think I was good at making and keeping promises: it seemed the default behaviour of an extremely shy and nervous child. I grew up terrified of being told off by anyone other than my immediate family. In school and beyond, I avoided doing wrong by not doing much of interest at all. Somehow, I maintained pleasant groups of friends in primary school, secondary school and even during undergrad, despite rarely contributing to lunchtime conversations and lacking opinions on most topics. I was known for being clever, and happy to share my knowledge when asked, but was otherwise, much like the main character on one of my favourite TV shows, a functional mute. Only on special occasions did I show much character: I played the lead in the year six play, sang my heart out on a cold autumnal walk back from an under 16's nightclub in Berlin, and sang terrible karaoke while wine-drunk in a student bar on a Thursday night. Three nights later, I was back to being the quiet one, speaking no more than three full sentences on the night I met my now-boyfriend. The next few months I saw as an awakening, but in reality they were defined by misguided emotions combined with the freedom to test my limits for the first time. Thankfully, things sorted themselves out nicely; a month after the worst night of my life, I was looking forward to a first date, and at the time of writing, that is still my most recent first date. Mind you, it hasn't all been plain sailing: not even a year in, I made the massive decision to move to a completely different part of the country for three years; at a birthday party the following year I was so in my own little world that he couldn't enjoy himself and decided we should go home, and we haven't really enjoyed any of the three new years we've spent together, with me ending up in tears more often than not.

When I was young, I cried a lot. I've never been very aware of the people around me, so I don't know whether this was particularly notable to them, but I do know I never found out why I had such outbursts. I've never wondered much about why my parents didn't seek the answers; maybe they were afraid of what the answers might be, thinking they couldn't deal with it. We've always been very insular as a family, not helped by the fact that neither of my parents drive. Looking back, I feel my cleverness masked any lack of skills and assuaged any worries, but I've never broached the subject to anyone but my sister, and even then, we skirt around the emotional aspects. I certainly can pass as a normal human being, and sometimes I even think I am. Normality is a spectrum and there's no way I'm wholly abnormal. I progressed from top achieving pupil to top achieving graduate, and amassed several offers for postgraduate study, without questioning whether I was suitable or capable. I had a strong interest and a decent explanation for why I wanted to progress in this way, but no real understanding of how to get things to happen or ask the most basic of questions. I agonise over writing emails and deciding how and when to follow things up. The lockdown, for all the joy I got from learning that I can live quite successfully with my boyfriend, only compounded my communication difficulties, and now I face the arduous task of making it clear that I need some sort of help, things are not "okay", as I always find myself responding when asked. I'm actually floundering in insecurity and struggling to maintain the façade. I can't promise because I don't know my own mind; I can't trust myself to remember important details or complete tasks in a timely manner; I can't focus or prioritise or conclude any of the many threads which have formed a matted mess of files across half a dozen storage locations. The extra screen time can't have been good; my glasses prescription has worsened by 0.5 in two years, but I at least managed to get tested without weeks of indecision. 

I have to move from contemplation to action; self-love and good faith may tide me over between the troughs, but I shouldn't be looking to sustain the status quo, I should be seeking my most able, productive self. I should be able to hold myself to account, and to have confidence that I will succeed at things I want to do for the people who are most important to me. I shouldn't be scared to promise, or to fulfill my promise.

Get out your worries

I have been thinking and worrying too much, so the point of this post is to get it out so that I may sleep. A fortnight ago, I travelled home for the first time since returning to the lab, and despite keeping distance from my family, wearing face coverings on public transport and increased use of hand sanitiser, it felt much more normal and comfortable than my visit in July. Since then, more rules have been introduced, but they would've made very little difference to my trip. In fact, now that people in established relationships do not have to distance, the new rules would actually make me feel better! (I justified being close to my partner because we did move in together pretty much at the start of lockdown and the only reason I left was to return to work once it reopened.)

It is all too easy to feel restricted, particularly now that students have been asked "not to go to bars or other hospitality venues" this weekend, but I can only control my response, and that is to adhere to the request. I am exceedingly thankful that both of the governments I live under now allow couples to meet without distancing, even during these additional restrictions, and I will take advantage of this to keep my relationship going as well as possible. I am also thankful that I have two lovely flatmates, with whom I will be happy to isolate if the time comes. 

I can only do what I can do!

A-level playing field

This post was originally published on my academic blog, http://msci-going-on-phd.blogspot.com/.

Today, six years on from the day I received my A-level results, another cohort was just awarded their grades. Unlike those of us who came before, this year's crop weren't able to sit exams to earn the results, but have to settle for widely-criticised moderated grades, which were lower than teachers' estimates in almost 40% of cases. I can't help wondering what might've happened to myself and other high achievers at my school had the distribution of our grades depended on the school's past performance and largely ignored our own individual trajectories to GCSE and AS. 

I also wonder whether the bitter disappointment felt by so many this year would have been lessened if AS exams still counted towards the final A-level grade, because that would've allowed other forms of mitigation, such as students not dropping more than one or two grades below their AS result. I appreciate that there was not time to administer a replacement formal measure of progress over the 18 months of A-level education completed before schools closed, and not everybody would have achieved as highly as predicted, but surely there could have been a mechanism to submit work that the centre-assessed grades were based on for moderation instead?

Shifting the entire group based on performance of previous cohorts does not seem fair, particularly when many university places won't be held in time for appeals based on meaningful individual factors, such as mock grades. These results influence the course of lives, so it is unfathomable to me that pupils were marked down simply because a lower proportion of previous years' students achieved high grades.

The magic number

A great lesson from my Year in Industry has been not to get hung up on the past, and in particular the numbers arbitrarily assigned to each period of twenty-four hours. The past is not not be longed for, but I will allow myself the odd backwards glance. Numbers are not to be inextricably linked to days gone by, but can make for good code names. As three is both the magic number and the numerological life path number for today, it's prime time for brief reflection on the status of the one, the two, the three, and myself, the zero. I assure you, it'll all add up.

As alluded to in this post, I spent much of March and April struggling to move on from the heady days that came before. The dark side of mixing strong feelings with alcohol was evident from the early hours of February eleventh, seven months ago today, in the messages I sent to the one and the two, because three times is too many. Thankfully, the three was there that night, not only physically to get me home safe, but also digitally to discourage me from interfering too much in the affairs of the one and the two. By March fifth, the pair's affair was seemingly over, but I had a new challenge to face, as I had been fleetingly involved with the one in the way that I wanted to be. I knew at the time that the one was not right for the zero, but I hoped I would one day be proven wrong. The one and the two's evasiveness continued, and on April twenty-eighth I felt the need to step in, leaving the safety of the three behind to follow a lonely path. On June ninth, it became obvious that the one and the two were pairing up after all, and later, with the three, I unknowingly set myself up to do the same. After one more alcohol/feelings combo, there was nowhere left for the zero to go, but up. And up she rose, to partner with the three. One plus two, zero plus three… I told you it would add up.

Who knows if we'll stay as we are? For now, we are all happy, in ways I believe none of us expected seven months ago.

RIP Chester Bennington

Upon opening Facebook this evening, I was shocked and saddened to learn that Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park, has reportedly died at the age of 41. I've realised that impact of a musician's death is rather unique, as the music they created has the potential to get stuck in one's head. Waiting For The End came into mine. I only own one Linkin Park album, A Thousand Suns, but songs like Waiting For The End and The Messenger have already gained greater poignancy. Anyway, I'm writing because I feel like sharing some thoughts.

As with most music I'm into, the story of how I got that way about Linkin Park's fourth album is rather unique. It started in October 2010, the month I went on a school trip to Berlin. I became aware that my crush at the time was a Linkin Park fan, so when we returned from the trip I immediately researched them. Around this time I was also pretty obsessed with the Saw films, so I was delighted to discover that the lead singer, Chester Bennington, starred in Saw: The Final Chapter. Being under 18, I couldn't see the film, but I could listen to the band's music. Before doing so, I read a review of their current (at that time) album, A Thousand Suns, which compared it to U2's Achtung Baby. I duly downloaded the album, and while it didn't dislodge Achtung Baby from my top spot, I rated it very highly indeed. I distinctly remember the overwhelming sense of calm I felt while listening to The Messenger on the way to a Jedward concert on 26 November 2010. I haven't felt exactly like that since.

Changing iPods and being rubbish at redownloading music means I haven't listened to the album in a few years. I decided to tonight and I still find it very impressive and enjoyable, though the joyful nostalgia has been punctured with the odd tear. RIP Chester, thank you for the impact you've had on my life, and on the lives of millions of others.

I'm seeing U2 tonight!

Things I might think of during each Joshua Tree song:

1. Stan Wawrinka
2. My solo karaoke performance and kissing whiskey lips 
3. My debut karaoke performance (technically it was an open mic night) 
4. The now two guys who mentioned liking this song when I told them I'm a U2 fan 
5. Sweet sins and bitter tastes left in mouths (does whiskey even taste bitter?) 
6. My dad playing me the song for the first time because it had something to do with Dream Theater 
7. Being a dreamer and getting burned by the fire of love
8. Providing temporary relief to someone
9. Amy 
10. That I used to really dislike it because I couldn't hear it for the first minute or so 
11. When I heard U2-2 perform it and I swear they played a bit of the Miracle Drug riff which made me tear up

Eurovision 2017 and me

It's been a long time coming, but the Eurovision Song Contest 2017 is finally upon us! My Eesti Laul 2017 post details the significance of one particular Eurovision preselection show in my life at the time (which occurred on the eve of a particularly eventful day!) but the entire pre-season has played an integral role in my life!

Albania kicked things off on 23 December, selecting my favourite from 2015, Lindita Halimi, on the same day as had a lovely reunion with my former volunteering co-worker! Fast forward four weeks, and fresh from getting the drunkest I'd ever been (which was superseded on Eesti Laul night) and singing U2's With Or Without You on karaoke, I went out for the second day in a row as Georgia and Belarus chose their entries. After several bars, a club, a kebab shop and a friend's house, I eventually found out the results at Waitrose at 4am, and was utterly delighted that Belarus had chosen their first ever Belarusian language entry by Naviband, which is still my favourite today! The UK's national final was next, and I witnessed Lucie Jones's majestic winning performance in person! The following day, as Finland decided, I was living it up at a U2 tribute concert, and even got to meet "Bono"! I watched the Swiss national final concurrently with the GB vs Canada Davis Cup reverse singles matches for no reason other than Sebalter performing during the interval, then forwent the German selection in favour of a Battle of the Bands competition. I prioritised Eesti Laul semifinals and chatting about eventful nights out over the other selections in mid-February, but got back into things with Latvia at the end of February, and was pleased when Line won, although the lyrics have since become a source of irritation. The Eesti Laul final made for the perfect pre-party to what became a twelve-hour bender, the last hour and a half of which I spent lost on the streets of Exeter. Finding out Verona won at about 10:00pm led me to ramp up the alcohol intake, and impair my memory from about 2:00am onwards, but one thing happened that was impossible to forget. Sunday 5th March was the calm after the storm, as well as the day that two of my favourite songs were chosen. Despite spending the whole day (well, from 08:30 onwards) at home. I tuned in to Romania's final extremely late, and at the exact moment Ilinca feat. Alex Florea emerge victorious, I was notified that I had a visitor, who thankfully was happy to sit through the victory performance of their yodel/pop/rap song. I was alone again by the time Portugal chose Salvador Sobral's sweet Amar Pelos Dois, and the two songs are now inexplicably linked to the memories of that visit.

That was as far as I got before Portugal won the Eurovision Song Contest 2017.