superlatively rude

because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

photo @superlativelyLJ

Oh I have missed you, my love, she concludes, at the end of LEMONADE, and with it I cried heavy, loaded, sobs of relief, because I have missed you, too.

I thought she was talking about her husband, at first. That she was coming back to him after an affair, ready, after many tears and so much anger, to try again. I don’t think she does mean that, though, and the realisation, when it hit, is what had the emotion push for escape. I think she has missed herself. I think she is tired and renewed, broken and healed at the same time, and that’s because she’s willing to slice open – wrist to elbow - and bleed in the name of truth. And I also think she has only just learnt that doing this once isn’t enough. That our becoming is endless. That the work of humanness is exhausting, and it is beautiful, and it is true for all of us that growing pains do, indeed, hurt.

Nobody is immune.

Hero-worship is so very dangerous when we think they have the answer to everything it is we question. As I watched the hour of footage that is, essentially, the most famous musician in the world saying yes, I got cheated on and I have daddy issues and the women of my life are the ones who have saved me meant, that for sixty minutes, Beyonce and I were the same. The humanity of that is staggering. The humility of it. The vulnerability. LEMONADE is a visual album that serves as the great equaliser that truly, none of us is fucking up like we think we are. We will continue to worry, though – even if we are Beyonce. Why can’t you see me? she asks, desperate, like me, like you, like everyone, to be recognized in love. I tried to change, closed my mouth more, tried to be softer, prettier, less awake, she explains, mirroring, painfully, the dance of the lost: practising different shapes of self, desperate to find the right combination of angles to be deemed loveable. 
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Becoming Ella Kahn

Where do I even begin on this week's podcast guest? Ella Kahn is the woman with my dreams in her hands. My literary agent, Ella reached out to me via Twitter almost a year ago to the day to say, "I saw your blog post about the book you wrote. Can we talk?" And talk we did. From a hotel lobby in Bali I Skyped her, then got very, very drunk. Alone. Because I knew something special was happening. That my playing field was about to be upgraded by a million percent. I wasn't wrong. As far as I'm concerned Ella is superwoman, which is why it was a no-brainer to ask her about her becoming...

Becoming Ella Kahn




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Becoming Heather Taylor Portmann

It was so weird for me to edit this week's The Becoming Podcast, because there's a chunk in the middle about "burnout", but I've only just become aware of my own fizzling out. I knew the clues were there, hidden away around corners and under things, but in this interview, recorded weeks ago, now, I find myself casually talking about burnout and laughing lightly and maybe, actually, this is when the seed was first planted. Where I first began to understand. Talking to my friend, recorded over Skype, because she has the kind of brain that lets you see yourself without scaring yourself. Heather makes me understand so much. I had to share her with you. Listening again, now, I'm reminded of the good fortune in having friends as smart as this. Friends who help me to navigate my becoming like they do. I hope she'll help you navigate the same. And so, here's episode two of The Becoming Podcast:

Becoming Heather Taylor Portmann



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Burnout

photo by @babeswithgin
I was in the basement of a Japanese restaurant with my three best friends when it happened. My throat got tighter, like an invisible something was pressing on my windpipe. The walls of the room loomed inward. A voice I’d never heard before but that came from within me, a little man sat just inside my right ear, said sinister, shocking things about my worthlessness. My pointlessness. My un-love-able-ness. My friend was speaking, telling a story about I-don’t-remember-what-now, but I couldn’t hear her. The world was smudged with Vaseline. I was surrounded by the people who love me most, and totally, utterly, alone.

It was terrifying.

When I snot-cried assembling furniture in my new house, and every day thereafter, I thought I was just tired. When I stopped sleeping, I presumed it was excitement and worry, both, about the book. When I ate packets of biscuits at a time because I didn’t want to leave my desk long enough to prepare an actual meal, my reasoning was, I am busy. By the time I had a panic attack in that restaurant, I knew: something was very, very wrong.

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