Between the ages of 14 and 15, I was unhappier than I’d ever been. Not coincidentally, I also managed to memorize all the words to the episodes of ‘The Muppets Take Manhattan’, which had previously been situated in my grandmother’s house, primarily for the viewing and enjoyment of my little four year old cousin. Ironically, I still have the DVD due to the prospect of returning a DVD which; 1.) Should have been returned two years ago, and 2.) For the further embarrassment of it being a children’s series, and appearing as a big kid, who incidentally has prospects of going to university. The juxtaposition of my Grandparents’ exquisite floral tapestry carpet and the DVD laid out across its surface was a strange one. There was very closely 10 years difference in our ages. But yes, I fell into a period of adoration for pop-culture comfort food. Except my fuel was through endless episode watching, and in doing so, having the chance to reminisce of my former self and the emotions involved when placed in front of that run-down VCR TV.

Fourteen was a bad age. With friends who were no longer willing to give me the time of the day like they used to, and the genuine state of anxious mess which occurred as a result of placing my trust too firmly in the hands of crappy people, I entered a period of deep isolation and misery. I had gone from being the barely noticeable girl in my year to gaining a false reputation, and it seemed to get worse each year; I had no friends, no social life, and not a lot of hope. I felt deeply vulnerable. 

Actually, I memorized The Great Muppet Caper, too. And The Muppet Movie. That whole trilogy was on a fairly constant loop in my family’s VCR, the first thing I turned on when I came home from school. I knew the plots, the words, the jokes, and the punchlines to the jokes; I could probably have recited them from memory. But I kept watching.

My point is: I was not exactly gifted with an abundance of people who were happy to see me, when I was 14. But Kermit always was. 

Together again, he sang, every time The Muppets Take Manhattan started up—just that one fuzzy little green puppet, against the black screen, singing directly to the audience. "Gee, it’s good to be together again. I just can’t imagine that you’ve ever been gone!"

Yeah, well: that’s because you saw me yesterday, Kermit. But I’ll take it.

I knew I was too old for these movies. I knew it was weird to watch them so much. But the Muppets made me feel safe. Their world was about warmth and bright colours and corny jokes; nobody in the Muppet movies would call anyone a “stupid bitch,” or a “stuck up cow,” not even the bad guys. They just sang about friendship and being yourself and following your dreams; they felt comfortable, like getting under a big, warm blanket on a cold night. They took away the chill.

I’ve since learned that I am not alone in this taste for pop-culture comfort food. This is stuff that you don’t watch (or read, or listen to, or whatever) because it’s good - often, it’s sort of embarrassing - but because it makes you feel good. You want to hide this aspect of your personality, from people. My dad knew a colleague at work - a grown-up - who would deal with a rough week by purchasing some sugary cereal on Friday night, then getting up early to eat it while he watched Saturday morning cartoons in his pyjamas. My mother prefers ancient BBC sitcoms and Jane Austen adaptations. 

So the years progress, as time refuses to stop for any dilemma. I have naturally seemed to transition into more challenging material; my recent favourite has been 'Goodnight Mr Tom', but this does not fully encompass 

I sometimes find myself wondering

My current boyfriend’s bad-day go-to is, as he puts it, “spin-offs in the Cheers-o-verse,” like Wings and Frasier; he appreciates them, he says, for how “predictable and formulaic” they are. My favourite example: I once had a friend who was a hardcore goth, who actively scared people with her multiple facial piercings and tendency to black leather outfits, and whose favourite entertainment, on a good day, was grown men screaming about how much they identified with Satan. She confessed to me that when she was really bummed, she watched Mad About You re-runs. This, for those not in the know, is the sitcom where Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt play a married couple who wear lots of khakis, have a large, loving family, and encounter various problems along the lines of, “Oh, no! Our Thanksgiving turkey has been eaten by our adorable dog!” To be fair, I guess, even Satan would be frustrated by that one.

Music can work this way, too. I know quite a few women with a secret Tori Amos stash—she’s not the most fashionable singer in the world, but sometimes she sounds like the only person in the world who knows why you’re in such a bad mood, and what to do about it. I’m also a fan of Fiona Apple, in her earlier, angrier moments. This stuff—which I’ve heard referred to, by more than one dude, as “whiny chick music”—seems embarrassing, when you’re in a better mood. But when you’re down and out, getting permission to “whine,” even just via your iPod, can be a lifeline.

Which is not to say that it’s all heavy: silly pop music can also work wonders. Admitting that you can be pulled out of a funk by “Party in the USA,” or Ke$ha, or even (shudder) Blink-182, feels goofy. Yet all of these musicians have been described to me as pop-culture comfort food: simple, familiar, and uplifting. In your worst moments, you don’t want to be challenged. You want something that reminds you of growing up, or that feels safer and cleaner than the mess you’re in. You want to be taken care of, basically. And who’s to say that’s a bad reason for watching or listening to something? Why is it necessary to always want Great, Sophisticated Art? Pop-culture comfort food gives you permission to be sappy. It lets you enjoy things that are too young for you, or too silly, or too sentimental, or too dumb. Pop-culture comfort food isn’t the stuff you consume on your best day, to prove how cool you are. It’s the stuff that you save for your worst day, the stuff that pulls you through.

I wasn’t completely cut off from pop culture, during my year of Muppet movies. I had lots of Sonic Youth albums. I watched My So-Called Life, and even dyed my hair Angela Chase maroon, like every other would-be alterna-girl in my grade. I’d heard about Welcome to the Dollhouse, and I was interested. But that year—the year when I was alone, scared, overwhelmed, hopeless—I didn’t want to hear about yet more harshness or alienation. And I didn’t have the energy to be cool. In that moment, I didn’t need Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon; I needed Miss Piggy and Kermit.

I haven’t watched the Muppet movies in a very long time. It turns out, after you’ve watched three movies for 365 days—about 121 times apiece—fatigue does, in fact, set in. But this fall, the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens had a Jim Henson exhibit. I went. It had concept drawings for the Muppets, and clips from Jim Henson’s experimental films, and a plan for a weird hippie nightclub that he’d apparently designed after seeing it in a nightmare. But, more important, it had Kermit. The actual Kermit puppet! I think it had even been used in The Muppet Movie. There he was, perched on a little log in a glass display case, right as you walked in.

I paused there, for a moment. Tried to wrap my head around it. Here was this tiny little object—nothing more than a stuffed animal, really, made out of foam and felt; you could see the seams—about half as long as my arm. And it was what had pulled me through the toughest year of my life. I’d known Kermit’s name since I could talk. He was always there. When they stole my binder, wrote “SLUT” on it in Sharpie, tore my science notes out of it—Kermit was there. When they slipped me notes about how no one liked me—Kermit was there. When that guy told me I’d just swallowed his semen, when the vice-principal told me I would have to be punished for not reacting nicely—there was Kermit, with his gentle, chirpy little voice, singing lullabies, making me feel safe. And now, here he was. I just can’t imagine that you’ve ever been gone, the song goes. It’s not starting over, it’s just going on.

I invested the concept of ‘escapism’ and the media to a degree, in my AS Art coursework. As I intend to carry on my 4 subjects next year, I would like to explore pop culture comfort further.

Twenty years after he took Manhattan, Kermit and I were both in Queens. And he was a stuffed animal. A doll. Not a real creature, in any sense. But I don’t know if I would have been OK, without him. It felt important to stand there, in front of him. To let him know that I was safe now. I had turned out fine. 

For the first time in a long time, I've had to listen to my body and spirit. Similarly to many, I've run endless nights since finishing compulsory education, through lower sixth, in the prospective hope of being a writer. Whilst I whole heartedly embrace the virtues of innovation and technology, I sometimes wonder to what degree we can lose ourselves to it. There's no more 9 to 5, we live in the instantaneous and we are sleepless. It breaks my heart to see the self worth of young and old alike measured and compared on-line, or when social media becomes anti-social media. Use it wisely, and only with good intent. Distance yourself if you feel your self worth being measured on a number on a social-networking site. Enjoy and celebrate your quirks, ground yourself with quality people and remember to nurture yourself. To me, this concept has definitely been a theme throughout year twelve. I wish the people in my life, and as an open letter, to anyone who may be reading, wonderful moments of simplicity with the ones who make your heart smile.

Radical self love is hard work. A task that feels impossible. But trying is what we can strive for, and working to be gentle and compassionate with ourselves and others on our lifelong journeys of self-loving. Our culture promotes body shaming so viciously, that I think it's important to begin to speak up and relate to one another about that shame many of us, women and men, have in common. The shame that is spoon-fed to us from such a tender age. I myself hold onto the fear that it is somehow weak and anti-feminist to admit I want to change my body. I fear that by admitting disapproval of my body, I automatically render myself a tool to this misogynistic weight obsessed culture. But I wouldn't, by any means, desire to project this negativity; which functions as a trigger to potential or pre-existing eating disorders, to others who may also be suffering. 

Despite my root beliefs, in which I've grown to understand the profiting purpose of the media's attack on insecurity, I simultaneously invest just as heavily in a surreal and unsettling fear. I fear that if I am not thin, I am not beautiful or desirable to the opposite sex. There is no right and wrong way to be a woman; I think too often feminism is pigeon-holed as just one way of looking and acting. It is believing in equality, and being active and intentional in your own life choices. It is standing up for your self worth. Therefore, with this distorted mindset I feel that if I did radically change my lifestyle, it would be for the wrong reasons. It would be a means of seeking approval from my peers, from fear of being deemed utterly undesirable. I wish I could say truthfully and refuse to ever change for anyone but myself, but I would deem myself a liar. 

To me there is nothing more sexist and anti-feminist than someone saying there is only one right way to be as a woman. As my mother often tells me; “There are more ANDs than ORs in life". I will wear a dress and make-up AND have hairy armpits, if I CHOOSE. I will keep close contact with my family AND be a nurturing, present parent in future. I will sleep with whomever I chose AND reserve the right to say no. I think it is time we as feminists say no to the cycles of shame and fear we allow ourselves to be tangled in, and stand up to support all people in making empowered and intentional choices rooted in love. It isn't a decision which is made and established in one sitting. It is a mindset to be up kept every single day, and it isn't easy.

My parents are very thankful to have two healthy children. Unfortunately, it can sometimes take a near-death experience, in order to fully appreciate our very existence, and the bodies which work to nurture and sustain us. Similarly to many, I never even marginally appreciated my good health, until recent years. The most evocative occasion was probably volunteering at a primary school, for disabled children. I remember being so nervous of how I should act, of what I should say. It was a mind-blowing experience to my particularly sensitive thirteen year old self. It was their sports day. There were so many happy young faces and proud mums and dads in the crowd. I didn't volunteer to build up my god damn CV, or to purposely avoid Maths class. I hope to continue to make such decisions, rooted in love and welcoming tolerance. 

Now, my obligation is not to reveal my own experience. One, because it's particularly personal, and two; it's still very raw to me, and I feel I'm still not in the desired place. But I will reach a mindset, in which tranquillity meets inner wholeness. I will eventually welcome my whole self home; legs, arms and hands included. Ultimately, the road is long, and it's only with yourself. I feel I've learnt to become more appreciative of other qualities, of both myself and others I have, and will encounter in future, such as integrity, morality and intellect. 

When all is said and done, it comes down to one reality.

We are here. And then, we are not.

Many people spend the entirety of their lives fearing the idea of death, terrified that they will not achieve all that they believe themselves capable of in the short amount of time that they are delegated. We are weighed down by the pressure that we place upon ourselves to succeed on a superficial level and we are burdened with the expectations of others placed upon us also.

We go through life searching for approval, for success, for instant gratification. We are constantly seeking recognition, praise, acceptance and meaning.

And then it is over. 

I wanted to write this post as a reminder of the fleeting nature of life. And not just your own.

You are surrounded by so many beautiful, intelligent, inspirational people. And yet, there is a great chance that these people will enter and leave your life without you truly appreciating everything that they offer until they are gone.

But I write this, as an open letter to anyone who may be reading, as a reminder to wake up tomorrow morning and thank whoever may be watching over you for the people in your life. If you are anything like me, you may find it difficult to simply remind a person outwardly of how much you love them. If this is the case, I want you to do me a favour. Show them how much you love them by living your life in a way that suggests that you are beyond caring about the superficialities of life. Live in a selfless, accepting way - and in this way, you will be far more open to giving and receiving a certain kind of love -  the love that overrules the appeal of any amount of approval gained or acceptance granted. If you truly want to achieve something in your life, you need to trust that it will fall into place if it is meant to be. Don't waste your energy on placing unnecessary pressure on yourself, when you could be delegating that energy to reminding yourself and those around you, of how much you love them. 

I promise you. Life will come and go before you know it. You will grow, you will change, and you will meet so many incredible people who will make you into an even more beautiful person than you already are - all in the blink of an eye.

You will travel to amazing places, you will do amazing things, and you will learn to appreciate how much of a gift life can be if you allow yourself to see past the superficial surface. This may require neglecting the influence of social norms and settling for less than what you believe yourself capable of at times, in order to truly understand that things will fall apart so better things can fall together.

In return, I want you to promise me that you will learn to trust in yourself and your abilities to achieve anything you feel compelled to achieve. I want you to promise me, that you will wake up tomorrow and remind yourself that we only get one shot to live this life. To be who you are, and share that person with those you love.

Promise me, that you will wake up tomorrow- and live.

Everything else will fall into place, I promise you.

Put everything behind you - every stress, every concern, every inhibition, every held grudge, every aspect of your life that distracts you from taking a step back to see you life for what it is.

Because we are here, and then we are not.

Let go.

Live.

I have always been an idealist; a flawed one, at best. I have always tried to look at things within the bigger picture, rather than getting caught up in small irrelevant details, which I believed would eventually dissolve into the background. It was only prior to taking my exams, however, where it suddenly hit me with such incredible force, that I could no longer be such a fuelled idealist. I suspect that this overwhelming feeling will remain as a constant means of deterrence to avoid future disappointment at all costs. Taking my exams ultimately made me realise that I needed to be more realistic in what I could achieve. I felt weakened due to the constant prospect of future disappointment, and this frightened me to the state of restlessness.

Similarly, I have always had a nagging inclination at the forefront of my mind to set high targets and work my way up towards them, rather than setting myself low ones simply in order to grab them within a reach. In this case, the journey of growing up would be limited, and where’s the excitement in that? I have always preferred working this way, from which I believe I take after my father. I believed I needed to lower my expectation threshold in order to achieve a sense of fulfilment - similarly to the people around me - when in reality, the concept of working towards a high target is far more exciting and satisfying in the long run, than throwing in the towel and deciding on your fate already.

The confusing thought process of even considering lowering this expectation threshold saddened me greatly, as it was one of the only things I had confidently held onto for such a prolonged length of time – primary school and high school alike. Various talks and detailed advice from my parents didn’t prove to rescue myself from being in such a state, despite their full support and understanding. It did, however, remind me that my mum and dad, teachers, relatives alike - wouldn’t be disappointment in any means, if I didn’t achieve the results I so badly wanted.

And then something strange happened. I had to sit myself down, without any relations, teachers and closest ones, and bring this collection of thoughts back to me. On a personal level, what did I want to achieve?

After a night of everything going perfectly wrong, I was reminded in a simple manner, that it's okay to feel the way I did. It was going to be okay. 

Sure. Sometimes, life is shit. Sometimes, it's going to be incredibly difficult to keep your head down and your thoughts clear. You find yourself wondering whether what you are doing is right, or even sane. You question your ability to do all of those things you set out to do. I know I did. There have been moments when I've caught my reflection off guard in the mirror, and realised how frightened I look. And sometimes, I am.

But it's good to be frightened. It's healthy to be scared of other people's expectations. I'm learning that it is this that pushes us further than we originally thought possible. I had felt so incredibly frightened that relatives, teachers, and more importantly whether I would be disappointed in myself, when realistically I was reading too far into things – as per usual. At the end of the day, an education is still an education - despite your final score. I appeared to believe that this collection of letters would be a concrete reflection of my level of intelligence. But I had been so very wrong. It's also important, that we remember this, too. I reminded my best friend of this, just this night: You never hear about the trophy that an athlete wins. People never talk about how shiny or golden it is. Whilst it may be pretty, and shiny, and creates fleeting responses of awe; a person's achievements aren't measured by that little shining piece of metal that they receive at the end of the race.

They talk about the race that was run. 
They talk, in awe, about the journey that was made to get that trophy. 
And that is what I too, have been reminding myself.

Sure, I want to get the best possible results I can for year eleven. I want to be the best possible friend I can be. I want to produce the best possible work I can. But at the end of the day, it won't be that, which people will be left talking about.

It will be how I got there, that will last. 

And that goes for anything in life. No matter what life throws at you, you stand up - and you face it. Sometimes, it's going to hurt. Sometimes, you'll catch it. And sometimes, someone might even be around to see you catch it. But there will always be the people around you, who will be there to remind you that tomorrow is a new day.

"It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."  
~ Ernest Hemingway.