Read time: 45-50 minutes. Warning! Potential triggers: contains details of addiction, relapse, cancer, parental abuse, rape, sexual assault and domestic violence.

Relapse/noun – a deterioration in someone’s state of health after a temporary improvement: “he responded well to treatment, but then suffered a relapse”

Dis-ease: any harmful deviation from the normal structural or functional state of an organism.

Watching someone you love be devoured by any illness is utterly heartbreaking; especially terminal diseases like dementia, addiction and cancer. The helplessness in being able to stop their decline or offer lasting relief from the pain and confusion. The toll it takes on the both of you mentally, physically and emotionally. The feeling of your own grief and their impending doom creeping up over your shoulders and back of your head. The tiny glimmers of hope, potential of remission or recovery, then finally, that death of hope. The gaping hole in your heart that grows a little bigger every day. Dreading what will happen in the next weeks, months, and years.

In his book titled “Happy”, Darren Brown talks about cancer behaving like unchecked vines, slowly constricting the life out of a person until there’s nothing left. Russell Brand writes about his dear friend’s addiction in his book “Recovery”, describing it was coiled around her neck like a snake. Both vines and snakes can be ripped away and defeated. Sometimes, they can’t. They twist and bite and crush all the light and life out of a person until only darkness remains. Disease can rip your entire life away before finally killing you.

If you stop growing, you start rotting.

I started writing this confession in 2020 but hadn’t really touched it since Summer 2022. For years I felt like it had missing parts that hadn’t been lived or learnt yet, and I was right. I am grateful to have been able to breathe life back into it after all this time, and publish it ready to coincide with my 5.5 years sober milestone. 🥳

“No one said that we have to write, edit, and hit the presses immediately. We might write a piece and then put it to one side so that it can “ripen.” It may be that we want time and memory to grow our perspective.

Many other times, stories come out that have been actively suppressed by perpetrators over victims. Writers who have suffered the evaporation of their true voices and selves at the mercy of people who supposedly “cared” for them, finally get to speak from their guts with liberating and healing results.”

Martha Manning, Ph.D.

I had spent the entirety of the 2020 lockdowns either keeping to myself and my self-care routines, or spending a lot of time with someone who drank 1-2 drinks most evenings (2-3+ if it was a sunny day). It didn’t bother me back then, mostly because it wasn’t any of my business. I did wonder if they were in the right headspace to be drinking alcohol at all, let alone in the company of someone who is in recovery from alcohol and painfully aware of the damage it causes. My mum was terminally ill at the time and had been for years, with the disease of both alcohol addiction and cancer. Unfortunately, my own mother’s health had very little space at that table during that time.

It’s now April 2023. it’s been over 4 months since my mother passed away from widespread cancer and complications due to alcohol withdrawal. Surely that means I’m closer to a relapse than ever before, right? In truth, the pain of my mother’s death is nothing compared to the trauma that some bad friendships have left behind. I still don’t feel safe to speak out about the details, but you know it’s bad when watching your mother die in hospital finally gives you all the proof and closure you needed for so many things, finally taking the edge off of that betrayal trauma and replacing it with a more appropriate pain. Realising that the friends you thought you could never live without, had also made you feel like you couldn’t make it anywhere in life without them. Friends that claimed to have gifted you everything you have now, only so that they can take full credit for it. People that convinced you that they understood you better than anyone else, to make sure that you didn’t need to spend time with anyone else. They didn’t want the very best for me, like I did for them. They didn’t love me and the universe of my life, they just loved how I would follow them around and made them feel better about themselves, and how grateful I was for their scraps. I told them they saved me, so now I must serve them? Unfortunately, Star Wars isn’t real and Wookie life debts aren’t a thing.

My mother’s death certificate reads “Decimated Malignancy” (widespread cancer) but it was alcohol abuse too. Not in the sense that she was abusing alcohol (which is how “alcohol abuse” is currently defined) but in the sense that alcohol was abusing her. She was trapped in an abusive relationship with alcohol; and abusive relationships can be very difficult to leave and almost impossible to recover from. Her end was a combination of long-term alcohol abuse, cancer, and finally, alcohol withdrawal in the last 2 weeks of her life. The cancer stopped her ability to consume alcohol, then the alcohol withdrawal stopped her ability of fight off the cancer. I’m still trying to process those 17 hours spent in hospital and being by her side when she died. Biggest thing of all, is processing the fact that I was completely alone emotionally in the best last year of her life, all for the comfort of my friends at the time. I had spent all my energy on their lives, and therefore ran out of steam for my own. The same friends that didn’t believe my mum had cancer at all, and that alcohol addiction is a choice rather than a disease. I also knew deep down that they would never help out when it came to something successful that I could potentially be doing, like working a tattoo convention or hosting an event. Something that couldn’t benefit them in any way or make them look virtuous. Somehow, I could never picture them humbly making teas and coffees at any of my future sobriety events, or carrying cakes and rearranging sandwiches. Not without holding it against me in future arguments or favours, of course. The minute I outgrew them was the minute I outgrew the version of me that allowed their self-serving, reckless behaviour to continue. Decades of not speaking up for myself has left me deeply depressed and incurably sick. Alcohol abuse might not be a choice, but I can make a choice to stay sober every day, and try to keep myself as well as I can in the face of living with complex PTSD and chronic illness every single day. After all, I really don’t want to end up like my mother.

Relapse/verb – (of a sick or injured person) deteriorate after a period of improvement: “two of the patients in remission relapsed after 48 months”.

One of the other times I felt this close to a relapse was during one of the lockdowns. I was coming to terms with the pandemic and losing my main source of self-employment overnight. I was processing and grieving the loss of a dear friend to cancer and getting a diagnosis of Fibromyalgia at the same time. I was worried about my mum and how she was taking care of herself in that flat on her own. Amongst that pile of steaming hot grief, my boiler broke and the landlord did very little to fix it. This went on for over 30 days. No hot water to wash my hands effectively, no hot water to clean my kitchen properly, and no hot water to have a bath in my own home (I was bathing at least once a day back then to ease all sorts of symptoms). I didn’t feel listened to or considered, and my basic rights as a tenant weren’t being honoured. I felt ignored and abandoned, two of my biggest core wounds from childhood. Those triggers lit up my nervous system like a firework display, and I nearly hit the big red FUCK IT button and drank my anger, anxiety, and resentment away. I paused, called out an emergency plumber to fix it that day and took the fees out of the rent and ignored the landlord’s frustration when he found out how much it was. That first bath in my own home after nearly a month, still sober, felt so fucking satisfying.

“When the world tells you that getting fucked up is one of the most fun and therapeutic things you can do, respecting your sobriety and taking care of yourself feels like an act of anarchy.”

October 29th, 2017. 29/10/17.

Autumn 2017. The cusp of Halloween. My lovely little sobriety date. No fancy combination of numbers really. It wasn’t set as intentionally as the date of a wedding; I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Little did I know back then, it would become infinitely more important than I ever could have imagined.

So yes, I haven’t drunk alcohol in five and a half years. Not a single drop; not even a little gulp or a tiny sip. I accidentally ate a piece of really boozy coffee cake once, but that was it! I didn’t realise it was home made with “half a bottle of Kalua” until after I’d shovelled the first bite into my mouth (I discreetly dropped the piece back into the bowl, rinsed my mouth out in the bathroom and gave the rest to my boyfriend at the time). Even my mouthwash and cough medicines are alcohol and ethanol free (because that feels entirely too much like doing shots to me). I’ve not kept booze in the house all this time, and had to pour a half bottle of red wine down the sink after finding it in a kitchen cupboard the day I moved in. I don’t even search booze on my devices so that it doesn’t affect the algorithm. I spent over 15 years drinking that shit and I don’t need to drink it again if I can help it. Why would I make things harder for myself?! When I was due to undergo a major operation, I researched alternatives for morphine and ketamine. I made sure to request them during the surgical consultation, along with the explanation that where possible, I didn’t want to feel any more “unsober” than was absolutely necessary. When the world tells you that getting fucked up is one of the most fun things you can do, respecting your sobriety and taking care of yourself feels like an act of anarchy.

Boundaries around booze are so important for people who have stopped drinking for the sake of their wellbeing.

“Although tolerance can differ, no human on earth is immune to alcohol and its effects. No human is immune to the damage alcohol causes either.”

Why are boundaries from booze so important? Because it’s almost impossible to moderate alcohol, especially if you’ve identified as someone with whom booze is having a negative impact or unnecessary strain on your life. First of all, alcohol is extremely addictive; more so than heroin (and heroin withdrawal can’t kill you, but alcohol withdrawal can). Second, although tolerance can differ, no human on earth is immune to alcohol and its effects. No human is immune to the damage alcohol causes either. Alcoholism and alcohol dependency can creep up on anyone, regardless of what your childhood was like or what you do for a living. Even if you can’t attend social situations and events without drinking or craving a drink, then you are already alcohol dependant socially. Thirdly, it’s a drug – despite being served at family gatherings and kid’s parties. It’s a carcinogenic depressant, meaning that it’s been proven countless times to cause cancer and sink people into very dark places very quickly. Contrary to what alcohol advertising want you to believe – it won’t make you cooler, sexier, more social or sophisticated. It’ll just make you drunk! I definitely didn’t do any of my best dancing while drunk, or have the best music experiences or my best orgasms. I definitely didn’t do anything productive whilst being drunk; like complete my taxes or create my best tattoos (although I regrettably tattooed hungover a dozen times in the first half of my career, I never ever tattooed clients actively drunk or high, thankfully).

“The holy grail of every drinker who is trying to moderate IS moderation. They want to moderate their drinking so they can drink with none of the nasty consequences. One of the hardest things about moderation is brain chemistry. First thing is, our brains have now been conditioned to a certain amount of alcohol, so when we put that alcohol in our system, our brains know exactly how much our brains want of that. So we’re actually working against our biology already. Second thing is, it doesn’t matter how many promises you’ve made to yourself that you’re only gonna have 2 drinks or you’re only gonna drink twice a week, the whole thing about alcohol is that it lowers your inhibitions. When you drink it, all of your promises and good intentions just go out the window. So it’s a hell of a lot of effort for not a whole lot of reward. But we keep telling ourselves and we keep thinking “this time will be different”.

Veronica Valli, author of Soberful: Uncover a Sustainable, Fulfilling Life Free of Alcohol

When I started writing this, I had found myself in a WhatsApp group of 4 fairly new sober people, whilst I was a couple months away from my 3rd sobriety birthday. The person who created the “Sober Babes Club” WhatsApp group was just over a month sober, and the others were a few months and 1.5 years. The creator of the group had explained that I had inspired her to get sober and want to stay sober, which I was really touched by. I had previously recommended books, shared stories and recommended tips to combat early signs of withdrawal. I should have felt part of a group of people whom I felt safe with and that I could trust my “sober side” with, but I quickly realised that I took my sobriety way more seriously than they did. I felt more like a pseudo sort of sponsor figure, without any of them willing to try a 12-step program. We discussed topics like alcohol-free options, how horrible drinking dreams can be and whether you should restart your sobriety clock if you have a “slip”. They still kept alcohol in the house and didn’t have a problem with alcohol being left in work staff rooms.

Personally, I’ve never called it a slip – it’s a relapse. I understand that there can be a lot of fear and shame surrounding the word “relapse”, like it feels too heavy to hold and too loud to say. A “slip” or “blip” sounds cute and quick, like the way a glass of wine slips down the throat and you can put it back down and say “nope, not again”. But it rarely ever happens like that. It usually ends up in falls down the stairs, broken ribs and fractured skulls, concussions and repercussions, partners sleeping on the sofa and pushing the people away that want nothing but the best for you. They have consequences and require accountability in order to heal. The friends that were silently wishing and waiting for you to break your sobriety loudly rejoice; the friends that were loudly cheering your sobriety on are silently nursing heartbreak and worry for whatever may be coming next. “Relapse” sounds like something only big scary hardcore addicts do, not you of course. You’re definitely not THAT bad. Right?

I quickly realised that my sobriety was different to the other Sober Babes. I tried my best to join in with the group and impart whatever wisdom I could through my experiences in that WhatsApp group, but I always felt like it fell on deaf ears. I received a super cute “Sober Girl Society” pin badge from one of them, and I tried to remind myself that it did feel nice to have sober femme friends I could message regularly. Right..?

I soon woke up to WhatsApp messages like “girls, I fucking relapsed”. My heart sank. Two of them had now relapsed and the third one was okay with not resetting their sobriety clock after a “slip” – so surely that meant I didn’t have anything in common with these 3 “sober” people anymore when it came to recovery? Turns out, I did.

I felt like I had failed my new sober friends. I sat with the discomfort and thought about why those relapses worried and upset me so much. I asked myself if it was something internal that was the cause, rather than external. Suddenly, I remembered:

I tried sobriety nearly 10 years ago.

How could I forget?! I know that generally my twenties were a blur of booze-soaked gigs, festivals, house parties, drunk sex, burnout, and sensory overload laced with heavy notes of anxiety and depression. I spent the majority of that decade either a drunk/hungover art school student living in appalling living conditions or sealing myself inside one toxic relationship to the next, in almost airtight transitions each time.

But how did I forget that I’d tried to live sober before 2017? The first time I stopped wasn’t 2017?

I thought a bit harder, and realised I’d played it down so much that it was so uneventful nobody paid any real attention to it, not even myself. I’d made it such a small feature of my life I threw it away at the first hurdle. It was so small at the time I didn’t even realise the weight of what throwing it away would mean. I had no idea I was even relapsing between then and when I got sober (again) in 2017. Technically, that relapse lasted 4 years and 3 months. I scoured the archives of my social media to find more clues…

August, 1st, 2013. 01/08/13.

My first sobriety date. A bit tidier with the numbers, and it means that I would have been celebrating 10 years sober this year instead of 6. Boo!

The more I searched my social media vault, the more memories kept flooding back…

I was 25 years old. I had moved into a cosy 1 bed flat with my boyfriend at the time. We had recently got a puppy together, we played videogames every night and went for walks in nature regularly. Sounds perfect, right? That’s what happens when you cherry pick a list of truths and omit the rest from the story…

I was a junior tattooer (barely into my second year of tattooing) and a baby bisexual feminist. I had chosen to date this guy quickly after escaping a psychological, verbal and emotionally abusive relationship that ended with a physical attack and becoming homeless overnight. I was comparing this new partner to probably the worst example of my relationship history, which made him seem like he was heaven sent compared to the hell I’d crawled out of. I’d not given myself any time to heal, get comfortable with being single, raise my standards and pick the bar up from the floor. My tattooing career had just started and I was financially vulnerable as well as mentally bruised. After the attack I spent Christmas living in someone else’s empty flat. I then spent the first few months of 2013 working hard to get (somewhat) financially stable again. I found a lovely rented room for myself in a lovely house in a quiet area of Cardiff. I could have kept going with that journey of recovering myself, but then I met him. He was tall, conventionally attractive and masculine looking. He loved anime, nerdy stuff, and Japanese culture even more than I did. I liked that he made me feel protected and safe, and in turn that made him feel more like a man. We moved in together after just a few months dating.

We smoked cannabis together almost every day. We drank most evenings and spent a fortune on snacks, takeaways (and loads of weed). He was obsessed with looking masculine and doing “manly” things – like cooking huge and heavily seasoned steaks and ham hocks for hours and eating nothing but meat all day. He refused to sleep in a bedding set if it had any type of floral pattern on it (despite sleeping next to a woman he had sex with). He would drink mead, toast like a Viking and buy expensive Scottish whiskey from Tesco to “honour his ancestors”. He lived his life with the fervent belief that “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from the original Mulan soundtrack was playing in the background on repeat. I thought it was all so cute and funny, until it wasn’t.

He was paid a modest set monthly salary by his father as part of his company (I assume for tax purposes) to create “the next big mobile game”. This involved lots of research into visuals, themes and game structure. This “research” looked suspiciously like spending most of the weekdays playing Xbox games, smoking weed, watching porn and drinking in his pants while I was tattooing overtime to make sure we could pay the rent, feed our dog and keep up our lifestyle. One day I got a text at work telling me that he had “found £60 in the house” and had spent it on weed, when we were late and short on rent. I tried to ignore their immature behaviour, problem drinking, and look on the bright side – always finding something to be grateful for instead of tell myself exactly how bad it really was.

He would always leave the same porn page open on my desktop computer. I would come home, fire up my Mac and find a tab open with the same Tumblr page: a seemingly endless supply of hundreds of hypnotic gifs of huge bouncing anime tits. Even though I agreed it wasn’t NOT hot, I started to doubt my body and tried to come up with solutions to how I could feel included (minus a boob job). He regularly stalked his ex-girlfriend that he had affectionately named “crazy bitch” on Facebook, I know this because he left that logged in and open on my computer too. She was tall, curvy and had a gorgeous smile (and rocking big boobs). We were out drinking one night and “crazy bitch” was there – it was her birthday, of course. I wonder why he wanted to go here so much, I thought to myself. I pleaded for us to get an early night and he eventually dragged his feet to the taxi rank with me. As soon as we sat down in the back of the cab, he swung the door open and literally RAN back to the club. I went home. He was returned to me 6 hours later blackout drunk, hand delivered by two of his very tired and apologetic friends. I broke up with him in the middle of the night when he was like that a few times, but he would have no memory of this when he woke up. I would furiously remind him, leave for work and he would always buy me a big bunch of flowers while I was working. I would immediately feel disarmed and quickly forgive him each time, filled with hope and pity. No real effort was made to change, and the pattern would repeat itself again and again.

I was a severely self-sacrificing people pleaser back then, and I internalised all of these problems. I tried to hide my seething resentments with toxic positivity and gratitude. I started filling gratitude journals, took up meditating and regularly swimming (my body was weak but maybe if I lost some weight, my boobs would look bigger?). I told myself I wasn’t good enough as a girlfriend and I needed to double down, try harder and be better. Speaking of double, I had an idea – he clearly wasn’t happy with just the one woman (me), so how about we try adding a second woman? I could find someone with huge tits, I bet THAT would make him happy! Mine have always been small (I love my cupcake tits) but if he had huge bouncing anime tits in real life, I would win the best girlfriend trophy for sure(!). I had an experience with a sex worker in my last relationship, and I thought it might be fun. I plucked up the courage to suggest maybe we could get an escort one day, and excitedly described some boob-optimal positions we could try with her. He physically shuddered and shut down the idea immediately. Instead of feeling excited that I was trying to realise some of his fantasies, he felt threatened and shamed by my show of sexual confidence (and knowledge of that Tumblr page). I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but I was really excited to potentially sleep with a woman again. I was sick to my stomach of toxic masculinity, and felt starved of soft and sweet femme energy.

He felt emasculated by me and we both knew it, I realised I wanted to be with someone else, but we both didn’t have the energy to pull apart the life we shared and start fresh. I worked more and more on my budding tattooing career, trying to level up as fast as I could for the sake of our unpaid bills and my feelings of self worth.

“Compensatory Masculinity is the phenomenon when men exaggerate their masculinity if they feel that their masculinity is threatened.”

“Patriarchal societal norms have pressured men into fitting masculine ideals. When men don’t feel they fit the standard, they will overcompensate in their behaviour.”

This can look like: rejecting products that seem feminine, avoiding doing activities perceived as feminine, lying about their strength/virility to appear more masculine, and even eating more meat and rejecting a more caring existence through being environmentally conscious.”

“Men who receive a lower income than their female partner are less willing to participate in maintaining the household.”

Impact & Environment.

I posted on Facebook 4th August 2013: “Woke up 4 days ago with a complete change of heart: alcohol free, drug free and vegetarian since 1st August. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but let’s try something new! Went out sober last night and had one of the best nights in Clwb Ifor Bach ever. Every food choice I now make is more positive and grateful for a perfect body and health.”

What I REALLY wanted to write on Facebook 4th August 2013: “Woke up 4 days ago with a complete change of heart: I’ve realised I’m not happy. I’m sick of eating meat, I’m sick of the flat smelling like meat, I don’t want to die of a heart attack. Our flat is infested with mould and I’ve been fighting severe bronchitis for nearly 3 months. I’m wasting my evenings and ruining my mould infested lungs smoking weed every day and I’ve realised I’m dating someone who blackout drinks just like my parents did. He’s clearly depressed and I have no idea how to deal with it, because I’ve tried to hide my own depression since I was diagnosed at 19. We’ve had to sleep in our living room for weeks because the cheap extension is damp and covered in mould. I desperately want to be healthier because I don’t know I am immune compromised and have multiple chronic illnesses yet. I am fed up of feeling so shit all the time and have no idea how to speak up for myself. I am in a constant state of sensory overload, AuDHD burnout, chronic fatigue and won’t find any of this out for another 6-8 years. I’ve decided to go alcohol free, drug free and vegetarian since 1st August. I don’t know how long it’ll last, because I have no idea how to set and hold boundaries yet and my self esteem is at rock bottom! I had the courage to go out sober last night and had one of the best nights in Clwb Ifor Bach ever. I wish I could do this every time I go out. I want every food choice I make to be more positive and I desperately want to feel better. I want to be with someone who thinks my body is hot and who doesn’t stalk their boobilicous ex. I desperately want to feel healthy because even though I’m only 25 I feel 65 and I have no idea why. I don’t want to be a people pleaser anymore; I want to start pleasing myself for a change.”

I remember that same month I had my 26th birthday party in Milgi bar in Cardiff (which my sister Esther now owns with her partner David, called Paradise Garden). I drank copious amount of mocktails and was so proud of myself that I was making a healthy change and sticking to it. Sober friendly spaces and tasty alcohol-free options weren’t as common 10 years ago as they are now. However, Paradise Garden remains the same sober friendly space I remember it to be, with plenty of AF drinks and low alcohol options. I remember really wanting to stay like this new version of myself forever, but I didn’t have any tools in place to maintain it.

Low vs. No: When it comes to the debate of low alcohol versus no alcohol: personally, I can’t go low. Why bother? I’m not quite drunk, not even tipsy. I would be breaking my sobriety in the most boring way possible! 97% sober isn’t sober (unfortunately). My boyfriend 10 years ago really wasn’t happy when I knocked our 100% monogamous relationship down to 98% in one night, but I couldn’t have protested “but honey, I’m still 98% faithful to ya! That 2% won’t affect our relationship, you gotta believe me!” What’s done is done.

Maybe it depends on where you’re coming from on the scale. For example, I would LOVE if more people who were drunk 97% of the time (like my mother was most of my life) could safely get themselves down to 3% drunk with the help of professionals. That would transform so many things – not just for the person, but for their families, friends, and the NHS. That would have been something I’d loved for my mum, but her disease was too far gone. Low alcohol options are great for people who drink regularly but want to make sure they don’t get drunk on certain nights (although there’s no guarantee, especially if there’s stronger stuff nearby). Once that “sober seal” is broken, you never know what might come flooding in. In Catherine Gray’s book Sunshine Warm Sober, she lists the evidence surrounding alcohol’s true impact on the NHS and being even more carcinogenic than cigarettes. The true “safe” alcohol amount you could consume being just a small glass of red wine each year. When it comes to me and alcohol, I don’t can’t mess with it anymore because I really know how much it can fuck people up.

I am ashamed to write this out loud, that my mother hit me right up until I was 28 years old. It would be over something small or for no reason at all, whilst she was more drunk than usual, and I hadn’t been keeping close enough attention to her mood and visual/auditory hallucinations whilst I was visiting her. I suspected she was Schizophrenic most of my life, but she wasn’t formally identified until a few days before her death. I wrote more about this in my last blog post: Don’t Tell Anyone.

She would usually whack me in the side of my face whilst I was wearing glasses and sitting down. It would always stun me and really hurt (it’s not just physical pain, either). I have a ridge on the left side of my nose bone where it fractured slightly and didn’t heal quite right, but you can’t really tell unless you smooth your fingers over it. I like to think of myself as a strong woman, not someone who was beaten and bullied by their own mother until I was in my thirties. I still fucking love and miss her though. That’s complex grief and abuse for you!

During summer 2013, just before I got sober, my mother attacked me (I can’t remember why) and I hid in her bathroom whilst I called the police as it was the only door I could lock from the inside. This was exactly what I did when my ex attacked me at the end of 2011. He came home late and very drunk, and when I voiced my frustration he tried to choke me out in a reverse headlock type thing, lifting me off the ground and throwing me onto the hardwood floor when his arms got tired. After hiding in the bathroom and calling the police, I ran out in the street screaming for help. I frantically knocked on as many doors as I could, begging for someone to please let me in. Not one single person came to help, except for two male police officers a little while later (those people that heard me must have been terrified). Both officers shut me in our bedroom alone while they joked and laughed along with my ex in the next room about the lies he was telling them. Meanwhile, I was screaming crying and destroying that room like a stressed-out rescue Husky. They came in to find me shaking and sobbing on the floor, frantically trying to show them my bruises and swollen parts from the impact, along with his MMA hand wraps and boxing pads (I was trying to prove he knew what he was doing, and that he really did do what he did to me). They both explained that he wasn’t going to press charges (he told them I attacked him) and that I shouldn’t press charges either. I’ll never forget what one of them said next, in the thickest Welsh accent: “face it love, it’s Christmas – you’ll be back with him by Boxing Day.” Boxing Day. Such an unfortunate thing to hear on that particular December 23rd.

I never did get back with him. He’s married with children now, to a woman who reached out to me in a Facebook message 10 years ago with the words: “you were right about him”. I refused to get involved, it wasn’t my job to save her. Why did it have to be me? There are incredible charities that can help, like Refuge and Women’s Aid.

Back then, I didn’t know that the abuse from my parents would cause me to relive the same scenes over and over. When I was waiting for the police in my mother’s bathroom, I realised that I’d been in this situation a hundred times before. The police officers arrived. They finally subdued and carried my screaming mother down the stairs from her flat and into the police van. My boyfriend happened to be there at the time, who watched her go into the van at the bottom of the stairs. I must have called him as well as the police. I explained at the police station that this has happened before and it’s nothing new, but I am ashamed to still be involved in stuff like this with my own mother in my mid-twenties. The kindly police officer who took my statement that day told me that I should press charges this time “not just for today, but for all the other days in your life that you couldn’t. She needs to know that how she’s treated you is very wrong”. My mother was given her first formal warning from the police, and I was given vindication from the whole ordeal. The last time she ever hit me was 3 years later, when I hit her back for the first time as a fully grown adult. She promised me she’d never hit me again, and I did too. We both kept our word on that, for 7 years until the end.

Phew. I’ve never published these events before. I have so many more lived experiences that have been pushed down and locked away for years, soaked in my bones and scrawled in notebooks. No wonder I wanted to fuck myself up!

The day after I fled my home after the police told me I’d be back with him by Boxing Day was 24th December. I had eluded on Facebook that some shit had gone down and that I needed somewhere to live for a bit, and someone I knew reached out and said “spend the evening here La, we’re all having a white Christmas”. I genuinely thought that meant that they were having a snowy themed Christmas movie marathon, and not that they were just sitting around drinking and doing cocaine.

So yeah, there I was: a homeless refugee of domestic violence, drunk and trying cocaine for the first time on Christmas Eve.

In the same way I ended up in someone’s house drunk and trying coke during one of the most vulnerable points of my life, I ended up breaking my first sober streak of just over 4 months with a “wine tasting party” of all things. Turns out that wine tasting was just wine drinking. Oops! Who knew? While everyone else was getting subtle hints of floral and fruit notes with oak tannins, I was getting wasted. “White Christmas” and “Wine Tasting” sound so harmless, don’t they?! I woke up hungover and full of regret. But it was fun, right?

I wish I’d been stronger in telling them I wasn’t drinking, and yes that included wine tasting. I shouldn’t have been spending so much time in a bar whilst I was in the first few months of sobriety. I wish I’d surrounded myself with friends who wanted me to stay sober because that’s what was best for me, and not wanted me to get drunk for their own entertainment and excitement.

I felt like a shiny new toy at that bar. Everyone wanted to talk to me, and I felt like lots of people were flirting with me (they probably just wanted free tattoos!). I felt eyes on me and it was really exciting. There were lots of older people that frequented that bar that I considered successful, attractive and funny. Their confidence was intoxicating. I started making more of an effort with my appearance and kept going back. Then came the parties. The lock-ins, the straight from work drinks, afterparties in Cardiff town, hot tub parties. I even had a cocktail named after me. Looking back now it was literally just a Cosmopolitan named a “Latini” (which I now make a delicious AF version of if I’m feeling fancy). By then I had emotionally checked out of my relationship with my “manly” boyfriend, and it was really starting to show. I started having feelings for a few people at once, which was made worse by regular drinking and flirting. I had no idea what was happening, but it felt good at the time. Fast forward to a party that I had brought my boyfriend too, and I felt a hand on my thigh. It wasn’t his, but the partner of someone else. I was so fucked up on MDMA, coke and booze I thought it would be a brilliant idea to kiss her immediately (so THIS is how I can finally get that threesome! I cheered) and time just seemed to… Stop. In that timeless, drug induced blur, I thought was something awesome was happening. Turns out, my boyfriend had walked off and was getting a cab home outside. He was as drunk and high as I was, so what was the problem? Before I could figure out why, I felt a hand grabbing the back of my head that wasn’t hers; it was her partner. Oops. Let’s cool this down and fast forward to the next morning – I shuffled back to the flat feeling horrendous with no idea how I was going to explain or ask about what happened. I told him everything, because unlike his late night blackout escapades, I could remember most of last night. I told him everything as accurately and as calmly as I could before asking “where did you go?” I thought maybe he was watching the 3 of us at some point, or at least doing something with someone else that I hadn’t noticed. Turns out, he went home. It was the first time I’d stayed out later than him on one of our nights out, and it was to have a threesome which I’d hoped would improve our relationship, but without him in it. Oops! I really fucked up. I was relapsing hard. But it was fun, right?!

Our breakup was nasty. That same day, my (now ex) boyfriend posted on Facebook (using my computer that he watched porn and stalked his ex-girlfriend on) about how much of a “slut” and a “whore” I was. “Snake with tits” was mentioned somewhere, and I genuinely felt giddy that he’d given my tits such pride of place in a description of me! He called up all his friends to sit in the flat and stare me down whenever I tried to go in. I couldn’t enter my home and eat or sleep there and was being treated like someone who was a threat to others. He moved out because I asked: his friends were stressing me out, the flat was in my name, and he owed me a few hundred or so for rent and bills. He took our dog, but not before saying I could never see him ever again (I never did). He took all the gifts he had given me during our relationship, along with all the ones I had given him. He flat out refused to pay back the money he owned me. Fortunately, he’d left his cards saved on my computer. I worked out how much money he owed me and made sure to order as close as I could to that exact amount (minus a few quid) and treated myself some new clothes from Disturbia. 

In the months after we broke up, he accused me of having an affair with someone called Ian, and even to this day I have never fucked someone with that name. I barely had enough time and energy to get my tattoo designs drawn on time or hang out with my own friends during our relationship, let alone engage in a physical relationship with someone else. A fucked-up threesome on a weekend fuelled by months of resentments though? No problem!

I felt disgusting and so very ashamed. I deserved to feel as horrible as I did. I didn’t want to talk about the breakup with anyone. My drinking got heavier and started taking drugs more often and working less. I still wasn’t speaking to my mum after pressing charges with the police. It became harder and harder to pay for the flat by myself and moved out to live somewhere smaller and closer to work. It’s taken over 10 years to process and speak out about what happened. I wish I’d had the strength to leave him completely when I had broken up with him those times before and saved us both the misery and grief of letting it rot to pieces. Maybe my trauma was an explanation, but it wasn’t an excuse.

I changed the narrative from “sober” to “detox”. I told myself and others that I just took a break from alcohol for my health. I never said relapse. I got really into fitness and started doing the Insanity Workout at home most days. I wanted to look more health conscious to hide how much of a mess I was on the inside.

I was regrettably used, abused and confused by many people during that relapse. I stopped being the shiny new toy. I don’t hang out with anyone I used to hang out with back then. I made bad choices in business, love, and friendships. I was taken advantage of financially, my email and website accounts were broken into online by someone I trusted and considered a friend, who also broke into my home and damaged my property. I had nudes leaked without my consent and revenge porn made of me that I wasn’t aware of. I was sexually assaulted and raped on more than one occasion, both by strangers in public and people I considered close friends.

Even if I hadn’t relapsed and stayed sober, some things still wouldn’t have changed. I would have broken up with my boyfriend sooner rather than later, but maybe it could have been more respectful and compassionate for the both of us. He stayed exactly the same whilst I was sober for those 4 months, and he didn’t exactly support my sobriety. He didn’t want to stop blackout drinking and smoking weed and I couldn’t date someone like that anymore. He would have kept playing video games instead of working and tidying the flat while I was tattooing, and why should he have to change that? He liked that I was making money, just not in a creative job which was doing better than his was. Maybe I would have spoken up about how I felt about the excessive porn and his ex-girlfriend, or maybe I just would have just left and left it unsaid (until 10 years later, in my confessional writing!). He also didn’t want to ever get married and I (secretly) did. I probably would have still explored my sexuality and tastes in people in a similar way, because after all, isn’t that what your twenties are for?!

That first relapse was filled with lots of self-serving, reckless behaviour and chaotic life choices. It was also filled with lots of selfless kindness, moderation, self-care and balanced choices too. I spent 14 months of my relapse living alone in Cheltenham and cycling around the Cotswolds, for fuck’s sake. I loved waking up early to hike up to the Devil’s Chimney on Leckhampton Hill to watch the sun rise, and I did it sober/not hungover every time. Maybe I needed those 4 years to figure out what works and what doesn’t. To learn about my brain and how the things that have happened to me in the past affect how I respond and react in the present. Explore how I relate to people and the ways that they trigger me. Take time to be single and live independently. To spend time successfully moderating my alcohol and drug use, to see how much I craved more. To spend time unsuccessfully moderating my alcohol and drug use, to see how little control I actually had once I started. Explore my sexuality, to figure out what kind of relationship I wanted moving forward. Spoiler alert: gender is completely irrelevant! Being seduced and later rejected by a beautiful blond woman hurts so much more(!) and that soft and sweet femme energy can still laugh at how your body looks and make you feel shit about yourself. A great set of tits is fun, but it doesn’t make being cheated on and ghosted by that woman any easier! Humans are humans, and they can be mean (myself included). Maybe I just missed my mum, and craved a consistently kind, compassionate and loving mother: full of soft and sweet, caring parental energy. That wasn’t an invitation for someone to mother me by the way. Autistic people struggle with infantilisation from others enough as it is, and I’ve collected more parental figures than rocks on the beach.

I’ve made some pretty shitty choices in sobriety too. I was with someone for 3 months in early sobriety: I’d had a crush on him for years on and off during my relapse. We’d spent so much time as close friends and co-workers, and back then I felt like he knew me better than anyone else. We fought a lot during my relapse. I met up for dinner with him to start making amends. He gave me his ex-fiancée’s custom engagement ring before we slept together, and I honestly thought it was the most romantic thing ever. I thought it meant that he proposed to the wrong person?! His friends noticed I was proudly (stupidly) wearing her undead engagement ring on the middle finger of my right hand and must have said something. He asked for it back a few weeks later explaining “it was never yours to wear”. I realised I’d made a huge mistake. He drank the same as I remembered. He constantly reminisced about his exes and complained about women he’d previously slept with that were annoying or ignoring him. I realised that he hadn’t changed as much as I’d hoped, and I had changed too much. A text he was sending his ex-girlfriend accidentally went to me one day, and I was done. After I finally dumped him, he slept with almost everyone he complained about to me when we were dating and later married one of them. I should have just sold the ring; I really needed the money at the time. Serves me right for trying to make amends too early in sobriety when I was horny!

I’m writing these things for you as a collection of cautionary tales, ones I wish I’d read when I knew far less than what I do now. It’s also a collection of celebratory tales: anecdotes of victory over violence and misogyny, along with some wisdom of long-term teetotalism. It does get better, I promise. It’ll be worth it – “nothing worth doing in life is easy” and all that. It’ll be awkward and embarrassing and humbling and horrifying, and most importantly it’ll be human.

  • Here’s a small list(!) of the things I’ve achieved in sobriety:
  • Modelled for a photoshoot that got me on the front cover of a tattoo magazine (even though the photographer was doing Jägerbombs at 9am) 
  • Learnt about boundaries and how to set them 
  • 7 sober birthdays and 7 sober Christmases 
  • Modelled both nude and clothed for life and portrait drawing/painting 
  • Been published in tattoo/art magazines online and offline, and in galleries and exhibitions 
  • Found out that I am AuDHD/Neurodivergent and discovered that I have multiple conditions and disabilities 
  • Became a podcaster and public speaker
  • Realised that I am someone living with childhood and adult complex PTSD
  • Survived losing ALL of my old friends that didn’t like how much I’d changed 
  • Thrived after getting kicked out of a drug and alcohol heavy studio for getting sober 
  • Identified as a survivor and started speaking out about the abuse I’ve endured 
  • Committed to over 4 years of consistent therapy with a brilliant CBT/ND/Trauma counsellor 
  • Built and opened 4 tattoo studios 
  • 2 years of regular Osteopathy and medical Acupuncture at an amazing Osteopathic clinic
  • Ate apples backstage at music gigs and drank cranberry juice at theatre afterparties 
  • Danced on tables and been the first (and last) one the dance floor 
  • Thrived after being evicted when my dear friend and business partner relapsed 
  • Read hundreds of self-improvement and self-development books
  • Furthered my ongoing education as an intersectional feminist and anti-racist 
  • Bought hundreds of plant babies (and didn’t kill most of them)
  • Adopted my cat Sid (who later became my emotional support animal)
  • Woke up at 4am most mornings for 6 months to train my body for major knee surgery
  • Became a deadlifter and smashed a personal best of 80kg
  • Underwent a knee reconstruction after breaking it hungover and exhausted during a skiing holiday
  • Recovered from major surgery whilst living on my own with hardly any assistance 
  • Escaped a “manipulationship” with someone from my drinking days who was married
  • Hiked up 2 different mountains just 3 months post knee surgery 
  • Got back into deadlifting and smashed a new personal best of 88kg
  • Got into kickboxing to release years of built-up stress
  • Underwent an endoscopy alone when my best friends “forgot” the hospital location they were driving me to and stayed home
  • Survived a cancer scare and got diagnosed with Fibromyalgia 
  • Carried a washing machine up 2 flights of stairs and plumbed it in by myself when I couldn’t get help 
  • Survived a global pandemic without drinking
  • Launched an art subscription service from my sofa in lockdown to pay the bills 
  • Hosted my first booth at a convention: the South Wales Comi-Con
  • Became a runner 2 years post knee surgery 
  • Launched an online merch store with hundreds of items 
  • Became a confessional blog writer then a successful freelance writer
  • Embarked on my dream of having Invisalign braces
  • Got through multiple sober dates 
  • Survived being cheated on lied to by someone who claimed to be single (and sober)
  • Embarked on months of investigative meditation with my therapist to discover repressed memories of abuse I’d survived as a child
  • Spent 7 months celery/juice cleansing to help my health and chronic conditions 
  • Thrived after 2 relationship breakups and 2 “situationship” breakups
  • Got clear about what I was looking for in a partner
  • Raised my standards for my relationships and friendships 
  • Became a wild swimmer and cold water dipper 
  • Survived multiple breakdowns
  • Became comfortable with being a disabled, neurodivergent person with new limits and strengths
  • Met someone wonderful who is sober, AuDHD and a tattooer like me and we got engaged 
  • Reconnected with my mother in her final days and survived her funeral without drinking
  • Became a successful business partner and studio owner with my fiancé 
  • Created a fundraiser for the hospital ward that took care of my mother in her final days
  • Hired one of my best friends as my apprentice and studio manager 
  • Finished writing this fucking blog post after starting it in 2020!
  • Smashed the stereotype that sobriety is boring!

I had ALMOST forgotten what a hangover felt like until last month. After losing nearly a stone in 5 days due to chronic illness, I finally recovered thanks to strong anti-sickness meds from my GP and lots of rehydration packets! Safe to say, I don’t miss that feeling of being sick and dehydrated and my body feeling “wrong” after a night of drinking and “having fun”. Fun shouldn’t have to have an expiry date or be replaced with gross and guilty feelings. Alcohol drags people into emotional debt: drinking to feel better, feeling bad from drinking, drinking to feel better again etc… I drank to “take the pressure off” from my high stress job as an AuDHD self-employed tattoo artist and also to “take the edge off” my chronic illness symptoms and chronic pain from Fibromyalgia, Hypermobility, Scoliosis and other conditions. I didn’t really have any reason to stop, and no one else considered me to be a “problem drinker”. I knew full well what drinking problems looked like, and didn’t want to go there. I was just sick and tired of being more sick and tired than I needed to be!

I wanted to quit when it was MY choice to do so, not at the request of anyone else. Identifying as a sober person alongside stopping drinking in 2017 was the first (second?) step of many, and I’m so glad I took it (and kept going this time).

I am so grateful for the thousands of hours of self-care, fun, therapy, rest, and creative work I’ve been able to do instead (like writing this blog for you to read, thanks for making it to the end!).

5.5 years sober today. Sobriety has given me everything that alcohol promised me.

I drank for solutions and ended up with more problems. I drank to relieve pain and it made me ache. I drank for sophistication and became obnoxious. I drank to relieve stress and became panicked. I drank to make conversations easier and slurred my speech. I drank for fun and injured myself. I drank to relieve depression and sank even deeper. I drank for confidence and became doubtful. I drank for an easy time and became anxious. I drank for sociability and became argumentative. I drank to feel cool and became cruel. I drank for courage and became afraid. I drank to feel sexy and it made me easy prey. I drank for friendship and made enemies. I drank to calm my nerves and got the shakes. I drank to feel smooth and became rough. I drank for sleep and woke up tired. I drank for joy and became miserable. I drank for strength and felt weak. I drank for happiness and became unhappy.

I don’t regret a single hangover I’ve missed.

Don’t Tell Anyone.

Read time: 6-7 minutes. Warning! Potential triggers: contains details of depression, suicide, parental physical/sexual/emotional abuse and child neglect.

Since September last year, I’ve been exclusively writing on my Instagram blog account instead of publishing posts here. It feels good to publish blog posts again, as social media is so limiting and the blog requires a certain amount of consent to view the full story along with a content warning.

When I started this blog in 2019, I didn’t plan on becoming a confessional writer. I just wanted to write memoirs that felt like confessions, and in writing a blog that I wish my younger self could have read, it has helped lots of people in lots of different ways. After spending years intermittently journaling during early mornings privately, the blog felt like an easy place to publicly offshore lots of bullshit narratives that I didn’t need to internalise anymore, and a space I could speak out about my experiences as an AuDHD, self-employed woman who was navigating life and business (post-trauma and sober) whilst managing my chronic illnesses and disabilities/conditions. I felt like I could untangle and free myself from events, people and situations that were no good for me, and in doing so I could work on becoming a more confident writer and more accountable human (hopefully). In all honesty, I just wanted it to help people and went from there. The blog was a great way of communicating what has happened to me and what has helped me, without the emotional labour and energy spend of communicating all this to people separately and freeing myself from any pressure to manage/advise/tutor/coach anyone directly. If I can go through this stuff and more or less “get through it”, I promise that you can definitely get through whatever it is that you’re fighting through.

I posted the first photo 2 years ago; I was doing excruciatingly hard inner work, which was untangling my painful relationship with my mother. Along with this book, my therapist, my partner Chris (and lots of self-care), I was trying to figure out what our relationship would look like moving forward. My mother was a strong woman, but she was also extremely unwell, for the entirety of my life. I posted the second photo nearly 4 years ago; the last time I hung out with her for Mother’s Day. I would make sure to arrive as early in the day as possible and would buy her flowers every time; this way she wouldn’t be too drunk to communicate with and the flowers would remind her that I’d visited recently. They never lasted long, but I kept buying them anyway. I sat next to her on the sofa for a while (she hated that) and asked to take a photo of us holding hands (she hated that too) so I got to have that typical(ish) Mother’s Day photo and I had proof that she held my hand. 

My mother was my best kept secret. As a child and young teenager, my father would tell me “Make sure you don’t tell anyone about your mum” and I always knew what that meant. He meant don’t tell anyone she hears voices. Don’t tell anyone she talks back to them. Don’t tell anyone she thinks people are after her. Don’t tell anyone about how much she drinks. Don’t tell anyone she hits you. Don’t tell anyone she’s tried to kill herself. Don’t tell anyone she isn’t fit to look after you, otherwise they’ll take you away. I loved my parents and was dependant on them, whether I liked them or not. 

My father was all about secrets, including the ones I was made to keep about him. He has lived out in Australia since I was in my late teens, with a woman who shares the same name as my mother and an Autistic daughter who shares a similar age and name as mine. It’s pretty much the farthest location on the planet you could run away to and is awfully convenient in terms of jurisdiction and legal purposes. Y’know, just in case I managed to survive all that trauma into adulthood and decided to take him to court over historical abuse and neglect(!). When I started learning about the words Depression, Schizophrenia, and Addiction (first from my father and then finding out for myself) I slowly began to piece together the unhealthy, unsafe, and unstable situation I’d been born into. No wonder my dad had done a runner and attempted a complete fresh start, he was a coward who didn’t know how to face up to the true extent of what he had done (and not done). Fathers are supposed to protect and support their daughters; not scream at them, hit them, call them names, flirt with and try to coerce them (when that father is drunk), teach them to hide things, live in shame, or make them feel like their body and soul has been tainted and disgraced forever. Daughters should never have to feel like they are completely and inherently “wrong” because of their father. 

I saw mum for her birthday in July 2020 (socially distant) and August 2020 (in person, finally). I hadn’t been able to hug her in 8 months because of lockdowns and precautions. I walked into her flat and threw my arms around her in tears, so grateful to be able to be close to her again. She flinched immediately and muttered “oh you’ve become emotional” and pushed me away from her. I know that it was too overwhelming for her, but it broke me. All those heart-warming videos I’d seen online of daughters being able to finally hug their family again, I wanted that happy moment for myself too. I decided it would be best to limit my interactions with her for the both of us moving forward. That plant didn’t last long, unfortunately.

After I’d tried to see her on Christmas Eve 2020 and it ended in me suffering a severe panic attack that took weeks to recover from, I was questioning if I had the physical or emotional strength to keep visiting her. I needed help navigating this change and made some real fucking hard decisions. 

During that visit on Christmas Eve whilst I was socially distanced from her doorstep (back then I thought that COVID would be the worst thing that could happen) she’d started violently coughing, bringing up blood and almost collapsing in front of me. I panicked and wanted to call 999, she was just 10ft away from me, but I couldn’t touch her. She refused to let me help her and slammed the door in front of me. I was terrified and wanted her to be okay. She didn’t want me to know how bad it really was. Afterwards, I turned to the people I loved the most about what happened and was met with a resounding “oh it’ll be fine, it’s not that bad, she’s okay now, it was just a cough” etc. I hated that I knew without any having any proof, but I did: it was cancer. 

A Schizophrenic, alcoholic, depressed suicidal mum with cancer? Seriously?! WORST GAME OF BINGO EVER.

Although I was aware of how unwell she was for years and years, I’d had this denied in the past by friends that I realised were trying to use me as an emotional support animal without another terminally ill mum to contend with. I was told that my mother didn’t have cancer and that alcoholism is a choice (not a disease) and she would have been able to stop dying and get better at any point if she wanted to. Safe to say, they were more enemies than they ever were friends, and I went no contact soon after. I was quickly replaced by a dog, which seemed much more appropriate. When it comes to relationships with family, don’t ever let someone deny your reality. The people I’d trusted enough to let meet my mum, always said the same thing: she seems fine, what’s the big deal? It said more about how I used to choose people than it did about her.

It wasn’t until December 2023 that I would see her again. I felt that the 2 years of space I had from her gave me the strength to see her one last time.

My mum was finally identified as Schizophrenic by a doctor in her final days at the hospital, as well as multiple cancers. It was later confirmed by my therapist that she fits the classic DSM model for Schizophrenia. It was painfully cathartic to know that finally, the person who used to be my father, was right the whole time about her mental health. Ironically, her Schizophrenia isn’t hereditary but was most likely an unfortunate combination of trauma and hormonal changes; mainly the 15-year abusive relationship with the father of her 2 children, post-natal depression and her perimenopause/menopause (my mother had children at 36 and 38) which were all self-medicated with heavy drinking and becoming a recluse. 

“Love is a river, and there are times when impediments stop the flow of love. Mental illness, addiction, shame, narcissism, fear passed down religious and cultural institutions — these are boulders that interrupt love’s flow.” “…I felt all the love swirling and festering and the pressure of it all felt like it would kill me. But they couldn’t feel any of it. To them, it didn’t exist.”

Glennon Doyle, Untamed.

I’m so sad that she’s gone but so happy that she is free now, finally. I’m grieving the way all these things came to pass, as well as the passing of her as a person that was so full of love but was trapped in a body and mind that couldn’t show it. I’m also grieving not being able to speak up when I was younger, and potentially being placed with foster/adoption parents that could have provided me with everything I needed easily without the trauma and pain I’ve survived.

“Shoulda, woulda coulda” is a mind killer. I need to remind myself that I shouldn’t worry if it “shoulda” happened or not. If it “coulda”, it “woulda”.

But somehow, I DID survive all of this. But people shouldn’t have to fight and endure this much to feel basic comfort and safety. Children shouldn’t have to take care of the people who should be taking care of them. Adult siblings shouldn’t have to co-parent their own parents in secret. Children shouldn’t be bred with the expectation that they will become unofficial carers and staff later in life, regardless of their own disabilities, trauma, and mental health conditions. 

It’s sad that I now have a relationship with my mother that’s the best it’s been in about 10 years, but I smile more when I think of her now. I can be more compassionate with myself, and I finally don’t have to worry about her anymore. The flowers and plants last longer, and I can love her safely and freely as much as I want to.

Overload Nation: Premier Fatigue.

Read time: 20-22 minutes. Potential triggers: contains details of depression, panic attacks, breakdowns, and suicide ideation.

So, I kicked off the start of this year’s “Leo Season” on the 23rd of July with a 10-day Staycation. 🦁 I didn’t mean to make so many rugby puns in the first 3 lines of this post, but let’s get stuck in! 🏉

“Overload Nation” is a term used by one of my sober neurodivergent friends, which I loved as soon as I heard her use it! Premier Fatigue is a pun on how advanced my levels of fatigue were before I booked this time off. The “Leo Season” timing thing was a total coincidence, but definitely a happy accident!

I deleted all social media apps from my iPhone, iPad and laptop. I added “AWAY ON STAYCATION” to the bios of my blog and tattoo accounts and added posts to Facebook and Instagram detailing when I’d be back. I celebrated the first day with a decent osteopathy and acupuncture session, followed by a long CBD bath.

I’m so grateful to be in a stable(ish) place financially that afforded me this time at home, especially after this past year. I’ve been craving a holiday/writing retreat for a while, but knew I couldn’t afford to take time off AND pay for a different location to do it in… Then I realised, I’m a total homebody and I’ve spent years creating a life in sobriety that I don’t need to escape from! I never needed to escape, I just needed to decompress and take some time to fall back in love with my life again!

I had a few grandiose plans in mind (haircut, manicure/pedicure, massage) but realised I was far too exhausted on so many levels to deal with that amount of talking/human interaction. I’ve made peace with the fact that a big part of my “unmasked” Autism is being non-verbal. I also struggle with verbal communication online; I hate trying to keep up with different conversations at once (multiple group chats are a hellish pit of social urgency, confusion and overwhelm!). I’ve always loved my own company and it’s why I’ve enjoyed living on my own for the best part of a decade. I’ve spent years having no idea how to NOT surround myself with people that didn’t overwhelm me. Instead of setting boundaries with people, I’d spend days on end hiding in my own flat not speaking to anyone until I felt fully recharged again. I always saved my verbal and social energy for my clients (and for partying obviously – how else was I going to self-medicate and be socially acceptable at the same time?!) and now I’ve learnt how to set and hold healthy boundaries, I’ve realised that they mostly involve me spending A LOT OF time doing my own thing. Why did I ever prioritise doing “society’s thing” instead of mine? Survival, of course.

A big reason why I love being with my fiancé Chris is that we can enjoy each other’s company whilst doing our own thing (he’s currently playing Last of Us as I write this). “Alone time together” is a big part of neurodivergent relationships and can help us accomplish more (or just relax easier) whilst still retaining both our independence and privacy.

“The term Autism (from the Greek autos, meaning “self”) was coined in 1911 by Swiss psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler, who used it to describe withdrawal into one’s inner world.”

Autistic brains produce 42% more information at rest, which could account for why they are more easily overloaded and for why people with Autism experience a more pronounced mental inner life. We conclude that the information gain in the brain’s resting state provides quantitative evidence for perhaps the more typical characteristic in Autism: withdrawal into one’s inner world. “

Source: Information Gain in the Brain’s Resting State: A New Perspective on Autism
10 days of domestic bliss awaited me: cleaning, sleeping, self-care, reading, writing, and lots of Sid cuddling.

I finally got to make use of my gym membership again. I attended my first in-person Yoga class post-pandemic and attended my first ever Pilates session (which is a well-known treatment for building strength in chronically ill people). I’ll be honest, the last time I went to my gym was November 2021… I’ve always found that depression and chronic illness in the winter months don’t make for fun gym trips! It felt great to get back into proper training nutrition too, which I missed after losing touch with my deadlifting days through the lockdowns. I spent 5 days cleaning 1 room of the house each time; it made every morning and evening feel like the start and finish of a home makeover show!

After being unexpectedly and unfairly evicted from the building Ebony Squid Studio resided in (with just a few weeks’ notice), Chris and I had to figure out how to move our current studio in Penarth somewhere that would be suitable for us and our clients in the long term.

We raised £2,165 from 72 donors in just 6 weeks from our GoFundMe: Help La & Chris Rebuild. We received hundreds of pounds in tips and gifts from clients (and honestly can’t thank you all enough). We didn’t just manage to find somewhere else to move after just 2 weeks of searching, we found the perfect place for the studio that we’d only dreamt of before. I was so in awe of my partner Chris in his unwavering positivity and ability to keep sight of the most important tasks as they needed to be done, all whilst navigating hospital visits and brain scans for mystery symptoms related to the horrendous and unnecessary stress in the last year. I never thought I could love and feel loved the way I do in this relationship, and it’s obvious to me now that I never truly understood the term “power couple” before! 🏆

28 days later, we managed to rebuild Ebony Squid Studio and create the studio of our dreams. After so much happening so quickly, it was difficult to know which part to process first. There was so much loss, heartbreak, feelings of failure, stress… But also, so much happiness, joy, relief and the ultimate success: peace. Weekly sessions with my therapist of 3.5 years really helped, along with lots of snacks and naps!

We moved house end of February/early March, amidst the eviction notice and working those last few weeks at the old premises. I wrote more about this in a blog post I published yesterday: Release and Rise. Chris and I unpacked and settled into the new house as fast as we could, but had to focus our attention on getting the lease drawn up and signed, making sure the change of premises got approved, sorting insurance, sorting the building/painting/decorating and getting the studio inspected and licensed… All while making sure the clients on our waiting list were rebooked in a way that enabled us to start recovering financially as quickly as possible, without burning the both of us out into oblivion.

Owning a PS5 and 4KTV helped too, obviously. Especially when there are so many games right now that allow you to play a small mammal navigating dystopian, post-apocalyptic landscapes void of all humans (Spirit of The North, Stray) or a slingshot-wielding teenager and her brother navigating an unfolding nightmare of diseased rat infestation in 14th Century France (A Plague Tale: Innocence).
I affectionately and imaginatively called all 3 games Fox Game, Cat game and Rat Game because fuck saying their full names every time. (Fox game was a gift from a lovely regular client. Thanks Jake!)
Even though Fox Game was one of the most beautiful, calming and most confusing/frustrating games I’ve ever played, it was a welcome distraction for the stress of navigating the first few weeks of the new studio opening.
Rat Game summed up the bleakness of my mental health during a vintage 2020 version of COVID I manage to catch in June. Also, the impending plaque and desolate villages felt incredibly meta!
Cat Game was hands down one of the best I’ve ever played. Two of my favourite things combined: cats & sci-fi!
I’ve been embracing my autistic special interests more and treating myself to fancy anime DVDs, especially because streaming/downloading makes it so difficult to enjoy properly. Blu-Ray is so much smoother and experiencing anime in 4K is absolutely mind blowing on our TV and speakers!

It wasn’t “cool” to like Anime growing up as a kid/teen in the late 90’s/early 00’s. I rinsed out the tiny Anime section at the video rental store (Vampire Hunter D, Ninja Scroll, Ghost in The Shell, Akira, Appleseed) and watched them over and over. I later spent my student loan money on DVDs of Cowboy Bebop, Samurai Champloo, Evangelion, Ghost in The Shell STC, Love Hina, Oh My Goddess! and early Studio Ghibli movies. I’ve not watched as much anime as I’ve wanted to in the last 12 or so years, mostly because tattooing took over my life! Now I’m an adult in my mid-thirties, I’m honouring the awkward and insecure little me – making sure that I treat my hobbies and interests with greater care and respect. I am absolutely obsessed with this limited collector’s edition of Belle, which is the latest Studio Chizu movie from Mamoru Hosoda (massive fan of both!). Belle reportedly received a 14-minute standing ovation at the Cannes Film Festival last year (one of the longest in the festival’s history) and is already one of my all-time favourite movies. I never thought it could top Summer Wars in 2009, but it completely smashed it out the park. I’ve been literally singing this film’s praises for months!

The 7 Types of Fatigue: Physical, Social, Anxiety, Compassion, Emotional, Ambition, Sensory.

I discuss the differences between stress, anxiety and fear in one of my 2020 blogposts, Tattoos vs Therapy but didn’t know there’s was so many different types of fatigue! Recently, I learnt about the 7 types of fatigue and 7 types of rest. I realised I was suffering with severe cases of most of them, along with a couple of extras – “chronic illness fatigue” and that fun one we all share since 2020: “pandemic fatigue”.

“Stress & Burnout Prevention: 7 Types of Fatigue Everyone Needs to Know About” by Nawal Mustafa, a PhD Candidate in Clinical Neuropsychology at Simon Fraser University, Canada.

Physical Fatigue: when your body is under physical stress. Symptoms include headaches, muscle weakness, feeling constantly tired, stomach issues – IBS etc, stress ulcers, muscle tension, weakened immune system. Tips for reducing Physical Fatigue: getting enough sleep, nutrient/protein rich foods, taking additional supplements like Ashwagandha, vitamins/minerals etc.

Social Fatigue: when you spend too much time socialising with others, especially with those who leave you feeling drained and overstimulated. This might result in you having little to no time for yourself and falling behind on other responsibilities, this leaving you in a state of overwhelm. Tips to reduce Social Fatigue: say no to social interactions that pull from your energy. Spend more time with yourself doing things you love. Be around people who leave you feeling energised.

Anxiety Fatigue: when your brain is filled with intrusive thoughts and mental chatter. You may feel like your mind is often racing and is difficult for you to stop overthinking. During this time your nervous system is in a constant “fight, flee or freeze” response and May leave you feeling exhausted and paralysed. Tips to reduce Anxiety Fatigue: write down your thoughts and challenge the unhelpful ones. Catch your inner critic and replace that voice with a kind one. Let go of things that are out of your control. 

Compassion Fatigue: when you spend too much of your time and energy into helping and supporting others while neglecting your own needs. Compassion fatigue can also result from absorbing emotional stress of others or what is happening in the world. Tips to reduce Compassion Fatigue: offer support but try to avoid taking on the pain of others. Be mindful of how often you consume news about world events. Prioritise your emotional needs and prioritise time to rest and recharge. 

Emotional Fatigue: when you feel constantly overwhelmed with emotions to a point of having no energy to do anything else. You might feel “stuck” and as though you have no control over your life. This can lead to having a lack of motivation and an inability to enjoy the things you used to. Tips to reduce Emotional Fatigue: prioritise your emotional needs. What do you need to do to feel better? Practice mindfulness. Identify the stressors in your life and find ways to minimise them.  

Ambition Fatigue: when you push yourself too hard to relentlessly pursue your goals and ambitions, often with unrealistic expectations from yourself and a lack of self-compassion. Tips to reduce Ambition Fatigue: set realistic goals and expectations from yourself. Be patient with yourself. Remind yourself that progress matters, not perfection. Set boundaries around the time you spend working or thinking about work. 

Sensory Fatigue: when your brain feels overstimulated with sensory input, such as loud noises, bright lights, sight (social media, watching videos), sound (talking or listening to others). We all experience sensory overload to an extent, but it is common in neurodivergent individuals, PTSD, anxiety, and medical conditions such as Fibromyalgia. Tips to reduce Sensory Fatigue: only focus on the task at hand. Minimise distractions around you. Limit the time you spend in overly stimulated environments. (I ticked all 4 of those sensory sensitivity examples! whoops)

The 7 Types of Rest: Physical, Social, Mental, Emotional, Creative, Spiritual, Sensory.

“Sacred Rest: Recover Your Life, Renew Your Energy, Restore Your Sanity” by Saundra Dalton-Smith MD.

10 days to tackle 7 different types of rest: I wanted to make sure I had enough time off to explore different types of rest every day. I was suffering chronic sensory overload and demand/decision fatigue (all of which are very common for neurodivergent folks) but I was also suffering severe emotional, ambition and anxiety fatigue.

Compassion Fatigue is also a big one for me. I happily take care of my clients most of the day, but sometimes if I’m not careful this can mean I’ve got very little energy to look after myself when I get home. Boundaries are super important in this case, especially professional ones. I wrote a Tattoo Preamble back in 2019 which helps my clients know what to expect and how to take care of themselves before, during and after tattoo appointments. This ensures I don’t have to worry about them any more than usual, and I make sure we’re both not overstepping professional or personal boundaries such as oversharing/overloading when I’m trying to concentrate on tattooing in my place of work. It helps with energy drain and keeps the appointment more fun and less painful!

Physical Rest: this one was more obvious than the rest, but surprisingly hard to achieve. I had to balance time to physically rest with time to take up Yoga and Pilates again, with enough time to recover from the sessions. Tattooing is hard work, and it’s difficult to balance with exercise classes. Having hypermobility AND Fibromyalgia means that my muscles and joints always hurt but I need to keep moving and stretching them to ease my symptoms (and be extremely careful not to overdo it!). I manage to stave off chronic pain and balance physical rest during my staycation with being physically active, using gentle exercise and a few hours to clean one room of the house each day. I hit about 8-9 hours of sleep daily – it meant I missed out on sunrise swimming but didn’t want to feel tired all day from waking up at 4am. I made sure to feed my body plenty of protein (Huel is great for plant-based/gluten-free complete nutrition) and kept on-top of supplements. I currently take iron, B vitamins, magnesium, 5-HTP (5-hydroxytryptophan is an amino acid which can be converted to serotonin in the body) and have been taking 3 different types of probiotics each day (great for anxiety/IBS/heartburn/bloating/tiredness etc). Like Nawal Mustafa mentions, I can vouch for the effectiveness of a good quality Ashwagandha supplement daily too. I have a long list of supplements I would love to be taking regularly in the future, but it’s not financially accessible yet.

Social Rest: long periods of non-verbal communication at home is the best way to decompress socially for me. Logging out of and deleting all social media apps from my phone for this staycation worked great too. I’ve gone about 3-4 days without them before, and always felt so much better for having done it. I really didn’t miss them as much as I thought I would this time, and those hours spent twiddling my thumbs instead of scrolling meant that I would naturally think of something else more useful to do – even if that just meant enjoying the sound of birds or view of trees from our windows, instead of watching a constant flashing stream of random posts and advertising. I missed lots of lovely posts from my friends, but I know that ones that really care about my well-being didn’t mind.

Mental Rest: minimising sensory input makes a massive difference to my anxiety levels and mental health as an autistic person., Writing/journaling really helps too. I’ve been fortunate to have lots of writing saved up in drafts that are easy to breathe life back into when I’m ready for them – I published one yesterday which I’d started writing back in January this year.

Anti-Anxiety Affirmations (AAA’s) that I repeated to myself regularly during this time of mental rest & reflection:

Here’s some really lovely “wounded inner child” affirmations with a few “Leo Season” appropriate ones thrown in at the end! 🦁

  • I am not a lost cause, nor am I someone to pity.
  • What happened to me as a child was not my fault. 
  • I deserved so much better.
  • I deserved to feel safe and accepted.
  • I don’t owe anyone my time, forgiveness or access to me.
  • I am not hard to love, there is nothing “wrong” with me. 
  • I accept, appreciate and approve of myself. 
  • I am worthy and deserving of the good things in my life.
  • I am celebrating the life I’ve created. 

Emotional Rest: emotional fatigue has almost killed me this year. I’d spend weeks being so exhausted from bouts of crying, panic attacks and angry rants – I’d spend days utterly numb and unable to enjoy or engage with anything. I felt like a robot set to autopilot with no feelings and no way of feeling alive. Video games really helped – completing games gives me a confidence boost and makes me feel accomplished, along with making lists of things I was proud of achieving. I meet up daily with sober friends online, and we list things we’re grateful for every day. Music and singing have always really helped me release emotions – you don’t have to be great at singing to benefit from it, and emotions like grief are stored in the lungs. One of the reasons you feel so great after a big cry!

Creative Rest: the two photos below were taken less than an hour apart in April this year. I craved the energy to be ambitious, I wanted to drink it like wine. The studio was just a painted room, so vulnerable, primordial, and premature. Both mine and Chris’s careers were in the middle of a room, covered in dust sheets. I treated myself to a massage at Lush Spa Cardiff for the first time. I chose Synaesthesia (which turned out to be an autistic/sensory seeking paradise) and was completely blown away. I especially loved the opportunity to smell of Ambition! I also chose Acceptance for the room during the massage and had a few helpful and teary/cathartic moments. I realised that not only had I never lacked ambition in the first place, but I was also chronically overwhelmed and exhausted from it. Now the studio is done, the grateful relief I felt spending those 10 days away from the responsibility of the studio was so important and beautiful. It was like a ceremony.

I was telling my mind, my body and my heart loud and clear: “it’s all over now, you FUCKING DID IT.

“Quite simply, my life and my recovery is evidence that miracles exist.”

Spiritual Rest: I don’t consider myself as a religious person, but I do have a lot of faith. I called myself Atheist for years, flirting with the idea of Agnosticism. I’ve experienced and studied the Hare Krishna movement, Christianity, Buddhism… I don’t believe in sects, organisations or institutions etc. A while ago, Chris introduced to Baháʼí Faith, which believe in a oneness of humanity and devote themselves to the abolition of racial, class, and religious prejudices. I quite like their idea that taking alcohol and other drugs recreationally/non-medically is forbidden, for God has given human beings reason which is taken away by intoxicants that lead the mind astray. I’m grateful for the times I lost my mind though, I have much a better respect for it now and want to take care of it more than ever. For me, there’s been too many coincidences and serendipities in my life to deny any kind of higher dimension of a spiritual force, and believe I have a Higher Power that belongs to me which I can work to understand and connect with more deeply. Quite simply, my life and my recovery is evidence that miracles and a Higher Power exist. Practicing regular mindfulness and meditation puts me in touch with mine.

Sensory Rest: I ticked all 4 of those sensory sensitivities Nawal Mustafa mentioned (neurodivergence, PTSD, anxiety, Fibromyalgia) and feel that sensory overstimulation is an almost “normal” feeling for me now. I have to remember it doesn’t have to be my “normal” anymore, I can make better choices for myself and advocate for a better life for myself. Sensory individuals deserve to live full, comfortable lives without societal pressure to try and “get used to” or “adjust” to things that significantly impact their quality of life. Sensory resting during my staycation looked like low lighting, candles, sitting in silence listening to birdsong, talking to my cat, headphones playing low-fi beats/ambient relaxation stuff (white noise and brown noise on loop really helps too).

Taking time to truly rest and decompress recently has made me realise how successful I really am. I am not successful despite my neurodiversity and chronic illnesses, I am successful in spite of the world telling me how wrong I am all of the time, when I’m actually doing exactly what is right for me most of the time. 

Of course, I didn’t keep away from my big brick baby for the entire 10 days! I came in for a very special day – after tattooing fruit for 2 months in the new studio with us, our apprentice Athena tattooed skin for the first time!

6 years ago, Chris started tattooing Athena, and over time she and her husband Gwyn became good friends. Turns out that I actually went to art school with Athena back in 2007 and knew exactly who Chris was talking about when he first mentioned her! She’s always been transparent about wanting to learn how to tattoo one day, and we’re so happy to be able to offer the opportunity to her now. We feel totally comfortable having one of our dearest friends working with us in the studio, and we look forward to seeing what she creates in the future! 💜

Speaking of tattoos and keeping with the nods to rugby, I’ll start wrapping up the blog post with this photo: The first message I read after I reinstalled my social apps yesterday was from my PT I trained with last year, Gwen Crabb ♥️ I created 4 tattoos for her last month, and the team photographer took this photo of the one celebrating her first cap! 🏉🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

I decided to end my staycation with a “Closing Ceremony” – I bought myself a huge fuck-off card that I had delivered to the house, followed by a ridiculously long bath afterwards. I wrote to myself:


I’m so fucking proud of you. You’ve made it through the hardest year of your life, and you’ve stayed sober through all of it. You’ve met every challenge with ready hands, a grateful heart and an open mind. You’ve cried so many tears that have watered the flowers of joy that have grown around you. You’ve saved yourself and have allowed yourself to be held and cared for by others that love you. You’ve been so patient and self-compassionate and have weathered every storm knowing that this one wasn’t going to be the one that broke you. You’ve refused to let it all win (even though you wanted that too) and you chose yourself every single fucking time.

I exist now because of you.

I’m so happy you stuck through it.


Release and Rise.

Read time: 17-19 minutes. Potential triggers: contains details of depression, anxiety, suicide ideation, trauma and ablism.

2022 has been a big year of big changes while feeling my smallest, saddest and most vulnerable. Back in summer 2021, I never would have thought I’d be living in the home we are now with the new studio we’ve built. I’ve somehow pulled through it and made it out the other side, with the help of my friends, clients and my partner Chris.

“If you don’t think to yourself “fuck yes!” to the person you wake up to in the morning, you should do them a favour and set them free to find someone who will.”

January 2022 was the hardest, happiest and most horrible month of my life.

During the first moments of 2022: while Chris and I were looking out at the hundreds of fireworks going off at midnight all over Cardiff, standing at the top of Penarth together: Chris proposed to me and I said “yeah!” – not the graceful “YES!” that is expected, but it was more “me”.

When I saw the ring I felt like time had stopped, my anxious inner monologue kicked in almost immediately: “do I deserve this? Can I have this? Is this okay? Am I allowed this?” and after another moment of almost forever, a deep speechless voice in my gut echoed back with a resounding “OF COURSE, YES.”

Like a firework in the night, that feeling of “yes” sparked into life. It’s stayed with me ever since.

It was a complete and utter “world flipped upside down” moment. “Of course I was going to say yes”, I said as we walked back home (stopping underneath every streetlight to admire the ring!). If you don’t think to yourself “fuck yes!” to the person you wake up to in the morning, you should do them a favour and set them free to find someone who will.

Back in November, a client asked if I think we’d ever get married: I replied straight away with “Oh, I’d marry him tomorrow!”… Little did I know back then that he had it tucked away in a drawer inside his study. ♥

I can’t stop smiling when I look at how sparkly it is! It gives me a beautiful thing to focus on in times of stress and overwhelm and keeps me grounded in the present moment.

It’s a custom-made faceted Opal, diamond and white gold engagement ring by Nobel Yates Jewellery in New York – Chris created it based on my love of Opals and my 2 year silver/crystal sobriety ring that I wear on my other ring finger (mentioned in my 2019 blog post, Strong Women Don’t Need Strong Drinks).

“I never thought I’d meet another Auteetotal Tattooer, and I could never have imagined I’d be this happy in a relationship outside of the one I have with myself.”

We started with a sunrise in winter lockdown. He helped me apply for a business loan, helped me build my new studio. We did a guestspot in Edinburgh together then we started working together. The studio is now ours, and my home is now his. The road trips, the hikes, the endless conversations. The game days, long mornings, sunsets, his wonderful cooking. I cherish the wrinkles he’s given me from always smiling, and from allowing me to feel my feelings. He validates everything I’ve survived and overcome, everything I go through and accepts all of me. He suggests better routes for me to take and keeps me grounded. He’s an amazing cat-dad and Sid adores him!

I never thought I’d meet another Auteetotal Tattooer, and I could never have imagined I’d be this happy in a relationship outside of the one I have with myself. My co-pilot, my adventure buddy, my friend, my lover.

Therapy and Recovery were a lifeline for me at the beginning of 2022. I’d been dealing with an unexpected, unspeakable hell for most of 2021, which has been about 10 years in the making. I spent 3 months working about 1-2 days a week. So grateful for sobriety, self-care, friends, family, and my fiancé Chris for getting me through those dark days. I’d been praying for better and brighter days for so long, and I’m so relieved to say that this week they’ve been answered.

January 23rd 2022 marked my 3 year Therapy-versary(!)

I walked into my first session 3 years ago on double crutches and heavy pain meds, 4 weeks after a knee reconstruction: I was just over a year sober but I was depressed, stressed, heartbroken, and suffering from multiple mystery illnesses and symptoms.

It led me to being formally identified as Autistic and diagnosed lifelong chronically ill. I started reading again and have since read lots of self-improvement and psychology books. It gave me the strength to outgrow and understand the toxic relationships, friendships and work environments I’d put myself in. It’s made me a better businesswoman and stronger, more resilient human. Through writing about my life and experiences, I met my fiancé Chris, who also has regular therapy and is now studying a Psychology degree alongside tattooing part-time.

Sometimes you need to stop seeing the good in people and start seeing what they show you (and believe them the first time).

I had an emotional and cathartic session with my therapist this January, who confirmed I’ve overcome and healed the trauma and abuse I’ve endured survived in childhood and adulthood.

It was a surreal and beautiful thing to hear, and I’m so proud of how far I’ve come. Obviously, this doesn’t mean I’ve “completed” therapy, and have carried on with regular sessions as normal to deal with regular life shit, as and when it happens. I’ve had many unsuccessful attempts with different therapists over many years too, which I’ve written about previously.

If you’re on the fence about therapy or whether things are “bad enough”, simply ask yourself – have you been alive during 2020 and 2021?!

Earlier this year, my therapist confirmed and elaborated that I’ve been harbouring an inferiority complex most of my life: this was due to the heaps of unpacked and unresolved trauma I’d survived in my childhood and adulthood. This complex has fed other’s superiority complexes, over the years these have sometimes been people who I’ve called my closest friends or were people I chose to date. Although they weren’t inherently evil, they were all entirely the wrong people for me, for so many reasons.

The quality of your relationships matter. Whether it be a friend, parent, family member or partner, who you surround yourself with can impact your mental health. Stop feeling obligated to be around people who are familiar but also detrimental to your well-being.

Minaa B, LMSV @minaa_b

We can deepen our healing when we stop pontificating about and dissecting our partner, friend or family member’s avoidance, narcissism or emotional unavailability and begin asking ourselves “why I keep pursuing and choosing people who cannot love or care for me in the ways that I truly need?”

We treated ourselves to a PS5 at the beginning of January this year, along with a 55″ 4K TV and decent speakers… I spent most of those cold, dark days galloping around Kamakura era Japan. It didn’t cure my depression, but it rerouted it beautifully. Viva la Escapism!

March 2020: my cat and I moved to Penarth from Newport.

It was a tiny 1-bed flat that had a lot less space and cost more each month than my previous 1-bed flat of 2.5 years. I had turned the offer down the first time, 6 months before; I was unsure about the move and hoped the person I was with at the time would want to make living plans together. I wrote more about this in my 2020 blogpost, Grief and Growth.

I was hardly tattooing at the time due to stress and poor health, and the financial gamble was a huge strain. I was waiting for the results from an investigative CT scan, I was nursing a fresh breakup and had successfully raised the money for a private rheumatologist consultation, specifically for diagnosing mystery chronic illnesses (thank you to everyone who kindly donated, you changed the course of my life forever).

Living in Newport wasn’t the best, for many reasons. I had ended a long-term relationship in the summer of 2017 that was extremely “un-sober” which left me with a better chance of eventually getting sober but nowhere to live. I was homeless, unknowingly autistic and chronically ill, manically depressed and hovering at rock bottom – trying to do my best to work hard, create good tattoos and becoming well again.

After spending 8 weeks without a fixed address and sleeping on a blow-up bed in an empty house that wasn’t mine, I got the keys to that beautiful little flat on the 3rd of October 2017. Patience and perseverance paid off! That Newport flat was where I got sober and started to heal and recover.
As you can see, the flat in Penarth was a slight “downgrade”, but with a bit of decent decorating and creativity, I made it a beautiful place I could call home, the same way I did with the others. ♥

This is the bedroom, 2 years apart. if 2020 and 2021 has taught us anything, it’s how to polish turds(!)

Despite the move being totally out of my threshold, I’m so glad I found the strength to do it. I turned that tiny space into a tiny paradise!

To help you visualise: it was roughly the same shape and size as a 40ft shipping container. Unfortunately, it’d hadn’t been designed like one of those fancy converted shipping containers you see on Pinterest! Thank fuck for candles, houseplants and orchids.

Through hard work, creativity and daily practice, I managed to live comfortably and peacefully in this little nest while the whole world fell apart. I got the lifelong chronic illness diagnosis I’d been searching for; I stayed sober, I healed my heart, I kept up with self-care and self-development (and sometimes, I kept it clean!)

Despite not being able to tattoo whilst having zero savings in the 2020 lockdowns, there was pressure to keep paying my rent each month. Staying sober during a global pandemic was tough. I’m forever grateful to the owner of the building my 2nd independent tattoo studio was in (the very first incarnation of Ebony Squid Studio!) who didn’t charge me a penny for the months I couldn’t work due to lockdowns. I kept up with normal rent payments as much as I could; and when I couldn’t pay monthly any longer, I made sure I repaid every single penny I owed as soon as I was tattooing again a few months later. During those years I rented properties and rooms with that same company, I’d always paid what any other tenant would have at the time. That company put a roof over my head, and in return I put food on their table. Those homes were never a handout – I’m not a charity case, after all! One of the greatest gifts recovery gave me is that I have so much compassion for the unhealed versions of me that did everything they could with everything they had at the time so they could keep on persevering and surviving. I wouldn’t be here today without them. ♥

I don’t care about other people’s drinking like I used to (unless it’s harming me or others). I’m over convincing people to try Dry January or Sober October. I’ll be (hopefully) celebrating 5 years sober in October this year, fingers crossed. If that doesn’t prove that anyone can do any month of the year happily sober and not die of boredom, I’ll happily fuck off and spend my time doing something else (like rambling on here instead!)

My partner Chris started to move in September 2021, and the two of us lived there with our cat Sid in that tiny flat together. With a lot of hard work, lots of patience and loads of love, we made it work. ♥️

I like to think I was a pretty good tenant, all things considered. However, there was that one time I flooded my bathroom and the room downstairs last year due to a migraine (long story, of which I’m still utterly mortified about!) and although everyone involved laughed it off, I genuinely wanted to head-butt a nail from sheer embarrassment! I bought the landlord a vintage bottle of red wine to apologise though, which thankfully went down extremely well!

Since I got sober and into recovery in 2017, I’ve been really reluctant to buy alcohol (for obvious reasons), but the 4 vintage “posh” bottles of wine I’ve bought in over 4.5 years sobriety have all been for that landlord as Christmas presents (and one for a pretty embarrassed apology!) 

Funny thing about any drink you can buy that contains Ethanol: No matter how much you pay, it all feels the same the next day. Same goes for organic, “clean” or vintage wines, or that Agave one that claims to give you no hangover. I tried that once, and it definitely still does! I’ve been sober for almost 1,800 days – and I’ve never thought the myself “damn, I wish I’d got drunk last night”.

Some people will judge and punish you for changing. Some people will celebrate and support you for growing. Choose your circle carefully. 

One thing I do regret about not drinking and taking other drugs for this long: I’ve lost so many friends and co-workers through getting sober, and I wish it wasn’t so much of a big deal. I didn’t anticipate I’d be ostracised for getting sober and kicked out of studios for staying sober, or kicked out of friendship circles to trying to hold myself to a more mindful set of ethical values and speaking up about harmful and problematic behaviour. It’s hard to stay neutral once you make the decision to make better choices, and it becomes a snowball effect of realising that some friends and co-workers values don’t align with yours anymore, and that awareness creates a void of ambiguity and doubt. I wrote more about this in a 2019 blog post, Rejection and Redirection.

“I’m no longer apologising for: Wanting consistency in my relationships. Having a negative reaction to being mistreated. Leaving relationships that are harmful to my mental health. Having opinions that are different from yours. Taking up space with my words, opinions, and needs.”

“Sometimes what you need might not be what’s best for someone else. Even then, it’s okay to choose what you need.”

Hailey Page Magee. 

Since getting sober, I’ve realised how exhausted I was from trying to fit into a society that was never designed for neurodiverse, chronically ill people. I realised that most of the people I’d surrounded myself with were not my real friends, nor were they meaningful connections that cared very much about integrity, authenticity and self-development. Bids of self-improvement are pretty irritating to people who have no desire to change.

I didn’t realise that by living sober and trying to remain in the same friendship groups, I was enabling the very same problematic behaviour in others that I was so desperately trying to grow away from myself. There was no need to change, because I was telling them I didn’t care through my complacency.

Enabling is a pattern of “helping” someone that actually allows the issue to continue, rather than solving it. This disempowers the other person, because they know that regardless of the behaviours they choose, someone will be there to rescue them and allow them to continue their harmful pattern. Enabling allows a person to not actually face the natural consequences to their actions. Enabling usually comes from a good place. We don’t want to see people hurting, which shows we are compassionate. In the discomfort of seeing other’s pain we try to fix, rescue or save people. Allowing patterns of problem behaviour: Betrayal, lying, emotional abuse. Lying or “bailing out” someone from the consequences of their own actions, repeatedly. Making excuses for someone because you feel sorry for them. Ending patterns of enabling is actually an act of self love and an act of love for the other person. 

Dr Nicole LaPera.

Signs you are emotionally drained by someone:

  • You are ruminating about your interactions 
  • You feel anxious and uneasy around them
  • You are resentful of them
  • You doubt yourself after you interact with them
  • You dread spending time with them
  • You ignore their texts/calls
  • You are always worried about them/their issues and put them over yours 
  • You need to unwind after talking to them
  • You need to vent to others after talking to them
  • You experience physical symptoms & anxiety after being around them
  • You minimise your issues around them because you don’t feel they can support you
  • You make up excuses not to be around them

Divya Robin, MHC @mindmatterswithdiv

Over the years, I’ve repeatedly found myself in friendships with “CHAOTIC BUT MAKE IT CUTE!” as the central theme. We’d drink, cause problems, get into trouble, feel bad, drink to feel better, cause more problems, get into more trouble, feel worse, drink to feel better… See where I’m going with this? It wasn’t constant, but it was consistent. I’d either contribute with an equal dose of my own hopeless messiness or I kept my mouth shut and let them get on with it. When I started to become emotionally sober after a couple years clean, I couldn’t bear the pressure of solving issues that should have been my friend’s responsibility anymore. I could feel that my friends didn’t accept me changing, because they weren’t ready to “let me off the hook” for the times I was a fucking nightmare too. They didn’t owe me forgiveness or acceptance, and I didn’t owe it to them either.

Common reasons friendships end or fade away: 

  • You feel consistently judged or not supported (the more you ignore this, the more exhausted and resentful you become)
  • The relationship is built around gossiping/complaining (you are looking for deeper, more authentic connections)
  • Your priorities have changed (over time you’ve noticed you feel less and less connected because of this)
  • The friendship feels forced or awkward to maintain
  • You don’t feel drawn to talking or opening up to them and notice yourself only doing it out of obligation 
  • You built your relationship at a time when you were a completely different person
  • You’re able to acknowledge that you’ve evolved/grown and likely wouldn’t have bonded with them at all today 

I couldn’t clean up their messes anymore or pretend to be a therapist. They deserved better, and I’m not qualified. I had my own grief to deal with, which didn’t have space on the table. I was using my own sessions with my own therapist to navigate their lives and their problems instead of my own. I could feel myself sinking down, the life draining out of me. I wish there could have been more love in the letting go, but their behaviour at the end was the closure I needed to release and rise back up again. I have to put my well-being and my recovery first, otherwise I will lose everything and be no use to anyone ever again.

I’ve lost so many people I’ve considered family, and it never gets easier. I wrote more about this in a recent blog post, When You Know, You Know.

Sometimes you just gotta give people the space to be who they are and how they want to behave and adjust your closeness to them accordingly. 

We’ve gone from a 40ft shipping container in the middle of a town to a 3-bedroom maisonette flat in a quiet/woody area by a park (for almost the same rent we were paying before!). There’s lots of communal gardens kept by lovely neighbours with far more time for gardening than I do, and the only sound I can hear in the morning is sparrows and blackbirds. It’s lovely having a place to write, and now we’re one of those annoying couples with a gym room!
Okay so the “study room” is one half study, one half laundrette (the dryer is in the other corner) and the “gym room” is one half storage (treadmill, exercise bike and weights/exercise ball… Along with a fucktonne of cardboard boxes!)

You are not responsible for the expectations others place on you. You are not responsible for the happiness of others. You are only responsible for making sure you are living authentically and doing the things necessary to be okay. 

Along with lots of friendships, I’ve had to let go of the expectations I placed on myself when I didn’t know myself better. Now I know better I must try to do better, and I need to be able to live life on life’s terms. I’m working hard every day to try to clear the wreckage of my past and build a healthier future full of better choices for what is best for me.

As always: progress not perfection.

Me, myself and Autism.

Read time: 6-7 minutes. Potential triggers: contains details of depression, anxiety, trauma and PTSD.

I was recently interviewed by the extraordinary Kat Kennedy about my autism journey! She’s writing about sex and gender differences in various health conditions and how, so often, women go undiagnosed when symptoms present differently than how doctors are taught they should appear. Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and ADHD are two such conditions. Many of the classic studies on these used only male participants and so many of the diagnostic criteria are based on the male experience. 

My friendship with Kat Kennedy began as tattoo artist and client. Back in 2016, I created her first tattoo back when I was working in Cheltenham which grew into a full sleeve. Kat followed me when I relocated back home to Wales, and we finished the sleeve in 2018 just before she moved out to the scorching hot deserts of the US. Kat’s support of my tattoos, illustration and writing has been so motivating and comforting. Her posts have been a huge source of inspiration and courage and have kept me going in bleak times. I’ll never forget a quote she told me from one of her friends when we were discussing how overwhelming social media can be:

“We’re just not meant to process human suffering on this scale.”

Thanks for letting me be a part of this piece Kat – I’ve managed to keep a couple of succulents alive that you gifted me years ago, and the wonderful and kind letter you wrote when the sleeve was finished still hangs on my wall today!

1. Full name, age, occupation and city where you live:

My name is Lala Taylor, I’m a 34-year-old tattoo artist & illustrator based in Penarth, South Wales UK.

2. When did you receive your ASD diagnosis?

I received my autism clarification at 31 years old! I was diagnosed by a private therapist, who I’ve been seeing regularly for 3 years now. I had just opened my first business, 1 year into my 4 years sobriety and 4 weeks after a knee reconstruction.

3. When did you first suspect that you might have ASD? What were you experiencing?

I spent my twenties and thirties almost constantly confused and overwhelmed. I would often put this down to PTSD; I would blame the difficulty of my existence on the emotional/physical/sexual abuse and trauma I’d survived as a child and teenager, and this reinforced the justification of my struggles. Since being diagnosed with anxiety and depression at 19 with no follow up with a mental health team or offer of counselling, I’ve distrusted the mental health system in the UK and distanced myself completely. I tried a few private therapists in my early twenties which yielded no positive results – one of them took a phone call in the middle of the session, whilst I was reliving a fresh and particularly distressing traumatic event. Safe to say I never went back.

From my mid-twenties, I was chronically overworking and self-medicating with alcohol as much as I could get away with to ease the constant masking and shape shifting in social groups and work settings. During the last few years of my twenties, I continued to chronically overwork myself and began mixing alcohol with other drugs. 

I always struggled to maintain relationships, especially romantic ones. I was regularly manipulated, used and lied to – I even tried to leave one partner multiple times before they would pull me back in. I eventually cheated on him just so he would leave me alone! I had a very small emotional vocabulary and couldn’t tell what I was feeling or what was really happening.

I would regularly find myself in friendships and work connections that were disrespectful, toxic and abusive. I always thought that I struggled to inherently know what was best for me because of my abusive childhood and teenage years, but deep down I knew it was something else.

I dated a woman in my late twenties with borderline personality disorder, which had a profoundly painful effect on me. I started to wonder if I may have a more complex disorder/condition myself that was playing a big part in my life without me knowing. ASD is often misdiagnosed as something else (like bipolar and borderline personality disorder) in women. This is because the criterion for autism is still based on male studies only. For decades, many autistic girls have flown under the radar along with the female indoctrination in schools and at home to be poised, pretty, polite, and passive.

Social media gave me small clues and hints which I identified with, which included routines, special interests, scripted responses, repetitive behaviours, self-medicating, difficulties with food/cooking, depression, missing social cues, fussiness, bluntness, perfectionism, and excessive planning. I spent a few months saving these autism posts in private, and after being unlawfully dismissed from a tattoo studio in 2018 just before a knee reconstruction, I made a promise to myself that I would find a therapist that specialised in CBT and diagnosing neurodivergent conditions.

I remember struggling at school and being mercilessly bullied. In the classroom, if I didn’t underline the date or title of the lesson perfectly, I would panic, suffer an internal meltdown and be unable to write anything else for the rest of the hour. My books became full of emptiness, save for a few scratched out words at the top of each page and watermarks from dried tears. I excelled in art and my talent was considered far beyond my years. I loved the praise (finally I could do something right!) but hated the spotlight this put on me. I often had my artwork and art supplies stolen and sabotaged by jealous kids. I spent my school years learning to hide, mask and please people that terrified and confused me. 

4. Have you ever had any instances where you felt you were dismissed by a doctor when hoping to discuss suspected ASD (or another health condition)? Did you have to make multiple appointments before finally getting diagnosed?

My Autism was never dismissed professionally because I never presented the question to anyone outside of private therapy, I’m really glad for this. However, I have a lifelong chronic illness called Fibromyalgia which was dismissed by doctors and nurses for years before I got a private diagnosis last year (at 33 years old). I once had a nurse say to me “I have no idea why you’re here to be honest” after I wanted to know why I was getting outbreaks of shingles and cold sores every 2 weeks and wasn’t able to stay awake more than a few hours in each day. I was 30 – I went to the gym twice a week, had a good diet, never smoked a cigarette in my life and was 1 year sober at the time. I wanted answers to why I was so ill all the time. She thought I was wasting her time. I insisted that she refer me to a GP, and after listing years of symptoms to a doctor she booked me for a CT scan to check for cancer (which thankfully came back all clear). I paid for a private rheumatologist after a recommendation from my therapist and another GP (both female) who finally diagnosed Fibromyalgia in 2020.

5. Have you ever felt that this was because you were a woman?

Women are conditioned by society from birth to be naturally passive, polite, sweet and agreeable. Anger, frustration and sadness are all very unladylike. Women are called “crazy” and “psycho” for struggling mentally, and not being able to articulate themselves fully in the moment. They are also expected to take on the emotional labour of (cishet) men on top of their own. In my experience, women have two options: you are either a beacon of unconditional love, grace and emotional support (keeping quiet at the cost of your mental health) or you are a cold-hearted, crazy stuck-up bitch (for speaking up and putting yourself first).

I’ll be reposting Kat’s finished article on my blog instagram: @auteetotaltattooer.


Grief and Growth.

Read time: 50-53 minutes. Potential triggers: contains details of depression, anxiety, emotional/psychological/sexual abuse, family and relationship trauma.

Letting GROW: How the pain of both can feel the same, and that there’s beauty and grace in-between the “ie” and the “ow”…

Grief is inevitable, but growth is optional. Finding space for both in our lives can sometimes be a challenge. It seems counterproductive in life to open the door and invite grief in for a visit, or schedule in time to allow for growth. Sometimes, we cling to what we can control and lock the door on grief: we keep ourselves busy and ignore the sadness that gives life meaning.

If you’ve ever kept houseplants for an extended amount of time, you know that they can teach you a thing or two about growth. Just because something looks like it’s dying, doesn’t necessarily mean that it actually is. Cutting back a living thing in order for it to improve and thrive seems counterproductive, but watching it spring back to life is utterly magical. They’re worthy and deserving even why they’re not much to look at, or if they’re becoming hard to look after. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you simply have to let them go. Paying attention to what works and doesn’t work and making adjustments is key.

“Life is growth, and if it does not involve a perpetual passing away, then we can neither grow nor live in any meaningful sense. And eventually, by accepting this truth in our honest grief, we will be ready to let the first rays of light penetrate the darkness.”

— Derren Brown, “Happy”.

How many deep, Romantic introspections and Narcissistic exhalations of one’s inner experience does it take until you’re qualified as a real blogger? Asking for a friend(!)

It’s 2019. Along with opening and running my first business, whilst recovering from a knee reconstruction – I was able to realign my priorities and start regular therapy. I’d had sessions in the past, but the timing wasn’t quite right and the professional wasn’t the right fit. I found an incredibly effective CBT counsellor, and was diagnosed Autistic at age 31 after voicing some concerns that I might be on the spectrum. I spent most of the year doing lots of journaling, inner child work, boundary-setting and hardcore self-care around tattooing. I began to slowly and painfully crack open the hard, convoluted walnut of my past traumas with weekly sessions of CBT. I was doing all this work for me, not particularly for anyone else. The fortunate side-effect was that I started to show up better for others in my life, personally and professionally. An unfortunate side-effect, was that it made me pretty emotionally unstable at times. Discovering I was autistic, played havoc with my autism. Facing the source code of my unhealthy coping mechanisms made it difficult to cope with my usual routines. I started questioning everything about myself. My new thought patterns were catching old triggers like trip wires. The psychological land mines would detonate: I would have to (quietly, calmly, socially acceptably as much as possible) ride out the shock and emotional fallout, heal in solitude, and use the new space for better things.

Growth is never easy, and it almost always requires pain along with joy. It is in the space between joy and sorrow that our hearts are strengthened and our bonds renewed.

Trisha Lundin.

I ran so far away from myself, during a long time of survival in the earliest, most formative years of my life – that I forgot how to come back home to myself, for decades. I denied and shut off my (autistic) inner child, my inner strength and full potential. I have spent a lot of time and have done a lot of work to rise up to meet myself. I still have a lot of work to do, and I’m really excited to learn even more. I’ve been mapping out what my “higher self” looks like – how she would respond, what she would look like, what she would be working on next.
Ironically, whilst I was working on my better self, I was very much sat rotting in my “lower self”. It reminded me of last January, when I was writing lists of all the things I wanted to do when I could walk again, whilst I was sofa-bound with a freshly reconstructed knee.

Merry CRUSHmas! 🎄

It’s 2019. Christmas is always tough for me. It puts things into a harsh perspective. Like slamming a sharp festive cookie cutter down onto my reality, during the bleakest days of midwinter and at the very end of the year – just when I’ve got past the gorgeous autumn leaves, cute layers and Halloween stuff. Some years, I’ve spent them completely alone for days, hardly eating, mostly drinking and crying; or at friend’s houses, excessively drinking and taking drugs. I’m usually adopted by some current partner’s family, or sheepishly herded into inclusion by friends.
I’m forced to face the ‘Crushmas Roulette’, and it varies every year: will my alcohol dependant mum’s health get worse before Christmas? Will she want to see me this year? How long will I be able to spend with her? Will she become angry/aggressive? Will I be able to leave my darling cat in her care for a week this year? Will he be safe? How will I manage a week in Devon? What if his dad doesn’t like me? What do you buy dads for Christmas? Will I be the only person not drinking? I wonder if I’ll get bath bombs this year?
I made a difficult decision to cut contact with my father in November. He fled to Australia to pursue his own happiness and escape his mistakes when I was in my early twenties. He was reduced to a few polite phone calls and greeting cards a year, which felt safer. Therapy gave me the strength to actually come to terms with and say out loud some of the things he did (that I could remember). My inner child was finally speaking out, heartbroken and angry. He never made any attempt to resolve or make amends for his historic alcoholism and physical, emotional and sexual abuse, before and after he left. I muddled through and tried to make the most of the cards I was dealt, struggling to accept it for years and years. Alcohol has been a consistently destructive force my whole life, and is an incredibly effective dissolving agent: it dissolves families, marriages, friendships, jobs, bank accounts and neurons, but never problems. I spent months writing the email, he replied with patronising denial and zero remorse. I chose not to reply back: I had finally got it off my chest and out of the pit of my stomach.
I finally let go of trying to understand such a dysfunctional person, because dysfunction has no logic behind it. Now that I had closure, I prepared myself as best I could for the real grieving to begin.

I quite like the uneasy calmness and existential dread that January always brings. The first 2 months of winter always kill me. The slowly darker days, miserable weather, then the crushing bottleneck of Xmas and NYE: then, a sadly confusing emptiness for the first 2 weeks of the year. The only part of Crushmas that was bearable this year was “us”. Unfortunately, it didn’t hold up against the pressure.

I was in a beautiful relationship for most of last year; with someone I’d vaguely known for about 6 years. He looked like me, so naturally I was pretty attracted to him! We had lots of mutual friends in common – he was very supportive, respectful, intellectually and emotionally nutritious. Before we dated I told him I was recently coming to terms with my autism diagnosis. He explained that his brother was on the spectrum and in full-time assisted living, and he suspected that he was on the spectrum himself. He was a qualified hypnotherapist, a naturally calm and rational person that I could confide in and trust. As our relationship progressed, I shared things with him that I’d shared with no one else on earth outside of my own professional therapy. He helped me to help myself, and I used hypnotherapy for months to reprogram my brain and process stress and trauma subconsciously. During a panic attack that was brought on by pain during the first few months of my knee surgery recovery, he was able to calm me down, put me under hypnosis and I slept it off. He inspired me creatively, and I produced some great artwork because of him. He meditated and loved yoga. He had some previous experience with polyamory, and had the same conclusions about it that I did. We had lots of stuff in common, like Star Wars, Japan and nerdy science stuff. We were both gluten-intolerant, which made food choices easy. We could keep up with each other in intelligent conversation. He made me laugh. He did my washing up without being asked. My therapist once referred to him as my “soulmate”, which felt pretty wholesome. There were lots of other great things, but I’ll leave it there. I realised a few months in, that this was maybe my first proper ‘grown-up’ relationship. He confirmed that it was his first proper relationship too. We went on amazing dates and had great weekends together. I had made a decision in my early sobriety that I wanted to rise in love, not fall in love, and felt like it was going in the right direction.

Despite describing myself as a “hopeless romantic”, I really believe, the perfect partner, “the one” and “soulmates” do not exist. Your only hope is to pick someone that shares the same core values, views and opinions, someone who respects and compliments your own lifestyle and routines – and work to create a beautiful life with that chosen person. Love takes practice, patience and perseverance. Great relationships happen by choice, not chance. Always easier said than done, however.

“What makes love so compelling? The fact that this is the one, short life we have and we might spend a large part of it with this other person. That here is someone to cling to and grow with for our allotted lifespan. Here we are, broken and fraught in our own way, loving another who is broken and fraught in theirs, and who happens to love us too. But if we knew we were to have endless love for all eternity, there would be no reason to feel excited about this one. Love is a risk: we attach ourselves to someone and they to us, and we face the world together.”

— Derren Brown, “Happy”.

The things you ignore in the beginning become the reasons you leave in the end.

In my state of proud excitement and being stupidly in love, I forgave and ignored a few snags and red flags that conflicted my own values and beliefs along the way. He lived in Bristol, which was usually a 60 mile round trip and 2-3 hours travelling via public transport. It was a big commutement. He had plans to buy property for himself in Bristol, and despite the relationship progressing and getting more serious, he remained very clear that he had no desire to relocate anywhere else. Bristol is extremely triggering and sensory overloading for me. He had quite a serious office job that I struggled to connect with and understand. His work and his lifestyle was “Bristol”. My business, most of my friends and poorly mum are all in South Wales. My home, my lifestyle and my heart is “Wales.” Although it was suggested for the first few couples of months that he hardly drank anymore and didn’t enjoy it (“sober-curious”), he very much still enjoyed drinking. Most of his closer friends loved drinking too. He had no tattoos, no plans for tattoos in the future and little interest in my career. I preferred this over someone who might ‘use’ me for tattoos/status, but he didn’t even like being at my studio or the idea of attending tattoo conventions. We talked for hours and hours about the world and everything in it, but he had an intense passion for left-wing politics and was very vocal about it – it conflicted against my own friendly neighbourhood anarchism and political neutrality online. He had lots of intimate friendships, all women. At the beginning I assumed they were all like sisters to him, completely platonic. I later learnt that he’d been in previous relationships and had very ambiguous, complicated history/chemistry with almost all of them. There were lots of other not-so-great things, but I’ll leave it there. We were so compatible in so many other ways, I worked hard to try and adjust and adapt. It was the healthiest relationship I’d ever had to date, so figured these things were just teething pains that could be communicated on and worked through.
We had a great foundation, and believed it could hold up to whatever came next.

I know that every relationship involves compromise, and their differences can often compliment yours. Relationships are about both of you becoming better because of your differences. He would reassure me that although there was clear evidence to me to suggest this really wouldn’t work long-term, he told me he loved me and wanted to be with me. I loved him too, and really wanted to stay together. So, we kept going…

“The older you get, the deeper the love you need.”

— Leonard Cohen.

He’s very funny, and naturally flirty. He adores female attention and being fussed, and makes it very easy for him to be fussed, adored and looked after by women. I remember looking forward to meeting his very best friend of years and years for the first time, who I imagined was like a sister to him given how much he talked about her and messaged her while we were together. There were hundreds of photos of them together online. Within minutes of being with them both in the same room, I could instantly feel something between them. He played with her hair in front of me whilst we were talking, and I said to myself “this is totally fine, they’re just close, as long as there’s no history or chemistry…” He once asked both of us to have a race and see who could braid his hair the fastest. She was in a relationship with someone for about a year, but kept her status as “single” online. A couple of weeks of processing and a couple of therapy sessions later, he brought up another story about her over Sunday dinner, and I calmly asked him if he’d ever slept with her. He struggled to swallow his food, and admitted they used to hook up with each other on nights out – he would end up looking after her when she would get blackout drunk, calling an ambulance, making excuses and generally being very codependent for years. I told him that I used to have crushes on people like that. He admitted that for a long time, he really liked her. He assured me that it would never happen again, and that it was different now. One of the reasons he gave, without any hint of humour, was that she refused to date anyone with better hair than her. I was really grateful for the honesty, but I struggled to digest the rest of my dinner and the new information that day.
If you’ve ever seen Fleabag, you’ll understand how many times I had to resist the urge to break though an imagined Fourth Wall with a concerned, side-eye stare.

In the summer, I spent a weekend away in Birmingham getting tattooed for 2 days. He spent the same weekend in Bristol, with one of his single female friends. He hadn’t told me much about her, other than he referred to her as a “Power Woman” from London. Despite earning a good salary from her profession, she had made plans to sleep on the floor of his tiny studio flat for 2 nights instead of sleeping in a hotel. He had agreed the plan with her when he was single, months before we started dating. I had no right to try and change it, I could only be patient and focus on my own plans. They spent the weekend drinking, catching up and reliving uni nostalgia. She left him at a bar in the early hours of the first night to sleep with a stranger, and came back to his flat later on the next day. I really struggled to understand and accept it. He couldn’t see a problem with any of it, and assured me it was all completely normal and harmless. I trusted him, but I had no idea who she was. My autism allows me to notice patterns of behaviour others seem to miss. I spent a very painful weekend being tattooed and shamefully searching Facebook for an hour to find out more about the woman that was spending the weekend with my partner. Her Facebook posts of him involved declarations of how good looking he was, sultry looks, lots of hearts. Maybe it was all related, maybe it wasn’t. I actually met her a few months later, and to me she just seemed like a lovely professional woman in her thirties who struggled with boundaries and growing up. She mentioned she’d started dating someone and it was going really well (almost the length of time we had been dating) and that she proudly hadn’t slept with him yet because she was serious about it. She drank heavily that evening, answered work emails late into the night, ended up in a student bar and slept with another stranger. None of this is particularly bad, but I personally define “Power Woman” very differently. When you don’t drink for a long time, you can see from the outside exactly what it does to people and how it effects their lives. I tried my best to be friendly with her and thanked her for the Christmas card addressed to the both of us. She ‘unfriended’ me shortly after we broke up. I later removed myself from his other friends.

I’ve dated many men with weird Oedipal friendship groups and ex-partners as close friends, and it usually involved lots of lying, sometimes cheating and later returning to those ex-partners. Maybe this time, it was a chance for me to make peace with that part of my past. I’d deemed this new relationship as healthy, so surely even the unhealthy parts were due to my own jaded, warped view and nothing to do with him. I thought the problem wasn’t the weird collections of women themselves, but the way I was relating to the weird collections of women. I examined my own sense of femininity and self esteem over and over, checking myself for anything I needed to improve on. The more I got to know myself, the more I became sure that it wasn’t because I was intimidated by them in any way or insecure about myself, I just wasn’t interested in getting involved with that dynamic again. The more I saw it for what it actually was – a big sexy sad crab bucket. Maybe it was all normal for him, but it wasn’t normal for me. It was a useful marker and gentle reminder for me to hold fast on my standards and self worth.
I feel these unhealthy monogamous traits are the opposite to polyamory: an environment in which you can be a lot more honest about your feelings towards your friends and your sexual appetites, invite in extra partners, and use boundaries and close communication to keep it healthy. In theory, anyway. In my experience of polyamory (and monogamy) over the years, more people = more problems!
I was done with subconsciously picking men where there was always “other female interest” of various history/chemistry in close proximity, or that had obstacles of distance, complicated situations or lifestyle choices. There’s literally hundreds of less complicated people nearby, who share similar goals, attitudes and opinions on life and the world – and whose life would compliment my own. Why wasn’t I going for them instead? Because it’s a challenge for the ego to convince them to chose you.

If you’ve ever seen how successful, beautiful and funny my best friends of 10 years are, you’d understand that I’m not intimidated by other women easily. My other close friend is a gorgeous 5.11” police officer, self employed florist and leading lady in theatre productions. Their sparkling traits do not dim my own shine. I feel more beautiful, empowered and successful when I’m surrounded by these kinds of people. I’m so proud of them and love to celebrate their achievements, and in turn it inspires me to keep going and keep believing in myself. Supporting more of the good things I love to see in others and want for myself, keep me focused on all the things I’m striving to create and what I already have to be grateful for in my own life. It stops me wallowing in my own tar pit for too long.
I’ve also been a life model for 12 years – I find being in a room completely naked, staying perfectly still while being studied to create beautiful paintings and drawings, incredibly relaxing. I love to model in many ways, and to observe being seen by other people creatively is very nourishing to my self esteem and self worth. By becoming part of a creative process in a very different way to my own tattooing and illustration, I’m crystallised inside the art and the process, not just in the outcome.

This was us at the infamous Yellow Banana party in Stockholm last year. Everyone was wearing yellow, and I refused to stop dancing! Next stop: Copenhagen.

He once told me he was curious as to why he had so many female friends, and wanted to try CBT therapy to find out more about it. I could have told him why, but I didn’t want to. My therapist confirmed it was unhealthy but very normal, and gave him a name for a highly recommended, fantastic therapist in Bristol. I suggested it, and he turned it down with a thin excuse. He hadn’t ever really come to terms with his own autism, and I think missing social cues and boundaries in his friendships was sometimes happening. He denied his autism and my own at times, explaining that meltdowns were just me being grumpy, or say things like “it’s just traffic”. He was right, it was just traffic, it was just cars and noises. It was also Autism, and very overwhelming at times. You can’t talk someone out of an autistic meltdown. I started to feel ashamed of being autistic, and started to hide it from him and ‘mask’ more.

I have platonic male friends that I’ve been friends with for years and years. I wouldn’t stay the weekend with them like that, but understand that other people are not me. I love attention, and I love women too. I have loved women, and it’s an amazing and beautiful thing. I like to look visually pleasing to myself and other people with similar tastes, but know that underneath the 5.10” long frame, the flowers, awkward charisma(!) and tattoos – I’m pretty abrasive, brutally honest, intense and disruptive. I’m not deeply liked by many people, and wouldn’t want to be. I have a very small group of close friends (all women, all of which I haven’t slept with). I’ve been drawn to and collected many father and mother figures in my time (both toxic and healthy) so I could recognise and understand why it was happening, and was able to offer compassion and patience for it. I discussed it at great length with my own therapist, trying to understand it so that I could try to accept and tolerate it. For the first time in my life, I was doing lots of work on myself, not just for me. I wanted to overcome it, because I truly wanted it to work and was fed up of being repeatedly blamed and accused of having an unfair reaction to those close friendships. He was extremely defensive and protective of the unhealthy behaviour and codependent tendencies. The beautifully healthy relationship became peppered with old, familiar feelings of guilt, shame and not feeling good enough. I spent my own birthday surprising and spoiling him, with a weekend away at one of the best spa hotels in the UK. It had been on my ‘bucket list’ for years, and felt absolutely incredible to be able to finally do it. Obviously he loved it, and loved me for it. I loved it too. Deep down, I knew a part of it was a show of force to those close to him, and to cheer myself up.
It was also during the early months of composing that email to my father, titled “my surviving suicide note”.

“It’s very hard to be compassionate towards people when they’re hurting us.”

— Brené Brown.

Whilst juggling the relationship, my business, therapy and physio, I struggled with some professional boundaries in the summer. I had to overcome online and offline intimidation and harassment from a few obsessive, mentally unstable and angry former clients. I doubled-up on therapy and self care and kept moving forward.

Coupled with a relationship that was becoming increasingly unhealthy, I became really ill. My immune system kept flaring up, my digestive system was all over the place. I had chronic inflammation in my joints and my throat/stomach. I was sick some mornings, my hair was falling out. I was having breakouts of shingles/cold sores each month. I lost my appetite, I lost all my energy, I was sweating and having nightmares at night, and my nutrition levels crashed. I was having meltdowns and panic attacks more frequently. I stopped training and had to knock down my hours tattooing to keep producing my best work. I was disassociating. On my 2 year sobriety birthday, I slept most of the day and managed to speak to a doctor in the afternoon. She asked me what if I’d gone through any big changes in the past year or so. I laughed, and listed everything. I told her about the sudden loss of my job in late 2018, creating and opening my private studio myself whilst being cheated on/ghosted, a few days before a knee reconstruction which I mostly recovered from alone. The therapy, the autism diagnosis, the online/offline harassment. Encounters with extremely toxic people. Confronting the reality of my father and subsequently cutting him out of my life just before Christmas, dealing with the deteriorating health of my mother. Her response was incredibly supporting and caring and I broke down in tears. After hearing all of my symptoms, she recommended I get booked in for a CT scan on my torso.

“Growth” started to become a less positive, more sinister word.

For most of December and January, my mental health was hovering between extremely low and absolute rock bottom.

Hot and cold, blood of stone.

I had two tickets to see Devin Townsend beginning of December, that I had been looking forward to since I bought the tickets back in March. To say I’m a huge fan of his would be an understatement. I usually go to gigs and festivals on my own these days, as I can’t find anyone who shares the same enthusiasm as me for the music or the timing isn’t right. I was hoping to take my partner with me, but he dismissed wanting to go at all for months: “ask someone else first, I’ll go if no one else wants to”. So I did, I posted online asking if anyone would like to be my +1. He changed his mind within the hour, declared that he’d love to see me at a gig that he knew would make me so happy. We went, and he really enjoyed it. Obviously I had the best time, but I’d already started to wonder how long I could stay with someone that found my enthusiasm and energy both adorable and intolerable. I thought of all the pubs in Bristol I’d sat in to support his comedy gigs and take photos for him, and the comedy gigs we went to together to support others and see people he loved. The Ninjutsu training I went along to watch. I already had a list of guest-spots in Scotland that I could tattoo at whilst he was doing Edinburgh Fringe, which was a future plan of his.

From Devin to Devon: although at this point I couldn’t see us working long-term, he reassured me that he still loved me and wanted to be together. I agreed to spend Christmas in Devon, having not met his father or brother before. It was a beautiful and calm week, mostly because I had reached a level of stress and illness that I declared “no stress and drama”. What I really meant was “no more conflict and difficult conversations”. His family were lovely. I covered my tattoos out of respect to his father, I knew how much he hated them. I was told on Christmas day “don’t joke with my dad about tattoos.” Unfortunately, I’m a tattoo artist of 9 years and fucking hilarious, so there wasn’t much I could do in that department. I even managed to keep up with never ending conversations about politics and history. I kept my chin up, smiling politely. I kept my mouth shut when I realised they were drinking to get drunk every day, despite him playing it down when I asked him a few weeks before. I stayed quiet when I could hear my partner slurring his words and smelling of alcohol when we went to bed. I watched his hangover sweat from him the morning after, and heard the familiar mumbles of denial. I bought him drinks from the bar when he asked for them, as I didn’t want to bring up a difficult conversation in front of his friends who I was meeting for the first time. He knew I had managed over 2 years without buying alcohol (except when it’s for my alcohol-dependant mother), but must have forgotten. I shouldn’t ever have to ask someone to stop drinking, it’s not for me to decide. Continuing to date and drink in front of someone who’s famously sober and proud, with a dying alcohol dependant/alcoholic mother, would be like dating someone who has a mother dying of cancer and insisting on booking solo weekends away to Chernobyl. There’s plenty of women who he could date instead, who didn’t have alcoholic parents growing up and is enthusiastically sober now. There’s only so much I can make peace with from my past, and only so much I can tolerate as a sober adult. Alcohol is a proven carcinogenic, as well as depressant.
I came home exhausted from masking and spent days in a sensory hangover that I recovered from in private. I got Jedi: Fallen Order and a coffee mill for Christmas, and I gratefully spent the last few days of the year back home escaping reality, trembling with caffeine and smashing The Empire.

Sobriety doesn’t happen by osmosis. Simply dating or spending time with a sober person may involve short-term relief and occasional breaks from drinking completely, but it doesn’t offer a long term solution. That is always entirely down to you. I’m so happy and grateful that I inspire so many others, but I cannot do the work for them.

Since I was very young, bathrooms have been my safe space to escape, calm down and unwind.

Home wasn’t a consistently safe space for me as a child, and was routinely locked in my bedroom in the dark. During conflict, the bathroom door was always lockable and my choice to do so. I still love the sound that a bathroom lock makes, and the sound of a bath filling with hot water. As an adult, locked toilet doors at events and parties provide the same relief, and can enjoy a bath for hours and hours. I was able to manage Christmas a lot better this year because I was allowed to spend so much time in here.
The tattoo on my thigh reads “Formidable” – both the English and French meaning. It was a celebration of overcoming and fully recovering from a skiing accident I had in the French Alps 4 years ago (it frames the surgery scars) and to symbolise letting go of the F words I used to call myself or were put on me by others (“fragile”, “failure”, “fuckup”) and give myself a new, strong and sexy F word. My therapist was impressed!

I admitted to him that I was struggling to stay sober after everything that happened at Christmas. He proudly announced he wouldn’t drink on NYE, for me. The last few days of December and NYE gifted me with one if the worst periods of my life. Given the fact I was only a week or so away from my CT scan, it terrified me. I’ve never been in so much pain, in that way. I couldn’t breathe deeply, walk or maintain a consistent trail of thought for long. I’d maxed out on painkillers by the late afternoon of NYE, meditation and CBD oil did nothing. I got on the wrong bus at Bristol and ended up in some random part of the outer boroughs, wrestling a panic attack/sensory overload. I left my suitcase on the bus. He was in a bad mood that day, either because I’d missed the bus and was late or because of something else. We managed to pull it together, get the suitcase back and have a nice time. It felt like a small victory. I left his home in Bristol the next day, and a couple hours after I left, he half joked via message that I hadn’t been giving him enough attention lately. I absolutely lost my shit. If I’d had a few more days between Christmas/NYE, I might have handled it better. Maybe not. Everything I’d been trying to manage behind the scenes, burst into the foreground. It took me days to recover, and still feel like I failed him.

I was doing the best I could to the best of my ability at the time: meditating, writing/journaling, keeping on top of eating regularly, supplements/medication/CBD oil… I even started drinking less coffee. I completed my taxes instead of binging Netflix, cleaned my flat instead of depression sleeping. I was taking walks in the park, having a short sun bed sessions every week (I still put suncream on my tattoos!) and made sure I had some kind of healthy routine on days off. I was chasing up diagnosis’s and having tests. I stayed sober, somehow. I kept on top of my emails/admin like a boss, and even hired an assisting team to help run my business and create some professional distance from me and my wonderful clients. I was tattooing part time to rest and look after myself. I even managed some extra self care treats, like taking myself to dinner.
I really felt like none of it was working, but then I realised I was still breathing.

As well as daily journaling, I was reading 3 self help/self improvement books at the same time – School of Life by Alain de Botton, The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts by Dr. Gary Chapman, and Happy by Derren Brown. You could have said I was either very desperate, or very dedicated!

Here’s a short summary of the books, without reviewing them too much. I hope if you do read them, you can get as much out of them as I did.

The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts by Dr. Gary Chapman is a book about how to communicate better with your partner(s). It helps you understand how people best interpret love individually, through 5 types: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Acts of Service, Physical Touch and Receiving Gifts. I listed them in order of what I consider to be most important, from highest to lowest. Some people want a diamond watch, others just want the time. I chipped into it as I was reading the others. It’s a comparatively shallow and dogmatic read compared to the other two, but has some really valuable parts. There’s also some cute, insightful quizzes you can do online.

School of Life by Alain de Botton is a book about emotional intelligence. I consider it to be a general handbook for living a more richer life, full of really useful ‘life hacks’. I dove straight into the Relationships section whilst I was reading Happy, and particularly loved the “Choosing a Partner”, “The Hellishness of Others”, “The Longing For Reassurance” and “Partner-as-Child” chapters.
“Emotional intelligence affects every aspect of the way we live, from romantic to professional relationships, from our inner resilience to our social success. It is arguably the single most important skill for surviving in the modern world. In The School of Life, de Botton introduces the gathered wisdom of ten years’ innovative research and conversation, teaching and listening, about the nature and practice of emotional intelligence. Using the combination of social analysis, philosophical insight and practical wisdom which has come to define the School of Life’s essential work, it works through five core areas – Self, Others, Relationships, Work and Culture – and shows how none of us will be perfect but each of us can be a little bit better. Rigorous and revelatory, humane and hopeful, Alain de Botton and his team of experts present The School of Life: a comprehensive guide to the modern art of emotional intelligence.” –

Happy by Derren Brown is like an illusionist’s guide to living life illusion-free: offering wisdom and calling on popular philosophy to teach us how to conjure up our own happiness, and learn to find magic in the everyday.
A self-proclaimed avoidant and advocate of Stoicism (the foundations of CBT therapy), Derren embarked on a career in hypnotism whilst living in Bristol, and is now a successful and acclaimed magician and mental manipulator. He found himself pondering how to be happy after the breakup of a long-term relationship with an artist – and he’s found that it’s simply a trick of the mind. You can talk yourself out of sadness, and into happiness.
I started reading the book a few days before the breakup: in the earlier chapters on relationships, anger and hurt, I found myself identifying with the avoidant/attached narrative and found some other parts hard to digest. The book is particularly meaty, for many reasons. Schopenhauer, the German philosopher, was clearly autistic by the way – he had the same routine for 27 years, and pushed a woman down a flight of stairs for talking too loudly outside his door? He also had a string of poodles named Atma his whole life, always eternally named Atma. I wonder if Derren is on the spectrum too. During the month of daily reading that it took to get through it, I saw myself through the eyes of my very own avoidant hypnotist in Bristol, struggling to date and cope with his attached artist. I thought to myself more than once, “I need to leave the poor boy alone”. As the book progresses into chapters like ‘Relinquishing Control’, through to philosophy, Stoicism and how to apply the methods – I was able to get through the first and worst few weeks of the breakup more comfortably and productively.
He’d actually recommended this book back in 2018. It was a bittersweet irony that the book that made me initially interested in him was the book that made me realise we were ultimately wrong for each other, and that we needed to be apart. It really helped me grow and improve.

“Trying to improve your way to acceptance feeds the false idea that only an improved version of you is acceptable.”

— Lisa Olivera.

Still feeling like I wasn’t good enough until I’d made as many changes and improvements as possible, I kept reaching outwards, grasping for answers and solutions. The relationship and the professional conflict I’d endured last year had made me question everything, and I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone anymore, including myself. I figured that if we both eventually moved in together, we could help look after each other. Sharing the same soil, we could grow together.

“To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be. The people they’re too exhausted to be any longer. The people they don’t recognise inside themselves anymore. The people they grew out of, the people they never ended up growing into. We so badly want the people we love to get their spark back when it burns out; to become speedily found when they are lost. But it is not our job to hold anyone accountable to the people they used to be. It is our job to travel with them between each version and to honour what emerges along the way. Sometimes it will be an even more luminescent flame. Sometimes it will be a flicker that disappears and temporarily floods the room with a perfectly and necessary darkness.”

— Heidi Priebe.

My physical and mental health was in serious trouble, and my relationship was beginning to rot.
He saw me at my worst and most vulnerable, which must have been terrifying. I snapped at him more than once. He started becoming avoidant and dismissive, I started becoming attached and clingy. When I started getting fed up and distanced myself, he would lean forward and seek out attention. Although we were discussing the idea of him moving in with me for a bit to see if we liked living together for the future, it was only a way for him save more money as a deposit for later buying property in Bristol. I spent days sorting, throwing out and giving away belongings, rearranging the bedroom. I was convinced that I could change his mind (if only he could see how great things could be if he moved in, how great I really was!) he would want to stay. He became easily flustered and stressed, and snapped at me too. When I behaved more like him, he behaved more like me. I was so tired of the games and role reversals. We were no longer rising in love, we were both sinking.
I’d received some comments online from a fake profile, and wasn’t sure if it was someone from last year who was trying to get at me again, and had no idea if they’d try to work out where I lived and follow me home. As things got increasingly worse with us, I told him I was at my absolute limit and begged him to come and talk through things at the beginning of January – he instead spent the weekend with friends, leaving the names blank for me to assume which ones. “Probably a chance to get drunk too”, I thought. I felt like I had died. I deactivated and deleted all my social media for two days. I buried my phone and iPad behind my sofa cushions and shut myself in my home; I mostly read, cried and wrote. I later worked up the energy to visit my mum and my best friends. He’d promised to help me financially that weekend as I had taken a lot of time off over Christmas, and had ran through my savings when I was unwell and working part time to keep producing my best work. I had to borrow money from my mother’s funeral fund instead.

He came over 2 days later – I’d invited him over to talk and said he was welcome to stay over afterwards. Instead of trying to resolve things, he broke up with me. 3 days before my CT scan. He admitted he was scared of my meltdowns, and told me that if he ever moved back to Wales permanently, he knew he would resent it. He told me he was done, and started to unpack the things of mine from his flat that he’d brought with him from his bag. He had no intention of staying over that night. My reality cracked open. I broke down, begging and pleading with him to stay. I had a panic attack/meltdown, but hid in my bedroom to make sure I didn’t scare him. He followed after me, and quietly asked me to hand him the front door keys so he could leave whilst I was sobbing in the dark. The potential reality of facing the scan without him was unbearable, and the reality that I had somehow ended up in another relationship that left me just before another serious medical procedure was fucking abhorrent. After declaring that I would move to Bristol for him (I wasn’t thinking straight) and lots of tears from both of us, he stayed, but it was only out of pity. An hour later, he turned down an offer to be my +1 at my best friend’s big event before I could finish speaking. I slept on the sofa that night to make sure my cat didn’t disturb his sleep for work the next day, and cooked us breakfast early the next morning with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I was relieved we were still together, but I wasn’t happy anymore.

The relationship had become terminally ill. There was no future.

He came with me to the scan – his 8 years previous experience as a radiographer and my own meditation made it bearable. I spent the evening fussing and giving him a back massage a few hours after the scan (Dr. Chapman would define back massages as both an “Act of Service” and “Physical Touch” in the Love Languages book). He had complained/joked a week before that I hadn’t been giving him enough attention lately, and wanted to make him happy. Both my arms and wrists were sore from the 5 attempts to get a line in to pump my body full of contrast fluid. I was trying everything I could to try and re-connect and repair. I can still taste the Omnipaque sometimes.
Communication and “Words of Affirmation” are really important to me, especially then. Towards the end, he put off having big conversations for as long as possible, and there would be days without any messages. In the final two days, I sent him a little photo that I’d created (it was really funny) to try and lighten things up and show him I still cared. He ignored it.

Love cannot hurt us; it is person who doesn’t know how to love us that causes pain. Any relationship that is ruined by having conversations about your feelings, standards and expectations was never really stable and healthy to begin with.

Someone’s best effort at loving you may not be the thing that you need. It doesn’t mean they’re not trying hard enough, or that they don’t love you enough. It means that’s all they’re capable of doing, and you have to decide if that’s what you’re willing to live with.

All this energy that I was putting into a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere, I needed to start putting back into myself.

The next day, I saw my therapist to get her advice and perspective. She was equally disappointed to hear how it had deteriorated, but assured me it wasn’t beyond repair and that it was possible to overcome everything I’d mentioned. She suggested couples therapy, which I knew he wouldn’t agree to. She also suggested he explore an Autism diagnosis, to help him better understand himself and how it effects him. Without an equal effort of understanding/growth, or any attempt at coming to a compromise from him, it would never flourish. It was crystal clear that at some point, for whatever reason(s), he had simply changed his mind about me. She could see that I was done, and we were done.
I had given up begging, pleading and trying, and decided in my session to finally finish-off the breakup and put “us” out of our misery.

After reaching outwards for so long, I reached back into myself. I spent the rest of day taking care of myself before the breakup and making sure I treated him, me and us with respect: I started with therapy in the morning, followed by a manicure/pedicure in a massage chair. I made stock orders, got some important admin done and made appointments. I went for a walk in the park, then took myself to dinner. I waited until I knew he’d be home from work to message him. I admitted that I didn’t have the strength to travel to Bristol just to break up (again).

…“Let’s both save our dignity, save the drama and stress and leave it here today. Thank you for loving and supporting me, and teaching me that it is possible for me to have a healthy relationship with someone. Thank you for teaching me that I also have the strength to notice when it becomes unhealthy/unsustainable and take action. I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you – thank you for teaching me how. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. You’ll find someone better suited and when you do, you’ll know for sure and it’ll feel right.”

I saw him for what he really was: exhausted and overwhelmed. I had already imagined his life without me: I pictured him getting in the door to his own Bristol home, to someone who he could share a bottle of wine with and talk about his office job, who would get along with all of his friends, and accept and love them regardless. Someone he could discuss more with his father. Maybe someone who practiced martial arts and was passionately into talking about politics too. Maybe someone who wasn’t autistic, or someone who didn’t have more issues than Vogue(!). I imagined them talking about buying a larger property in Bristol together one day, and drinking together at Christmas. My heart swelled at the potential happiness that lay ahead of him, far past me.
We didn’t fail, we simply expired.

When we waste time chasing someone to give us love, there’s an unmet internal need for love and nurturance toward our inner-child. When we abandon ourselves for someone who’s undeserving of our energy, our inner-child is usually hurting deeply and feeling afraid to be alone. The excitement of trying to prove you are so special, lovable and worthy that you can change someone’s mind or behaviour, is draining your energy on so many levels. We’re all going to have days where we show up as the worst version of ourselves, but at the end of the day, we all deserve to be with someone who we know is in our corner. Someone who loves us on the hard days and treats the relationship as precious, sacred and deserving of protection and care. I wasn’t willing to throw it away because it was getting tough, but he was. I needed to let go, too. I had someone else more important I needed to take care of.

He replied back quickly, compassionately and calmly. He admitted that he was hurt and saddened, which I found hard to believe at that point but took his word for it. He said he was happy to end it via message. We said goodbye.

I went to a Christmas wreath workshop with my best friends early December, and was given a bottle of delicious “Nosecco” from my sister that I drank on the NYE countdown. I took the best few parts of Christmas and NYE after the breakup and created a beautiful reminder to cherish the better memories despite all the loss. I kept it by my bed so that I would see it as soon as I woke up – to remind me that not only had the breakup actually happened, it had also passed away and taken another CRUSHMAS and NYE along with it.

“When we consider that these things we value are only here for a while and will eventually turn to dust, we both remind ourselves of their worth and align ourselves with Fortune. The Stoics tell us to think, when people die or things are destroyed, ‘I gave them back.’ What we have lost was never ours; we enjoyed them for a while and now they have returned to eternity. In the case of a broken vase, this may be a helpful thought; in the case of a lost loved one, perhaps it sounds like a meagre comfort.”

—- Derren Brown, “Happy”.

The CT scan and test results all came back negative. I broke down and wept with relief, but still didn’t have any real answers. I’m still sick, and it’s pointing more to Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS) Hypermobilty type: (h)EDS.
I’ve been on the waiting list for a diagnosis for over a year, as I wasn’t able to afford the diagnosis privately along with private CBT therapy without it affecting my business.

A few days after the breakup, I got fed up of feeling sorry for myself and put all the work I’d been doing to good use – I plotted a trip to Twmbarlwm and spent 3 hours hiking 7-8 miles and 420m. I’m so happy and proud to live in such a beautiful country. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

Cheat code for forgiveness!

Most of us are trying our best, me included. Despite this, we’re all going to hurt people as we muddle through figuring it all out. We don’t need to take it so personally when it does happen. When you learn that a person’s behaviour has more to do with their own internal struggle than it does with you, you can welcome in grace, understanding and compassion.

Repeat this until you really, truly believe it:

“They were doing the very best they could at the time”.

You’re released from being angry. The pain changes. You’re able to start grieving the loss of a person that you needed in your life. The person you wanted them to be, the person you expected them to be. The person you thought they could potentially be.

Your memories and dreams of them can be examined and torn open. Inside the rift of your reality and life experience, there is new space to welcome in grace, growth and maybe a little bit of love and forgiveness. Maybe some pity and self-righteousness too, which is okay. Boundaries are still essential of course, and letting go with love is possible. Closing the door on someone who shows no remorse can be a silent forgiveness, and an ultimate act of self-care and protection. Healing always comes in waves, so keeping riding the tides of pain, anger and sadness that come up.

We’ve all been through terrible, horrible and shamefully dark periods of our lives. Wouldn’t you want that level of compassion from others, for them to be able to hold you and support you and say “you were just doing the very best you could at the time. We forgive you.”

We can never ever know if people are actually doing the best they can at the time. Most of the time, they’re probably not. But one thing you can guarantee is that your life will be easier and happier when you assume that they are. It’s not your job to control others or persecute them for it.

I forgive my mother, my father and all of my partners. I deserve peace now. I’ve spent years and years with both my fists raised up in front of my face, and it’s blocked my perspective.

It’s been exactly one month since we broke up. I’m eating reduced Valentine’s Day chocolate (16th is the new 14th!). I’m still sober, and he’s back to drinking like he used to with the people he’s used to. He’s moving into a new place and getting that mortgage he always wanted – I’m moving closer to work, my mother, my sister and most of my friends. I spent Valentine’s night drinking mocktails and watching Taylor Swift on Netflix. I’m lining up guest spots, hikes and travel destinations for 2020 with the cat on my lap. I’m cooking dinner and seeing my best friend later. I’m not sure what I’m looking for in terms of partner(s) now. All I know is that I just want to keep writing. This has been one of the most powerful and cathartic outlets for me. Knowing it has helped so many others brings me to tears. I’ve helped people get sober, process trauma, get out of relationships and get into therapy. If I keep speaking my truth with real love, the truest and most real love will come back to me.

I used to think that coming out as Autistic would effect my business negatively, or that writing my blog would push people away. In truth, it’s pulled in MORE of what I want to attract, and only what I want LESS of has been (gratefully) pushed away. I want to create MORE beautiful mental health/LGBTQIA+/polyamory/kink/self care/autism tattoos, with kind, caring and respectful clients that are as fully supportive, understanding and enthusiastic about me as much as I am about them! It’s so exciting and heartwarming.

Doctors can diagnose and treat you, but they don’t make you healthy. Surgeons can repair you, but they don’t heal you. Teachers can teach you, but they don’t make you learn. Trainers can train you, but they don’t make you fit. Coaches can coach you, but they don’t make you rich and successful. At some point, you have to realise that your growth is your responsibility.

I’ve started training and life modelling again, been to musicals, hiked mountains and attended sobriety events. I’m making lists of things I want to do next, like EMDR therapy, guest spots, Transcendental Meditation, podcasts, books, seminars, tattoo conventions, more merchandise and A LOT more hiking!

It’s been 4 weeks since the breakup. I still miss him, of course I do. I love him too much to be with him now, as I know it’s for all the wrong reasons. I’m glad that I ‘gave him back’. I love myself more now that I was able to let go, and choose myself and my independency over the familiar trap of codependency. I’m really proud of the progress I’ve made, and am really looking forward to whatever comes next.

“What I miss most is how you loved me. But what I didn’t know was how you loved me had so much to do with the person I was. It was a reflection of everything I gave to you, coming back to me. How did I not see that. How did I sit here soaking in the idea that no one else would love me that way. When it was I that taught you. When it was I that showed you how to fill, the way I needed to be filled. How cruel I was to myself. Giving you credit for my warmth simply because you had felt it. Thinking it was you who gave me strength, wit, beauty. Simply because you recognised it. As if I was already not these things before I met you. As if I did not remain all these once you left.”

— Rupi Kaur.
It’s funny how we outgrow what we once thought we couldn’t live without, and then we fall in love with what we didn’t even know we wanted. Life keeps leading us on journeys we would never go on if it were up to us. Don’t be afraid. Have faith. Find the lessons.

Always remember: NO ONE is more equipped to love you than you are.

Rejection and Redirection.

Read time: 27-29 minutes. Potential triggers: contains details of depression, anxiety, trauma, ablism, unfair dismissal at work.

BREAKDOWNS & BUCKETS: Feeling lost or stuck? You might be trapped in a Crab Bucket™. How my breakdown last year became a breakthrough and a blessing: leading to my Autism diagnosis, my own business and the start of an incredible healing journey, out of the bucket and beyond…

For my entire life, I’ve always wondered why it felt like I was playing life stuck on HARD MODE… Getting sober 2 years ago started a chain reaction of events and circumstances that I could never have imagined.

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.”

— Cynthia Occelli.
“May you do well, but never better than me” — the mantra of the toxic friend/work colleague.

If you ever feel guilty or uneasy when sharing good news and positivity – you’re sharing it with the wrong people.

Crab mentality, also known as crabs in a bucket mentality, is a way of thinking best described by the phrase “if I can’t have it, neither can you”. It’s a metaphor for how humans respond when they see someone else around them achieving some kind of self-improvement that they can’t achieve themselves. The metaphor is derived from a pattern of behavior noted in crabs when they are trapped in a bucket. While any one crab could easily escape, its efforts will be undermined by others, ensuring the group’s collective demise. Crabs can resort to pinching, pulling off arms/legs and even killing their fellow crabs if any of them continue to try and escape. In human behaviour, this can look like undermining achievements, snide comments, belittling positive changes, ignoring, bullying. They do what they can to hinder progress, or even stop the person from simply trying to succeed. Promotions in the office due to sheer focus and hard work get dismissed as unfair, weight loss and new exercise routines can be met with jealousy and sabotage, holidays and travelling can be sneered at. Cutting down drinking can be met with surprise bottles of wine and extra boozy work lunches. Encouragement of unwise and damaging decisions. People with the crab mentality feel insecure when they see other people improve, and assume that they are failing because other people are succeeding. For crabs, and humans – misery loves company. Bad tribalism.

We are built to be tribal. But sometimes that tribalism goes too far. The worst type of tribalism is groups aligned to destroy other groups, such as through ethnic cleansing and genocide. We have heard the word tribalism used a lot today in reference to our politics. Today in our political world, we have “bad tribalism.” Bad tribalism is a group identity that fosters the bullying and scapegoating of others not like you. Bad tribalism joins people out of anger, jealousy, and spite, not for collective well-being. The unfortunate irony is that bad tribalism is easy to provoke, but not healthy to maintain. Staying angry is stressful, and large doses of stress are bad for our health. At the same time, good tribalism is difficult to build, but healthy to maintain. When we connect with others to ensure safety and good health, we lower our own stress.”

— Elizabeth A. Segal, Ph.D.,

“You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with”

— Jim Rohn.

In my whole career, I’ve worked at and visited almost 20 studios around the UK. Unfortunately, in my experience, most tattoo studios are Crab Buckets™: breeding grounds for bad decisions, gang tactics, shitty behaviour and Drama Triangles. They’re usually alco-centric, narco-centric performance platforms of enmeshment and trauma bonds. The bad ones will trade healthy behaviour and professionalism for late nights, late mornings, hangovers, overworking and undercharging, lack of boundaries, lines in the bathroom, “after work beers” and smoking weed during work hours. Aren’t we supposed to just do our job, in the cleanest, happiest and most mentally healthy way possible? I wanted to be better, but couldn’t navigate myself out of the environment. I felt stuck, completely lost and unable to really ‘fit in’ anywhere and call it home. Every time the cycle repeated, I thought to myself “it’ll be different this time, it’ll be better.” The only problem was, I didn’t know how to function inside any environment that wasn’t dysfunctional…

🎉 Today’s a great day.

1st December marks the 1st anniversary of my own little micro-studio, YAY! What an insane, amazing, wonderful year it’s been…

My first appointment were those Stitch & Toothless cuties! Line-work was done a month prior. Thanks again to the lovely Leann! I’m so happy with how these turned out.

Since opening my own little business last year and going independent, I was able to confront A LOT of things that I had kept under wraps for a long time, but didn’t have the psychological, emotional and financial capability to tackle any of it before. 

This business move started out as a product of sheer adrenaline and fear

Late 2017, I was suddenly kicked out of my full-time job of 19 months one day with no notice, no real explanation and nowhere else to go. I was confused, devastated and unable to talk about it. I somehow stayed sober, and kept going.

I won’t go into a long, pitiful story of gory details. One day I’m telling my coworkers how excited I am about the staff Christmas dinner, the next day I’m silently, furiously packing up my stuff with everyone watching and a taxi waiting outside. I was utterly ashamed. In less than 24 hours, I found out there had been issues for months that weren’t discussed and campaigns/plans to have me out for ages. One of the owners of the studio, who isn’t a tattoo artist, stormed into the studio during work hours to verbally abuse me (loudly) whilst clients were getting tattooed. I didn’t have a chance to defend myself, and any defence I calmly attempted to make was dismissed before I could finish, so gave up and agreed with everything she said. She stormed out of the studio in tears, past clients getting tattooed. They moved in 2 other artists that day, who were good friends of theirs. They’d moved them in last minute because their last studio had suddenly closed down. I wasn’t told about any of the drama that was going on, but found out about it whilst I was setting up and tattooing a very delicate and personal tattoo for a new client. I packed up my stuff the same morning 2 other people were unpacking theirs. I scraped together what was left of my dignity and self-respect, and disappeared for good. I’m so glad I managed to hold back from lashing out. I considered them family, they considered me a problem. The last thing I was going to do was prove them right in my final moments in that building. I couldn’t change their perception of me. It all was a nasty combination of bad luck, bad timing and good intentions – with the wrong people.

“When we avoid difficult conversations, we trade short term discomfort for long term dysfunction.”

— Peter Bromberg.

Tattoo studios don’t have HR departments, and don’t care about things like unfair dismissal, discrimination or loss of earnings. If they decide they want you out, you’re out. I had bookings I had to contact and rearrange myself, and clients had to retrieve their own deposits from the studio themselves. I didn’t know how I was going to pay my rent and bills that month, let alone be able to think about taking anyone to a small claims court. I closed my diary and lied to so many people. They said that if I told everyone what had happened, I would just be “playing the victim again”. My mental health was at absolute ground zero. I wanted to either kill someone, or kill myself. Mental breakdowns are sort of a death: the death of a current system of thinking that is no longer working.

I was almost 1 year sober at the time. Bookings were increasingly scarce, I had an impending knee reconstruction that I was desperately saving for, due to be scheduled over Christmas time. My mother’s health was deteriorating further. Somehow, I still didn’t manage to drink or take drugs during all of it. Despite how bad everything had become, I knew that it would be even worse if I wasn’t sober. I knew that if I didn’t stay on track, I’d be dead.

I was never told the real reasons why, just that ”the timing never seemed right” and that I would be “too fragile” to handle any feedback they had. I just had to accept it, keep my mouth shut, move on and learn from it as best I could. I survived on travelling and working hard at guest spots, where I managed 5 stays around the UK in about 6 weeks. It was a blur of train rides, suitcases and AirBnBs, trying to save every ounce of energy and positivity for my clients and their tattoos. Most evenings I would kick myself when I was down, yelling at myself in my head: “why didn’t you just ask them if something was wrong?”, “you asked for a shop meeting but you should’ve kept pushing it!”. After I was done yelling, I realised – it shouldn’t have been my responsibility, it should’ve been theirs.

I had a feeling no one liked me there anymore, but didn’t actually believe it was true. I figured it was just my own paranoia. I thought it had something to do with my sobriety, or that I have a blind spot for subtle social cues…

My mind was racing for weeks/months, working backwards and replaying things over and over. I started remembering little things dating back about 8 months – like walking into rooms when people were talking and hearing abrupt silence as soon as they saw me. Comments like “you’ve changed”, “I miss the old La”. Spending days off and early mornings deep-cleaning the studio myself. Being the first one in to clean and set up whilst everyone else ran late. Bookings being messed up. Being blamed for things that were not my responsibility, because they were more emotionally involved with the real person at fault. I remembered the things I did – like always talking about sobriety. Saying things like “sobriety has given me what drugs and alcohol promised me” to my client whilst someone was talking about the benefits of smoking weed to their client. Taking ages to sort my head out and find a place to live in Newport after moving out of Bristol, and complaining/despairing about it. Shaking my head at people’s stories of heavy drinking and hangovers. Proudly announcing my new gym/exercise routine. I was really annoying, and definitely wasn’t the best version of myself at times. I worked much differently than they did, and did things in my own way. When I look back with hindsight from the correct perspective that I am actually Autistic, I am able to forgive myself and have compassion for myself now, when I did not have compassion by others before.

Statistics show that only 15 percent of adults with autism are in full time employment.  That means that there are hundreds of thousands of adults whose often unique skills and talents are not being utilised in the workplace or recognised across society as a whole.  Every one of these individuals will have their own story of disappointment, rejection and embarrassment that they can’t just fit in at work, mixed with the sad knowledge that they have so much to give an employer simply because of their autistic traits.

Kay Lomas,

I was too distracted and wrapped up in myself. Bookings were scarce. My mum was becoming more ill. I saw my estranged father briefly for the first time in 7 years, it brought up a lot of stuff and made new wounds when he left again. I was enjoying being sober and single for the first time that summer after a short, unhealthy relationship/breakup. I redecorated my home. I was worrying about my knee-op and worrying about recovering. I was getting up at 5am, training twice a week in Cardiff at 7am before being back in work for 10am. I should’ve realised what was going on sooner.

Funny thing is, your ego can have you crying over a closed door that had nothing left behind it. I realised that as I transitioned from my old self into the new, that I’d tolerated some pretty bad behaviour and bad professionalism, even in the studio that I considered my “home” and “family” I realised that anywhere that reminds me of those things will always be dysfunctional.


3 weeks after losing my job in that studio, I celebrated my 1st year of sobriety on the 29th October. Although I’d made plans to properly treat myself that day, it didn’t feel like a victory. I spent the day travelling to a guest spot week at a studio in Bristol over Halloween, which was super fun and rewarding. I was exhausted and overloaded, but managed to keep my head above water. The AirBnB had a great bathtub and lovely hosts, so there was definitely another win.

I somehow managed to dress up TWICE for Halloween that year – serving up Little Shop of Horrors and Hocus Pocus vibes. I partied as a witch with my 2 other witchy sisters the week before – I danced on tables and on the dance floor for hours in 7 inch heels. Hundreds of people took photos, it was an awesome night! I then worked 4 appointments over 7 hours wearing a steel-boned corset on the 31st, dressed as a giant green-haired plant lady (note the subtle Joker smile – a performative nod to the sad state of my mental health at the time!)

I opened my own little business inside the gym that was helping me prepare for the knee reconstruction.

I managed to get my little studio up and running myself: 2 weeks before the operation date, which was 5 days before Christmas and in amongst a horrendous heartbreak (cheating/ghosting by a Paramedic, tragically ironic!). It made the hospital visits, stays and complications even more stressful. I managed to afford to take 4 weeks off to recover from the surgery. I mostly looked after myself, and planned how I would raise myself up from the tar pit. I sent an invoice to the Paramedic a few months later – for emotional damages, expenses and most importantly, wasting my time. I still keep in touch with one of the women he was dating the same time as me, a then 21 year-old pole fitness student Jess. We compared screenshots, anecdotes and supported each other through the bullshit. Solidarity and feminism done right. Jess, you’re strong, beautiful and wonderful – thank you.

“Fear-based decisions make people more likely to feel they’re not the authority of their own life: make more love-based decisions!”

— Karamo Brown.

Recovery is a process of UNCOVERING and RECOVERING who we truly are.

Trauma is the gateway to addiction. Connection is the remedy to addiction.

I got sober in 2017.

I started the year with a funeral: someone who ended their life, aged 33. I’d only met them once in life, but went to support my ex-partner and friends there. Going to that funeral broke apart and changed me, but what I found the most astonishing was how people behaved. Good people, chemically destroying themselves in unity, all agreeing “it’s what they would have wanted”. So many people turned up, utterly devastated. Getting fucked up at a funeral of suicide seems all the more tragic, spreading further the pain and manifesting more harm. I couldn’t quite understand it, but I joined in anyway and felt disgusting the next day. It should never have happened. I was utterly overwhelmed, and wanted to try and make it stop somehow. I realised that I could stop the harm I was doing to myself, and in turn pay respect to their life by learning and living better. Rest in peace, you wonderful soul.

It took me nearly 11 months to get fully sober. I started with drugs, then alcohol 5 months later. I just couldn’t pretend or hide anymore. I finally took responsibility for my own life. After years of running, hiding, self harm and trauma, I paused to reflect. Around the same time I was coming to my absolute limit, Russell Brand wrote and released his book on sobriety, called Recovery. This was the real catalyst of change for me.

I had NO idea how sobriety would completely transform not only myself, but my entire life.

My sobriety disrupted many people that were in my life. I started to fall out and lose touch with lots of friends, family and co-workers as I transitioned from my old self to the new. It was really hard to see everything I was so familiar with fall apart and change so quickly and so dramatically. Many people with autism hate disruption of routines and comfort, and holy fuck it was traumatic.

I kept it real quiet at first. I remember seeing my best friend from Southampton for the first time in ages. She drove up to South Wales to visit, and didn’t know I was 2 months sober at the time. I bought us dinner and gifted her my bicycle: I wasn’t able to ride anymore because of ongoing injuries. Long story short, I told her that I was sober and pretty serious about it. Shortly after that, she announced she wanted to visit another friend: she left my house and drove to a bar in Bristol to drink with another tattoo artist, either staying at his place that night or driving back to Southampton from the bar. I thought she was joking until she walked out the door. She ate the food I bought, took my bike and left. She’d been my friend for years. I was devastated and felt sick, I kept yelling in my head “we’d been through so much together, worked together, lived together! She has a boyfriend! How could she just leave like that after coming all this way to see me?”. I paused, then realised: “We mostly drank together, complained together, partied together… She wanted to drink that night, why should I stop her? Let her go.” I remained her friend for a year after that, but it was never the same. I wish her well and hope she’s happy. I started to notice more toxicity in the relationships I’d chosen to maintain with people: when people would make little digs at me, put me down, nip at me. I realised my whole life was a bit of a Crab Bucket™ – sobriety was the first step in climbing out.

If I’m not careful, I get sucked into people’s melodrama. I start worrying about everyone in the situation and hyperfocusing on it – trying to understand everything about their problems, and ultimately, try to solve it all. I start mimicking the people around me, copying behaviours. To me, love is always conditional. I feel I have to be of use to people, and require feeling liked and needed to be of any value. Every day I have to work really hard to feel worthy, valuable and deserving. The curse of codependency!

As my mind got clearer and clearer, started seeing so much more. I started feeling better and better, and started to lose interest in my usual habits – complaining a lot, self deprecating humour, ranting etc. I even started eating less sugar. I noticed a part of my mind still craved the familiar, it still wanted all those people and situations. They’d become the last artefact of my old life, and I still craved bullshit. I stayed in the bucket and kept hanging around people that had quite frankly lost interest in me. As the months went on in sobriety, I realised it was the first time I was acting like “myself” since I started drinking 15 years ago. Turns out, the “real” La was a super awkward, Autistic weirdo who had got really good at pretending she wasn’t. I still crave bad stuff when I’m feeling low and run-down, but nowadays it’s just excessive, unhealthy amounts of aggressive sex and chocolate. Not exactly replacement behaviours, but I’m working on it!

My confidence grew with my sobriety: I started using it for stupid things. Like telling someone I used to work with for years, that I’d always had a crush on them. It lasted 3 months! I was still attracted to people who were irresponsible and drank/partied a lot. Their behaviour still seemed sexy, funny, spontaneous and appealing. I feel it was still a part of me that was holding onto that state of mind, even just a little. I stayed sober on dates, whilst watching them drink. Sometimes they wouldn’t drink either, maybe to impress me or try and prove a point. Most of their conversations revolved around drinking/drug taking, or ex-partners. I realised that this was just another trauma-bond, and that I still had a lot of healing to do. They started drinking again and hooked up with someone else after I left – and later got back with their ex for the 3/4th time. I went celibate for 3 months, joined a gym and redecorated my home. I don’t know what happened after that, but truly hope he’s happy now. I’ve now learnt NOT to chase things that were never, ever meant for me.

I grew stronger, and in growing stronger I grew louder. I started speaking up about things that weren’t right, about people and clients that were being unreasonable and ridiculous. I started being more honest when speaking. I started charging and pricing my time more accurately, my sense of self-worth started to increase. I started to stand up and flex my muscles, literally and metaphorically. Projecting my voice more. Everyone loves a strong woman until she actually starts showing and using her strength. Suddenly, she’s too much. She’s forgotten her place, “too big for her boots.” Too loud, too much attitude. These women are coveted as ideas, as fantasies. Not tolerable as living, breathing humans, threatening to be potentially better than they could ever be.

‘A lesson is repeated until it is learnt.”

After that breakup, I joined a specialist gym at HANGAR in Cardiff with personal trainer Matt Bowring and commuted from Newport twice a week for 6 months. We were focusing on building strength and preparing me for the knee reconstruction. I was hyper-focused and determined – getting up at 5am and making it to the gym for 7am, before getting back to Newport again for work. My personal trainer was fantastic and incredibly patient, and didn’t see me as a lost cause. I fell in love with the gym instantly. My confidence skyrocketed – I started wearing nicer clothes, treating myself better. When I told him what had happened with the studio, he told me that there was going to be a licensed treatment room inside the gym available in December…

After the sheer amount of rejection, missing hints and certain comments in 2018, I genuinely started to wonder if I was “on the spectrum”. I followed my gut and took 2 autistic spectrum tests online (scored 88% on the 1st and 38/50 on the 2nd). I managed to afford to take 4 weeks off – and in that time I mostly looked after myself, and planned how I would raise myself up from the tar pit.

I made a list of things I wanted to do when I could walk again. Start weekly therapy sessions, treat myself to brand new boots. Start hiking again, climb a mountain. I imagined running, being able to weight train and do yoga again. I told everyone it was almost full healed, even when the stitches were still in, even I was still in crutches. It was mind over matter – The reconstruction was successful, and I healed in record time for someone my age and the scale of the existing damage.

As soon as I could drag myself in, I marched into therapy on two crutches in January 2019. I have been to counselling etc in the past, but had very poor experiences with them professionally and just wasn’t ready. I chose a private CBT counsellor who had an ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder) background. I began therapy with the CBT angle, and only brought up autism a few sessions later. The first few sessions addressed the PTSD I’d suffered from losing my job, the 2 short relationships/breakups and having a particularly traumatic hospital experience and recovering from surgery alone. When I raised the concern myself, she smiled. “ASD” was one of the first things she wrote down in her notes during our first session!

After that, and a lot of doctors/hospital visits, I was professionally and medically diagnosed as autistic with multiple associated conditions/chronic illnesses. I had to navigate and learn to process and manage this with no support outside of therapy, whilst continuing to work hard running/operating my own business, still recovering from a knee reconstruction. I’ve always tried to stay positive without being “fake” – and maintained upbeat professionalism online as much as possible, whilst recovering and healing in private.

(I chose not to follow a clinical “government” diagnosis, as I feel I don’t need to access extra support, and do not work for a company or have an employer. Over the last 10 months, my private therapist has helped me process the diagnosis, grieve my “old self” and helps me manage my life and my autism every week)

Changing bad tribalism into good tribalism: How can we invoke healthy forms of tribalism and lessen bad tribalism? First, recognise that groups built on the foundation of hate, disdain, and anger build those traits in ourselves. With the constant urging of bad tribalism, we stay angry, and that can affect our personal well-being. Second, we can step outside ourselves through empathy and see the world from the view of others. When we use empathy to understand others, we see how we are similar, how we are all human beings. Empathy can broaden our sense of connections to others, and that diminishes bad tribalism. Ultimately our goal should be to build the tribe we all belong to: that of humanity. When we can see each other as human beings, we change bad tribalism into good tribalism. We are part of the work to ensure the survival of our shared tribe of humanity.”

— Elizabeth A. Segal, Ph.D.,

Those 6 months were completely life destroying and life changing. I have had to completely rebuild myself, and am navigating most parts of my life all over again from the correct perspective (finally). There has been a lot more darker things I’ve had to deal with too, which quite frankly will stay between me and my therapist.

These were taken 3 months apart. In the photo on the left, I was heartbroken, stressed, sick, soaked in the worst pain/anxiety imaginable and spent the whole day on my own, crying my eyes out and trying to soothe my aching heart and plummeting mental health. Hiking Pen Y Fan was obviously on the list, as a proud Welshie!


I created my studio myself. I built all the furniture myself, and have brand new top of the range everything. I’ve spent 14 months recovering from and processing everything that happened. I can do things my way, set up and clean everything in my own way. If I want pink kitchen roll, I can buy and use as much as I want! I’m no longer using worn-out, cheap furniture that didn’t belong to me. I’m no longer paying 40% of my earnings every day to 2 people who complained that I used too much kitchen roll to clean with, while they own a large rural house with a swimming pool and vintage cars. When I was being screamed at that day, I was told I was “ungrateful” for everything they did for me, and I understand how they felt that way. But I thanked them so many times, over and over for 19 months. They did not thank me for the 19 months I earned my keep and tried my best to make things work, but I didn’t expect to be thanked. I was happy to do it and be part of the team. Expecting loyalty and conformity in return for helping someone is just a form of control. Gang tactics. Staying in that studio for as long as I did, commuting from Bristol for 5 months in the beginning, turning down job offers in other studios and making a 60-70 mile round trip every day by train and bus, choosing to stay even when bookings were bad and people didn’t want me there anymore, keeping my mouth shut even when I was being abandoned by the people I’d pledged “loyalty” to, now that’s commitment and dedication. Now, I thank my clients more, over and over. They’re the REAL stars, and always were! I’m now able to dedicate myself to the most important parts of tattooing, as much as I am able to. If you want something done right, do it yourself.

What if simply being autistic and not fitting in gives us the need and drive to create our career paths by working freelance, by being entrepreneurial, by making an income out of a hobby or by working creatively or in scientific research?  
Would we really want to lose that unique pool of talent to a big corporation just for the sake of being able to fit in? It seems vital to me that each unique autistic person is given the opportunity and support to succeed at work in whatever career path they want to follow. I believe those of us who have a voice must speak up for the rest of our community when we can.  There’s an awful lot of work to be done before we see any percentage increase for employment levels realised.

Kay Lomas,

Surround yourself with people who will help and celebrate your improvements, and empower you to be a better version of yourself. Pulling someone down will never help you reach the top.

Cultivating a positive, fulfilling life will be almost impossible to do surrounded by negative, unfulfilled people. One of the biggest tests of your strength and commitment to a better life is to be able to pull yourself out of the bucket on your own. You can’t change how other people think, so in order for these destructive thoughts to not affect you, move on and spend your time with people who are more supportive. Attend seminars, listen to podcasts, read books, go to galleries, conventions and shows. Replace self-harm with self-care. Don’t let the crabs get to you down!

I felt compelled to draw crabs back in 2017, whilst mental health was at its lowest.
Based from my reference stock, this is originally a Carpilius Maculatus, or Spotted Reef Crab. From display at the Pit Rivers museum in Oxford. It wasn’t until a year later that I was told about the Crab Bucket theory by a wonderful client who has gifted me with so much wisdom (Sarah, thank you). I’ve created tattoos, artwork and made hundreds of items of colourful tattooed crabs. You can purchase my art and merchandise here.

Earlier this year, the studio sent me back some items of mine I’d left behind at the studio the day I packed up and left; along with a note wishing me good luck with the new business. I sent them a big bunch of flowers to say thank you, and sorry for leaving them behind.

When asked what forgiveness is, the Sufi holy man replied:
“It is the fragrance that flowers give when they are crushed.”

People with autism deserve a place in society and the tribe of humanity. Let them thrive like flowers: they may grow differently, require different soil. Require different conditions to live. Some may flower less than others. But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to live and bloom. I hope to raise awareness, offer support and shed light on this beautiful community of rare and precious talents and perspectives.

Traditional tattoo history in the UK has come from seedy beginnings and back alleys, shrouded in mystery, criminal gangs and bad behaviour. It was a big boys club, when clients were second-rate citizens next to the prestigious artists. Tattoos were reserved for criminals, sailors, soldiers and sex workers, and were a symbol of unsavoury, low-brow taste. Bad tribalism. The real roots of tattooing come from good tribalism, thousands of years ago to this present day – symbols of growth and special occasions between communities, ways of connection. Tattooing is a ritual, a sacred event.

🦀 Let’s get out of our buckets and into the tribe, where we all belong.