Guest blog post | Promise: a declaration or assurance that one will do a particular thing or that a particular thing will happen.

I've always wondered about "pinky promises". Other body parts, such as the heart and the head, warrant their representations. But why is the strength of one's commitment symbolised by the most fragile bone in their body?

As witty and wise as I felt writing that, I'm wrong. Our most fragile bones are actually found in our feet and face. But I'm hoping my error will be excused since it serves as a perfect example of how promises do happen to break so easily: through intention and assumption.

One intends to do well, assumes they can, and a promise is made.

And there the promise sits like the pinky finger on a hand: at the bottom, under the commitment to our other fingers. We carry on with the routine of our lives, and then - be it by being too playful, working too hard, or though conflict - the promise is broken.

The ramifications differ depending on what was promised, but if there is one thing we can hope our promise has in common with our poor little disfigured finger, it is an ability to be quickly repaired.

...And there's another assumption.

I've never broken a pinky, but I've shattered my share of promises - mostly made to myself. And I can tell you, disappointment in yourself is hardest kind to dislodge.

Does all this mean that  promises were made to be broken? No. I think showing our little finger is actually not an act of assurance; it's one of acknowledgement. It's a person recognising that what they hold is fragile, easily forgotten, and well within their ability to break.

So should we ditch the word itself, or replace it with something more realistic? Probably not. It just doesn't work in the same way that half a wedding ring can't be worn.

Luckily, it's often said that "promises are made to be broken." Which also answers my original question: I think "pinky promises" show that people were made to be honest.

Written by the wonderful Boy Under The Bridge and my good friend, Ricky. For more written work from someone who will never cease to inspire you please visit his blog linked above.

Vulnerable: exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.

It's so easy to look back on who we could, would and should love, because as a whole, we are so terrible at it. I alone have spent countless hours sobbing into pillows and wholeheartedly believing I am not good enough, all because my love was not reciprocated or was mistreated in some way. We spend far too much time changing ourselves to fit someone else's criteria and focusing our love like a laser beam, instead of broadening its vicinity to include ourselves.
Recently I have been reading Daring Greatly by Brené Brown and how the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent, and lead. When I look at times that I have felt the most vulnerable or the most shame, it is usually around falling in and out of love or not feeling loved enough personally. Times when I truely believed in my heart of hearts I am not capable of loving because I am not capable of being loved. In her book (or for those more visually inclined, her videos) she talks about how essential it is to embrace vulnerability as a key to 'engage with the world from a place of worthiness" and having the courage to let ourselves be seen.

Along with Brené Brown's wisdom (and some Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert), I have also been delving into Gary Chapman's 1995 book - The 5 Love Languages. It may sound nonsensical, but it discusses how we mirror the way we want to be loved by the way we love others around us using either physical touch, gifts, words, quality time or acts of service. For instance, I adore buying people small, thoughtful gifts or writing them uplifting notes. It makes me feel good to point out others strengths and telling them how they positively effect my life. So it comes as no surprise that my main love language is a very strong 'Words of Affirmation' followed by:
2. Receiving Gifts
3. Acts of Service
4. Physical Touch
5. Quality Time

The beautiful thing when you take the test (linked above) is there are no right or wrong answers and it by no way defines your love, it is merely a resource to help you recognise others love languages and strengthen your relationship with them. I've met so many people who chase after this fabled diamond ring, like a goal to tick off a 'to do' list, instead of looking further at what it intrinsically means. What good is a ring if you don't have a solid foundation on which to hold its significance up with? How can you offer someone the rest of your life when you don't take the time to be present in right now? For me, I know I first need to dare greatly to achieve a healthy level of worthiness and wholeheartedness before I can offer my love. Always commit to yourself before committing to someone else.

Learning how to love is not something you can be taught by someone else, it's something you discover on your own. But I had some advice for my younger self I would say:

- Protect your love from those who would mistreat it
- Love who you want to openly and freely, knowing it is your love to give
- Love infinitely
- Have the courage to share and express your love

- Always know that you yourself are loved

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly"

-Theordore Roosevelt

Oath: a solemn appeal to speak the truth or to keep a promise.

My body, my temple. Yeah right.

For some reason I thought that because I had quit smoking everything else (health wise) would just fall swiftly into place. I imagined myself dining on spiced quinoa as it rained baby spinach leaves around me, while I ran like Usain on the treadmill and effortlessly lifted dumbells, only stopping to look at my sweet, muscular self in the mirror.
But no, instead I have the most persistent cold in the world and I'm carbo-loading like a fiend. Every pocket of everything I own is filled with either used tissues or chocolate wrappers or more often than not, both. I spend copious amounts of time looking at my mushy body in the mirror and purposely pushing my stomach out before grabbing a fistful of flesh with both hands and shaking it around, mouthing "eat the chocolate, fatty!" through gritted teeth at myself.
I seem to have this idea that I will do 3 sit ups and look down to see the body of my dreams and I refuse to believe that it will take hard work and perseverance (both of which I usually steer clear of). I'm finding it increasingly hard to get out of bed in the mornings with the weather getting colder and I'm beginning to loathe people with motivation in abundance. I want so badly just to siphon from their motivation tank into mine, but I know I must find my own.

I need my inspiration to become my incentive to become more than just another beige fleshy blob eating eating Nutella from the jar. I need to confront myself and let myself feel in order to nurture wellness, but it seems so much easier to ride below the waves of emotion, in a state of nonchalance.
How many times have you told yourself "I can still fit those size-too-small jeans" or "It wasn't me" or even "I am okay" when you know full well its a lie? How many times have you challenged yourself to be honest and discard the fabrications you use as cotton wool?

To cultivate and maintain a healthy well being, sometimes you just have to be barefaced and admit "I solemnly swear I am up to no good".

Stay: to continue to be as specified, to hold out or endure, to stop or halt.

The last month has not gone well for me.  My 25th birthday grows closer by the day and I am nowhere near where I thought I would be at a third of the way through my life. For the most part, my disappointment is derivative of social expectations and my lack of lucrative accomplishments but I am struggling to feel adept when I am constantly surrounded by 'successful' people. I feel vulnerable, scared and extremely small.

For all intents and purposes, I am small, I am just a number on a screen, I am just another name on a page. I am counting down to a personal milestone that literally no one else in the world gives a shit about, so why do I care?
Who am I really comparing myself to?
When do I find that 'dream job' we have been told about since we were kids?
What is the point?

Last night as I sat feeling like I had been pooped out the anus of life, I ate my third meal for the day, I sat in front of a lovely warm fire and went to sleep under a stable roof. I woke up this morning and drunk my speciality plunger coffee and spread Marmite on my Chia and flax seed toast that cost $4.49 a loaf. I had a hot shower and put on warm, dry clothes, then drove to work.

The point is, that although I may be turning 25 (in 2 months and 11 days) and I do not own a house or have a job that would make my parents brag, I am fortunate. I am on my own path that is not dictated by girls on Instagram with bikini bodies sitting on tropical beaches. I will not succumb to a completely consumerist and privileged lifestyle because that how western society ranks the elite. I am humbled by my gratitude and vulnerability and happy to take my place in line. I know that we are not just given the life we want, circumstantially or otherwise, we have to work for it.

"If all mankind were to take their troubles to market with the idea of exchanging them, anyone seeing what his neighbour's troubles were like would be glad to go home with his own."
— Herodotus (The Histories of Herodotus of Halicarnassus)

Learn: to acquire knowledge of or skill in by study, instruction, or experience.

I can't swim. I wish I could, just like I wish I liked egg yolk or any music by The Smiths but unfortunately I just wasn't born to do everything. I like to think I have a sound understanding of the world around me but when I really look at something to discuss at great length, all I have is my own alluvion of experience. My attention span is so short that in this world, where we are given information in such quick succession, it is much preferable to find myself at the business end of a chocolate bar watching videos of cats rather than educating myself on Florentine architecture during the Renaissance. I can easily stay afloat in an intellectual conversation by adding quick fire facts and anecdotes but do I really even understand my contribution? For the most part, the answer is no (unless discussing a feline's ability to incite laughter on every level of stupidity) and thus uncorks my crippling social anxiety. Just like my inability to swim, my panic towards amicable "chin-wagging" is driven by fear. My fear of inhaling water and flapping aimlessly in a black abyss psychologically propels me into heavy breathing, sweating and snotty tears.

I spend most of my timing holding malicious thoughts at bay and taking medication to prevent grotesque panic attacks. Medicating mental illness is comparable to wearing inflatable arm bands in deep water; it temporarily stops you from sinking but doesn't actually fix the underlying problem which is of course that you are on a swift course to drowning. How I got so far out of my depth I'm not sure, but the medley of pills on my medical carte du jour for the past decade has created a crutch that I now so desperately cling to. I have been pharmaceutically treated by my GP for depression, grade 2 bi-polar, insomnia, acute anxiety and even Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder yet am still bound to my physician and his team of state-funded psychologists in a merry-go-round of emotion and instability.

To break this cycle I have now decided to try and teach myself to be happy physically, mentally and spiritually through a self-medicated dose of exercise, healthy eating, quitting smoking and trying out the Mantra that is Mark Manson's "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck". I do not intend to undermine any prior help given to me but more to offer myself a chance to live life how I want to live it. I also wish to invite others who similarly have been 'condemned' with ailing mental illness to join me on my bare all quest for happiness in hopes that it may aid them on their journey also. (Cat taxes included with weekly post.)