Self-dependent women

What are the differences between being independent and self-dependent?

Moody picture of me looking independent as fuck.

As quoted from the good old Oxford dictionary, being independent means to be “capable of thinking or acting for oneself”.  Being self-dependent is defined as “reliance on one’s own strengths rather than others”. So, not a massive difference, but there is of course, a difference nonetheless.

I moved out when I was 19, so I think it’s safe to say that by now I am quite independent. Self-dependency, however, has been more difficult to grasp. The need to sponge of others to fulfil my emotional needs is something I am not a stranger to, whether that be through a boyfriend, family member or a friend. I’m lucky in the fact that I have some great friends who have handled my neediness in the past.

I’m in a situation now where my family and closest friends aren’t five minutes down the road for me to see whenever I want or at the end of the phone constantly – and that’s hard. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve come on leaps and bounds from years ago where I felt I needed reassurance within everything I did which I think was a result of my anxiety. It’s like I needed someone else’s approval to do something whether it be wearing a particular outfit that for me is quite daring (just wear the goddamn thing) or trying to get other people to help make decisions about my life, because I was too scared to take the risk on my own.

I am the only person who can create my happiness, for which others can then enrich. If I constantly rely on others, I will never be happy. I see and hear about so many people who wanted to do something (myself included), but were waiting for a partner or a friend to get on board. A big one, is travelling. If you do get to go travelling with your best friends, that’s great and you’re very lucky, but not everyone’s stars align at the same time. Not everyone’s circumstances are going to be the same whether that be due to finances, their job, family etc.

We only one get one life and I’m already around third of the way through mine. When I’m old, I want to look back and know that I chose my own story – I didn’t just tag along onto someone else’s. 

Lucy x

The Outfit I Will Never Wear Again

Hi guys, this is a memoir I wrote for a writing competition a few months ago. Unfortunately I wasn't placed but enjoyed writing it all the same and I thought I would share with you - enjoy! Lucy x

The all-too-familiar smell of that warm, yet spicy cologne and the feel of the cotton against my skin as I plunge my arms once more through the sleeves of the dark green checked shirt that’s three sizes too big for me. It hangs on me like the tarpaulin of the crumpled tent we spent three rather damp nights in at a music festival a few years before. It seems such a long time ago now. When we thought, we were blissfully happy and had not a care in the world.

Although I don’t want to, I can’t help but bury my face into the fabric, breathe deeply, close my eyes and remember. Remember the time we went on the spontaneous road trip to Scotland and how we had one too many tequilas and ended waking up the unimpressed guests in the residing rooms with our rendition of “500 Miles” by The Proclaimers. Or the time when, we were on holiday in Portugal and we thought we would be spontaneous and try exciting and exotic foods like octopus. It made us feel adventurous and daring at the time, but hours later we regretted this decision. Ending up curled up in the fetal position, clutching our stomachs and praying for the profound cramps and projectile vomiting to stop. That octopus had the last laugh.

As I cross my arms over my stomach and grasp the sides of the shirt tightly, I imagine feeling your head resting on my shoulder, the warmth of your breath on my ear. Then I feel the bristles of your beard scratch my cheek. I remember how it felt like tiny needles stabbing my skin and how irritating that was. How, whenever you told me you loved me, your eyes wavered as though it caused you pain to look at me, like looking directly at the sun.  When I eventually found out and I told you how much you hurt me, you looked through me like I wasn’t even there. You said all the right things of course, that I was the only one for you. There was nobody else. But then when I questioned this you told me that I had it all wrong and that in fact somehow this was my fault. For six long months, I went on believing this, that I wasn’t good enough and that if only I had tried harder this might not have happened.

Suddenly, the once comforting smell of the shirt begins to slowly repulse me. The cotton no longer feels as soft as it did, but like a scratchy old towel that had been left to airdry for too long. My hands release from my waist. Although the shirt is so big it nearly reaches my knees, I now feel suffocated wearing it. For the last time, I remove the shirt and I smile. I know I am enough.