The perfect 10.

My words sound better coming from my hands than my mouth. Which is ironic considering the £20,000 spent on my higher education in drama, then two years spent at drama school after that! Perhaps it’s because you can start writing and delete it if you don’t like it. You can’t do that with words. Once spoken, they’re hard to erase.

The last month has been a strange one. My mum, a wise old lady from Galway/Warrington, said she thinks I’ve gone from a girl to a woman. I, however, feel I’ve backtracked and gone from a girl to a toddler – I need food on tap, I can’t make it through the day without a well timed nap and I was far more excited for this Christmas than I thought I would be.

As well as having to deal with losing the baby, my dad walking out and being in a car crash, I’ve also had to answer some very small minded questions. So, rather than verbally answer everyone’s questions, I thought I would write down the answers. You know what I’m like. Let’s address the first point. One which, sadly, I’ve come across a few times.

“It wasn’t a real baby. A proper baby. You didn’t bring that baby home with you.” No, and believe me, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t. Any woman who brings a baby home from hospital and takes photos of her holding her baby and baths, feeds, clothes and loves her baby – then for it to be taken away… That is torture. I honestly don’t know how they would continue to wake up and get out of bed in a morning. Any woman who has been through this and continues about her daily life is a hero in my eyes.

But why are people so quick to dismiss a lost baby? Is it because the outside world cannot see a baby, therefore no baby exists? Does the same go for arthritis, diabetes, mental health problems? Isn’t that a frightening, quintessentially British attitude to take? If you can’t see it, it can’t cause you pain.

But I did see my baby. I saw him several times in fact – healthy, happy, wriggling around on a screen. Waving to me, almost mocking me: “You took your pill every single day, but look, look at me!” At no point did I see a frail looking baby. At no point did I see a hushed look across the room between the sonographer and the nurse. There was no tilting of the screen, no furiously scribbled notes, no lack of eye contact. There was nothing to suggest that my world was going to fall apart in a matter of days. That from the Saturday morning when I was doing overtime in work, I would arrive healthy and happy, listening to music as I ploughed through my work – and on the Sunday night, I would have spent hours in hospital and the only thing to wipe away my tears was a leaflet called Miscarriages and Stillbirth.

I saw a heartbeat. I saw a person. And the saddest part, the cruellest part, was that he was still there. In my tummy. Still there, just fast asleep.

So. What happens next?

I lay there in bed and I accepted the continuous offer of tea from people who didn’t really know what else to say or do. (What is it about tea? Why do we think that drinking a cup of murky brown water will help us to feel better? I discovered it isn’t the actual tea itself that we’re offering, but the tea is a symbol of comfort – to those making it and those drinking it. In times of trouble, in times of desperation, people will switch the kettle on and bury their hands into the biscuit tin. Why? There’s something oddly comforting about a cup of tea and a chat. Trust me. I drank so much tea in the month that followed, I started to turn into a teabag.)

I lay there and for the first time in my life, I didn’t actually know what I was going to do next. I’ve always been a girl with a plan. Even when I knew I would be facing bringing this child up single handedly, I was still a girl with a plan - plans that extended for the next few decades. Lovely plans. Heart warming plans. It was unexpected, but I'm ballsy and I always have a plan. Admittedly, the plan doesn’t always turn out how I initially thought, but at least there was something. This time, I couldn’t see what was coming next. I knew I had several hospital appointments to follow. I knew I had to have an operation. I knew there would be conversations that I didn’t want to have. But what about after that? What about when the hours turn to days, the days turn to weeks, the weeks turn to months… what do you do?

I could sit here and list all the reasons why it was unfair that my baby was taken. Having to endure the seemingly endless list of women announcing their pregnancies to the world. Having to paint a smile on my face and pretend I was happy. Having to listen to everyone at work saying "isn't she lucky?" and thinking yes, more than you know. Yes, I was pleased for them, but the jealousy was eating me alive. Why do you get to take your baby home and I don't? I would think as I hugged them and whispered congratulations in their ear, then rush off to the toilet and sob into my hands until I could no longer breathe. The world can be a very cruel place.

When I see clips on the news about mothers such as poor Baby P's, it literally makes my blood run cold. Why me? What did I do wrong that she didn't? She had a beautiful baby and she didn't deserve him. Questions buzzed round my head day in, day out. Was it because I had mayonnaise with my chips during a pub tea with the girls? Was it because I'd been blind drunk at my friend's wedding? (without knowing I was pregnant, may I add) Was it because I'd done something bad which karma was taking for her own? 

The short answer is no. There was no reason. All of the very kind faced nurses would smile at me, squeeze my hand and say, "It's just one of those things". Really? I didn't believe that for a second. If I wasn't meant to have that baby, I wouldn't have fallen pregnant. The feeling crushed me. It was like I was being eaten from the outside in. My body had failed me. A woman is supposed to produce babies. I couldn't even do that. Most nights, I cried myself to sleep, my pillow sodden from my tears. I would wake up feeling hungover, despite not drinking for months, simply due to exhaustion. 

In a situation like mine, it's easy to blame science, even God. Growing up in a very Catholic family has left me simply accepting that God exists because I've never questioned otherwise. Don't get me wrong, I'm not overly religious - sex before marriage, child outside of wedlock etc - but the thought of a presence being there, watching over us somehow comforts me. Blaming statistics was much easier. Less than one percent chance of conceiving? I'd done it. Contraception was ninety seven percent effective? I was in the three percent. Out of all miscarriages, those after twelve weeks are just one percent. One teeny tiny percentage. But it happened to me. The statistics had been against me from the start and it angered me. I've never been an angry person but suddenly, I found myself throwing things, smashing things, kicking everything in sight.

I was a broken woman. 

So, where do you go from there? Do I move away to a town where no one knows me? Do I get a new job where I can start afresh? How do you move on from something like that?

The truth is, you don’t. Not really. I mean, it gets easier. People will succumb to the inevitable head tilt and ask me how I’m doing and they’ll press their lips together while they await my answer – and gradually, I won’t be completely lying when I say that I’m doing alright. Just alright. Not 100%. But alright.

My counsellor says we have an image in our heads of us needing to be a ten out of ten at all times. She says it’s okay to be less than that. I reckon I’m about an eight or a nine now. This has been helped by liberal amounts of alcohol, a great workforce and the best friends and family a girl could ask for. Naively, I used to think the perfect 10 referred to a woman's size. It isn't that at all. It's about a woman's happiness.

For a long while, I suspected I would be stuck at two or three forever. Gradually, I moved to a five. And I’m quite pleased to be where I’m at now. In all honesty, I doubt I’ll be a ten ever again in my life – losing this baby has taken something out of my heart which I don’t think can be replaced. My arms ached to hold my child for weeks afterwards (but I thought it was from all the blood tests) Talking about what had happened gave me comfort. Some people could not accept this. For some bizarre reason, they thought I should have taken a vow of silence. Pretended it hadn't happened. Gone about my daily business within a day or two. It's so sad that the society we live in will accept photographs of Kim Kardashian's greased up naked body, yet someone mentions the word miscarriage and everyone looks away.

For each person who has said - or thought - something along these lines, you're a cunt. You were born a cunt, raised by cunts and quite frankly, will always be one. 

A child who loses its parents is an orphan. There is no word for a woman who has lost a child. The saddest moment of the entire saga was the day before my operation when I was signing the consent forms to go under a general anaesthetic. There was a section which I pushed towards my mum, who was sat in the room with me at the time.

“You need to sign it,” I said, pushing it towards her.

“Where does it say that?” the doctor asked, confused.

“There,” I pointed out. “It says mother’s signature needed.”

“No, Emily,” the doctor said, quietly, pushing it back towards me. “It’s talking about you.”

In the weeks that followed the miscarriage, truth be told, I needed something to distract me. Writing is what I would normally do, but I had completely lost all inspiration. I lost count of the amount of times, I would pick up my laptop and twenty minutes later, I would be a sobbing wreck with a zero word count. Exercise was out of the question for six weeks after my operation. I’d bought and wrapped all my Christmas presents. I’d painted my nails. My bedroom was immaculate. I was bored.

So, now we’ve reached a point in the blog where I set out my little begging mission. I need your help. I’ve registered myself for the Great Manchester Run in May 2015, where I’ll be raising money for Tommy’s, the baby charity. They’re a great charity and their work investigates why miscarriages happen and what can be done to prevent future miscarriages and baby loss. Not only is it something I can work towards, something to give me focus and get my backside out of bed on bad days, but the run also happens to take place on my due date. If that wasn’t a sign for me to do this, I don’t know what was.

I’ve put down £500 as my target and although it’s a hell of a lot of money, I’d like to think I can make it. This is the last time I’ll talk about what happened. Talking about it comforts me, but it hurts too and I am determined that 2015 will be a happy year. I won’t be bombarding your Facebook timelines with pleas for donations. I won’t be begging for retweets on Twitter. I’ll simply ask you here, now, for your help. Just one pound is all I ask. My last blog entry had over 50,000 views. If every person who reads my blog donates one pound, I’m sure I’ll hit my target. (Plus I sponsor everyone for everything - sometimes even when people don't actually DO the task they want sponsors for!) I want to turn a negative into a positive and I can't think of a better way than by giving money to people who really need it.

Wouldn't it be lovely if every time a woman makes a baby, she gets to take the baby home with her? Every time. Without fail. Maybe one day it will be like that.

This is the link: https://www.justgiving.com/Emily-Chriscoli

For everyone asking, I'm genuinely okay. Honestly. I'm looking forward to the New Year. I've made one resolution and it's to be happy. It's taken over a year for me to realise that my happiness doesn't depend on anyone else other than me. A person cannot be happy with anyone if the person is not happy with themselves. Whether that's from holidays, writing, eating, dating, drinking wine, exercising, chatting, reading, having sex, driving, learning - I will spend my entire year smiling and laughing.

Oh, and I want to do something new every month. I've signed myself up for self defence classes starting in January. After being mugged twice, it's a skill I could do with, plus I think it will give me some much needed self confidence. I've already got plans for speed dating, dance lessons, scuba diving and rock climbing. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

One last thought before I pop off to bed – I’ve had lots of words of wisdom over the last few weeks. I’ve stored them up and kept them in my head so even if I didn’t verbally respond – I was like a zombie – I do appreciate everyone’s kind words. The best words, however, came from my sister. It’s something I think about last thing at night before I go to sleep:

“Your first baby is such an exciting time. It’s a lifetime of firsts. First positive pregnancy test, first scan, first kick… The list is endless. And it’s cruel that you’ve been robbed of this. But think of it this way – you get to do it all again one day. You get to do the first everything for a second time. How special is that.”

Happy New Year, folks. Make it count.

Letter to my unborn baby

Edit: I wrote and published this blog when I was eight weeks pregnant. Sadly, I miscarried at thirteen weeks. You rather naively assume that once you get to twelve weeks, everything will be fine. That's not always the case.

"Hello, little one.

We’ve been through so much together and I don’t even know what you look like. You were so unexpected. Completely and utterly out of the blue. But you’re here, you’re mine, and I’m going to keep this blog throughout my pregnancy so that when you’re screaming til you’re red in the face and it’s four o’clock in the morning and my eyes are being held open by matchsticks, I’ll remember that you are my favourite oopsy daisy ever.

I found out one morning while I was getting ready for work, doing a test on a complete whim. I’d felt funny for days, but all the symptoms were quickly dismissed. I was a bridesmaid at Auntie Helen’s wedding and I had far too much to be doing than to be thinking about anything that wasn’t wedding related. My stomach was hurting, my lower back ached, I couldn’t work up an appetite for my main course, I was almost too hungover the next day, trying not to throw up in the back of the car on the way home…

It was the suggestion off someone else which made me do it: “you’re probably not, but do a test just in case.” So I did. I had one stashed in my girly box under my bed so I read the back of the packet and it said to do it first thing in the morning.

I was brushing my teeth when I cast my eye on one bright pink line showing up. One line means the test is negative, right? Great. Just as I thought. As I was rinsing my mouth with mouthwash, out of the corner of my eye, I could see there was a second line already starting to form, growing darker and darker as if it was screaming out to me: SURPRISE!

Jesus Christ. Two lines could mean negative, couldn’t it? I mean… it doesn’t guarantee that it’s a positive. Maybe I did the test wrong (although how hard is it to pee on a stick?) Maybe the test is a dud. Sitting on the edge of the bath, I quickly googled “false positive pregnancy tests” – yes, I had my phone in the bathroom with me. It turns out it’s almost near to impossible to achieve a false positive and the brand of test I had used was one of the most respected and therefore, likely to be accurate. Regardless of this, my sister went out and bought some more pregnancy tests and they all came back positive.

So, no. They couldn't all be wrong. I was very much pregnant.

Only here’s the strangest part of all – six months previously, I’d been back and forth to the gynaecologist with various problems and I’d been told that my chances of conceiving naturally would be less than 1% and my chances of carrying a baby full term were pretty much 0%. So, combining that with taking my pill, how the hell had this happened?

I wandered back to my bedroom to get dressed and it was as if I was a zombie. People stopped me and spoke to me on the landing, asked me questions whilst passing me on the stairs. I don’t think I even replied. How on earth I drove to work that morning, I’ll never know. I ran a red light without realising it. I pulled out on someone at a roundabout. It was only when I was squinting that I realised it was pouring down and I didn’t have my wipers on. I was a mess.

It stayed that way for a few days. I was wandering around work like a lost puppy. I didn’t even realise that I hadn’t taken my break until someone pulled me up on it. Concentration was somewhat impossible.

Telling your dad was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. We were both frightened but his mind was made up and I knew from that moment onwards, it was you and me against the world. Me and Grandma are putting together an album full of pictures of him which we'll keep somewhere safe.
I’ll tell you all about him one day. 

We had some wonderful times together and at least I can say that at one point, we were madly in love with each other – but I love you more and I couldn't face a future without you.

I’m not going to say that I didn’t consider the alternative. Of course I did. I wrote down a list of reasons why I should keep you. I also wrote down a list of reasons for why I shouldn’t. It was only as I tore the paper into pieces that I realised I already knew my answer.

It’s been so, so hard in the last few months, especially doing this on my own. I’ve been in and out of hospital – you little tinker – and some days, I’ve felt so sick that I can barely get out of bed, but I’ve been working as much overtime as I possibly can, doing fifty and sixty hour weeks to make enough money for us to have a nice home together. It’s been tiring, quite scary and often a little bewildering, but I’ve had an army of people around me day by day.

I’m not stupid. I know this will be hard. It will be ten times harder than I can possibly begin to imagine. And maybe even ten times harder than that. But I couldn’t not do it. You were unexpected, unplanned, even unbelievable. But you were here.

  

I’ve never done anything the way it was meant to be done. And you are no different. I might be a bit crap at first, but you’ll have to trust me on this one and just go with the flow, because I’ve never done this before.

I can’t promise you the perfect life with a mum, a dad, a house and a dog, but I can promise that you will be loved, looked after and well cared for. You’re coming into a family who are always laughing. Grandma’s house is loud and busy but it’s very welcoming. Your five older cousins will play with you, steal your food from you – maybe even tell tales on you. It’s going to be madness, but you’ll get used to it.

I’m not a very good driver, but I promise to be safe when you’re around. I get cranky when I’ve not had a lot of sleep, but I promise to stifle my yawns and drink a litre of coffee so I’m not cranky with you. I’ve been known to miss meals and fill myself up with chocolate, but I promise to eat all the vegetables in the world to help you grow. I’m quite selfish with the TV remote, but I promise to switch the TV off and spend hours playing with you and reading to you.

Welcome to the world, baby Chriscoli.

It’s just you and me, kid."

An angel with the Book of Life wrote down my baby's birth. Then whispered, as she closed the book, "too beautiful for Earth".
<3

16 things to bear in mind after a break up.

Allow yourself some stalking time. It sounds strange and everyone will be telling you the complete opposite – “why are you still staring at his Facebook profile? Block him!” At first, this won’t help. You’re not a robot. You can’t just cut all ties with someone who up until very recently was your best friend in the whole world. If you can delete him off Facebook/Twitter/Instagram, then bravo, well done you. You’re a hero. If not, don’t panic too much. It’s normal to be wondering what he’s up to or how he’s handling the situation. Yes, sometimes you’ll well up looking at old photos of the two of you and yes, other times you’ll want to punch your computer screen just for seeing an image of his face. That’s fine. You’re a woman. We tend to change our minds like that. Just don’t spend all day brooding over photos of old memories. That will just eat you up inside.

Prepare your liver. Your friends will automatically want to take you out and wine and dine you. That’s because they love you, and what better way to show you than by holding your hair back as you throw up the contents of your stomach into the toilets in Babylon? But sometimes, you’ll feel as if you need time on your own. You’ve probably not had a lot of alone time since you’ve just come out of a serious relationship, so at first, it will feel a little strange. You won’t know which TV programmes to watch, you won’t find things as funny anymore and occasionally, you’ll zone out and completely miss what happened at the end of Coronation Street. But it’s important not to spend too much time on your own just yet. You need to be around those who love you, so that will probably involve a tankard of wine.

Don’t slag him off too much. After all, if he really is a “whiny, controlling gay boy with a two inch penis who couldn’t make you orgasm”, why were you with him for so long? We all know that isn’t true – yourself included. Up until a few weeks ago, you were singing this person’s praises, so don’t go full circle and slag him off, calling him every name under the sun. You’ll look bitter, not better.

Buy nice underwear. So, you’ve been in a long term relationship. You probably do have some lovely bras and knickers stashed somewhere in your bedroom, but let’s face it. You’ve worn your comfy undies for far too long. Go out and buy brand new sexy lingerie. Trust me. You’ll feel so much more confident with Victoria’s Secret protecting your nether regions. Even if it just gives you a secret little boost, you’ll feel like you’ve got your shit together. Plus, if you ever went into hospital (fingers crossed you don’t), the doctors will be checking you out as they stuff you into a hospital gown. You don’t want to be the girl they snigger at as they hastily cover up your Mr Tickle knickers on an operating table. You want them to go: “Holy shit. Have you seen this girl? Dayyym.”

Concentrate on your appearance. I’m not saying pay for a boob job or get your lips done. It’s just that you’ve been so comfortable for the last few months that it honestly didn’t matter that you weren’t wearing make up to work or that you’d worn the same dress on the last two nights out. Everybody knew that you were the girl with the boyfriend. You weren’t looking to pull anyone. But suddenly, you’ll find yourself in the spotlight and you might not be used to that. People will look at you differently. Make sure you wear make up, have nice clean hair and pretty clothes at all times. Trust me. You don’t want it being fed back to your ex that you “must have been having an off day” when one of his mates bumps into you at the pub.

Pamper yourself. That’s right. This is the fun bit. My personal advice would be to go to Boots, spend at least £30 on Soap & Glory products – bubble bath, shower gel, body butter. You name it. Maybe indulge in some new make up. Buy some hair dye. Be brave and book yourself in for a bikini wax or an eyebrow threading session. If you’re in the position to be able to, dedicate at least half of your wages on treating yourself. Seen a gorgeous pair of shoes in River Island? Buy them. Feeling a little bit pale? Fake tan. Hands looking a bit plain? Get your nails done. Not only will you look better, but trust me, you’ll feel like a prin. Nothing says “ha, fuck you, look what you lost” than a mani/pedi and a strong eyebrow game.

Forget about dieting. The heartbreak diet will take care of that all by itself. What’s important at first is to make sure you’re putting something inside your body. That sounds repulsive, but I’m just referring to food. Even if all you fancy is a whopping slice of chocolate cheesecake and a family sized bag of Doritos, indulge. Your eating will be all over the show for the first few weeks, maybe even months, so you need to eat if and when you can. You’ll still burn it off and you’ll probably be eating 50% less than what you were guzzling when you were in a relationship. Either way, you’ll drop at least half a stone without trying. Once you’ve got over the wobbly bit (the first eight weeks of a break up), then you can actively try to lose weight. It will fall off you and I can’t stress this point enough – nothing is better than running into your ex and have him tell you that you’ve lost weight. Just smile, say thank you and walk on.

Do not sleep around. There’s two things that tend to happen when a girl becomes newly single. You either cut yourself off from all men and practically tie a sandwich board round your neck that says “I’m still hurting. Please don’t talk to me. I just want my ex” or, even worse, you sleep with everything in sight. Either of these scenarios aren’t particularly great, but you definitely do not want to do the latter. Meaningless sex might sound ideal. After all, you’ve gone cold turkey after having sex on tap for a very long time – but you’ll feel empty and insignificant afterwards. Not to mention risking the whole unwanted baby/sexually transmitted disease malarkey. Imagine bumping into your ex as you’re leaving the GUM clinic? Exactly. I’m not saying abstain. But maybe just give it at least two or three months before you put yourself out there again. Nobody wants to be remembered as the girl who lay there and cried during a one night stand, whilst sobbing into a pillow: “That’s not how my ex does it”. Time is a fantastic thing. A couple of months later, you won’t be ready to date, but a little bit of rumpy bumpy might be just what you need.

Throw out your ex boyfriend shrine. Not straight away. You need a few days to grieve. But the earlier, the better. If you’re having a low day, you’ll feel even shittier if you reach under your bed and pull out last year’s Valentines Day card. Bin the presents. Burn the cards. Throw away his comfy hoodie. It will be like a breath of fresh air. And if you really feel as if you can’t do it, enlist the help of one of your mates. They’ll do it without you having to see, and they’ll probably love every second.

Ignore stupid people. I can’t begin to tell you the amount of times people said to me: “There’s plenty more fish in the sea”. At first, I used to smile and nod and agree. After a while, I would snap back at them: “But I want that fish! My fish! Fuck you!” I’m not ashamed to say, I was an ogre. If it wasn’t for the wonderful people of Carphone Warehouse call centre, I genuinely think I’d still be a mess. My team were wonderful, protecting me from questions I didn’t want to answer and deterring unwanted male attention away from my desk. Approximately three days after a break up, you will receive a message from a repulsive male, claiming to be asking how you’re doing. Don’t fall for it. He’s trying to get you to trust him, so he can take advantage of you when you’re at your most vulnerable. Don’t even message him back. You’re hurting, and you’re allowed time to heal without having to ward off creeps.

Set yourself little goals. What is it that you’ve been meaning to do for the last few months that you’ve never quite got round to doing? Are you saving up to buy a new car? Did you want to go on holiday? Maybe start a new college course? Do it now. For me, it was passing my driving test. I am the world’s worst driver and I’d been really half arsed about my driving lessons. I dreaded them and performed terribly in every single one. As soon as I was single, it became an obsession. My designated taxi driver had disappeared from my life, meaning I needed that extra bit of independence. Two months after being dumped and I had a pink license and a brand new car. You can do it, and now you have all the time in the world.

Keep smiling. Yes, your face will ache as though it hasn’t moved for a hundred years, but the truth is, there’s still loads of things to smile about. Go outside in the sunshine. Get stuck into a new book. Demolish a bottle of wine. Catch up with the soaps. Buy a new pair of shoes every weekend. Put the world to rights with your mum. Go on a massive walk until your thighs start to ache. Or my personal favourite: stock up on crappy magazines – you’ll find out more than you care to know about Z list celebrities but at least you’ll know what everyone else is on about in work the next day, so even if you’re having a bad day and don’t want to talk to anyone, you’re not out of touch with the world.

Cut all ties with his family and friends. This is possibly the worst part of a break up. You’ve broken up with just one person, but it affects so many others. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last year or so, you’re probably right in the heart of his family and his home. There might even be photographs of you knocking around his mum’s mantelpiece. His granny might knit you a sweater every Christmas. His brothers might call you ‘sis’. This bit is a killer. My ex’s mum was a total gem and we got on like a house on fire, but the sad thing is, the only reason you know his family is because of him. And he’s a twat. Therefore, you need to say your goodbyes in a dignified way and carry on with your life. They might send a message to you from time to time. They might not. Either way, you’ve got your own family around you and they won’t ever let you down.

Embrace the possibility that you may sleep with him again. It’s the hardest thing in the world. It’s been a few weeks. You’re starting to sleep properly again. You’re only crying yourself to sleep maybe three times a week now. Just when you’re beginning to see a teeny tiny little light at the end of the tunnel, he texts you. This is what I like to call The Seagull Ex Boyfriend. The one who senses that you’re getting over him, so he flies in, shits everywhere and flies back off again. You might fall for this. After all, he’s the person you loved more than anyone. You might find yourself back in his arms again. It’s not ideal, but it happens more than people care to admit. Just be careful, don’t believe his words and put it down as a one off. It cannot be a regular occurrence. Your friends will tell you not to sleep with him. Your best friends will accept that you have and still love you anyway. Believe me. I know.

Keep your chin up. Don’t be the sort of girl who updates her status every five minutes crying about how much she misses him. You’re better than that. Admittedly, you’ll have people checking your page every now and then to see if there’s any latest gossip. If you genuinely don’t think you can cope with putting on a happy face, deactivate everything. Take a few weeks to get your shit together. Then come back, and let everyone know that you’re fine. He will hear about it. He will be glad you’re doing okay, but don’t let that allow him back into your life. Spend as much time as possible with your funniest friends. The ones who make you cry laughing. Those are the types of people who will make you genuinely happy.

And finally, just remember that you will start to feel better. You’re a prinny. You’re an absolute hun. He knows it, everyone around you knows it and more importantly, so do you. It might not be for a while yet, but one day, you’re going to wake up and he won’t be the first thing you think of. You’ll wash your face, brush your teeth, do your hair and make up, get dressed and go to work. You’ll have your first cup of coffee, take your break, and just as you’re sitting down to lunch, you’ll think: “Wow. Okay. I’ve not thought about The Gobshite for five whole hours.” It will take you by surprise, but it will happen. Eventually, that five hours will turn into a day. That day will turn into a week. And so on and so on. Each day, little by little, you’ll start to heal.

Keep smiling, princess, you’re doing great.

Common misconception, my love.

How many of you have been watching the original British drama series, Happy Valley? If you haven’t been watching it, you’ve really missed out. People from all over the country, of all ages, from all kinds of different backgrounds have been singing the praises of British drama, left right and centre. What a wonderful thing, to be in awe of a piece of writing – and in turn, a fantastic piece of drama – which no one has seen before. Original, gritty, exciting drama.

There should be more of it, in my opinion, and much less regurgitated reality TV. At MSA, they tell us to count how many programmes are on at 9:00, which is the watershed and therefore it’s officially adult TV time. I would say on a good day, there’s maybe two pieces of drama. When I say drama, I’m talking about having a script about fictional characters with actors playing them. More often than not, there’s celebrity versions of everything – Celebrity Juice, Celebrity Family Fortunes, I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here, Celebrity Mastermind, Celebrity Come Dine with Me, Celebrity Big Brother… the list is endless. The scariest part is how many of these celebrities are actually just products of other reality TV programmes, who first found their fame on shows such as Geordie Shore, The Only Way is Essex or the X Factor.

I’ve nothing against programmes such as these and I’m as guilty as the rest of us for being glued to our screens during the compulsory Christmas countdown to the X Factor final. And yes, people will come into work the following morning and excitedly discuss who’s the latest Big Brother evictee or who’s been voted off Dancing on Ice. But isn’t it much more exciting to discuss something which isn’t predictable? Isn’t it exciting when the bookies start taking bets on the latest whodunit storyline? Don’t you feel just a teeny tiny tinge of pride when small, undiscovered production companies win life changing awards at the BAFTAs, for example?

Think about it. Which did you genuinely look forward to the most – the final episode of Broadchurch or the X Factor final? Yes. Exactly.

Now, before we begin, I’ll admit straight off that this is a promotional blog entry, but before this automatically makes you scroll past this blog and look at photos of somebody’s tea, let me just stop you. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet – okay, occasionally, just occasionally, I will blow it just a little bit, but only if I know it’s for a worthy cause. And this is a worthy cause. It’s about something I feel very strongly about. So, stop scrolling through your news feed, take five minutes out of your day and have a little read.

In order for you to understand, I’ll have to take you back to September 2010. It was the very beginning of my third and final year at Edge Hill University and the heat was on. If you’ve never sat a degree, you won’t have a clue. I’m sorry, but it’s really not the same as taking your GCSEs or your A Levels. It’s ten times harder, longer and the very scary thing is, it’s down to you to drag yourself to your lectures and to force yourself to stay in and write several thousand word essays.

Unlike at school where you were actually breaking the law if you didn’t go to school, where your mum would be ready to wallop you over the head if she got wind of the fact that you’d been ‘wagging it’ (Is that a Warrington phrase, I wonder?) – it was just down to you. So, basically, when you hadn’t been to sleep until daft o’clock in the morning and your alarm went off like a shrieking beacon of hopelessness, you actually had the choice to roll over and sleep until Loose Women came on. And nine times out of ten, your bed would just be too comfy and too snug to even contemplate getting up, strolling through your freezing cold house and battling with your housemates for the bathroom.

Then on top of all that, you had practical lessons to go to, rehearsals to attend, lectures to write countless notes on, essays to complete, research papers to write, lines to learn, daily journals to keep, laundry to do, a house to clean, bills to pay, food shopping to do, a part time job to attend and still maintain a starry social life. I’m the first to admit that at times, it felt a little overwhelming. I remember once coming in from a scary lecture where we’d been ranted at for three hours about how very important it was to do this, that and the other, and I lay down on my bed and I cried. It was a big, big change from the cushy life at home where your mum was at your every beck and call. Eighteen is such a young age to be living on your own, miles away from home and relying on text messages and phone calls to your family to keep you sane.

You’ve also always got that nagging little voice in the back of your mind saying: “You’ve got to work hard. This is going to cost you a fortune in the future.” And sometimes, the little nagging voice wouldn’t be that kind. Sometimes, it would simply say: “Ten grand, Chriscoli. Ten grand.” It’s very easy to see how so many students can go so wrong at university. There’s not enough practical or emotional support for university students, in my opinion - and besides, an education should be for free - but hey, I’ll just quickly step down from my soap box, shall I? 

Anyway, we were told about our university dissertation. For those of you who maybe aren’t too sure what that is, your dissertation – known to most students as your “diss” – is your big final project, if you like. You spend the majority of your final year at university preparing it, having to do a research paper and a dissertation proposal, then the final project itself, which counts for fifty percent of your entire degree. All in all, it’s a big deal. You can choose to showcase your interests in the chosen field in whichever way you choose.

Well, I decided to write a script. A rather bold choice, I suppose, but something I felt very confident in. My dissertation tutor was somewhat absent throughout my process, which at the time frightened the hell out of me, especially when she never replied to any of my emails, but now that I think about it, perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t have someone constantly watching over me. It meant that when I was finished, I was able to submit my work as a draft to her and she was somewhat horrified/amazed by what I’d written. We were given a stimulus and we had to write about something SHOCKING. That was the criteria I had to meet. Well, of course, there was the usual tales of a teenage pregnancy, drug addiction, domestic violence – all worthy subjects, of course, but slightly predictable – and predictability is not shocking.

I’ll have to tell you right here and right now that I can’t disclose any information about the play that I wrote. I can tell you that it’s called A Walk in the Park – yes, the title is a bit twee, but it will make sense when you see it. It centres around a young couple, Jack and Kate. They meet in a strange scenario and along with the help of Jack’s grotesque, albeit slightly charming best friend, Hanson, and Jack’s overwhelming and neurotic mother, Wendy and laid back stepfather, Dave, they begin a relationship. (I’m aware that this sounds like a sack of shit, but it’s really not. It’s just difficult to describe without giving away too much of the plot. ) The play focuses on the first two years of their relationship and the audience watch their ups and downs. It closes with an explosive finale which stays with you for days, weeks, even months later. I’ve been contacted by people on Twitter who came to see the show in November and months down the line, they’re still in shock from what happened.

(It's difficult for people to imagine what my writing is like unless you've read something of mine. Considering that I'm a very polite, well spoken and generally well behaved young lady, I do get some funny looks and even some questions, such as: "How do these thoughts get in your head?" I can't really answer those questions. It was exactly the same during the release of my first book, Vee for Victory. People were questioning me as if I'd done something wrong. I mean, really? I wrote something which shocked you all - shock, horror! It was about sex! Pre-marital sex, one night stands, lesbian sex. Surely not?! 

Well, yes. It's hard to explain where the ideas come from, because I don't even know myself. I live a very sheltered, quite pampered, happy little life in my own little bubble, so it's hard for some people to grasp that the same girl they see lounging around in her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pyjamas with no make up on and her hair scraped back is the same girl whose writing made a fully grown man come up to her and call her a "sick bitch".)

There are some sad moments, some hilarious moments and some truly beautiful moments in A Walk in the Park, particularly between Jack and Kate (played by the enormously talented Levi Payne and Sarah O’Byrne.) As much as it’s annoying not being able to give away too much of the plot, what I found when I was promoting Vee for Victory, was that people like a little snippet. They like to try before they buy. Dip their toe into the proverbial pool before fully submerging themselves under the water. So, I thought I would upload a wee snippet of the A Walk in the Park script to see if it might entice you in:

Wendy

Well, you can’t just keep her hidden from us forever, Jack. She sounds like a lovely girl.

Jack

Yeah, she is a lovely girl.

Wendy

Then why don’t you want to bring her over one night, darling?

Jack

 I don’t know, Mum. It’s just...

Wendy

Just what, hmm? Is she ugly or something?

Dave

 Wendy!

Jack

 What?!

Wendy 

Listen, I know it’s early days, but you’ve got to think “is this girl fit to be the mother of my children?”

Jack

 Mum –

Wendy

 All I’m saying is, you don’t want to settle down with someone who is going to produce...ugly children. I don’t want to put a photo of any ginger kids on my mantelpiece.

Dave

Eh now. There’s nothing wrong with gingers. Look at Prince Henry. He’s a red head and he’s third from the throne.

Wendy

 Harry.

Dave

Common misconception, my love. His name is Henry.

Jack

Mum, do me a favour. Just shut up about all this, will you?

Wendy

Don’t you tell me to shut up, Jack Robert Mason. I’m trying to help you here.

Jack

By warning me off ugly women? No thanks, Mum.

Dave

 Ay well, he’s a grown man. He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, choosing his own girlfriend, munters and all.

Jack

 Exactly. See? Dave understands all this women business more than you.

Wendy (sipping her tea) 

I’m just saying sweetheart, it’s something worth thinking about. I saw that Francesca in Morrisons the other day with some big tall bloke. Rough looking guy. Tattoos of skulls all down his meaty arms. Love and hate written on his knuckles. And I tell you this for free, it didn’t look like it was her brother either.

Jack

She hasn’t got a brother.

Mum

 Exactly. You’ve just proven my point.

And yes, I know what you’ll be thinking – that it’s all well and good reading words off a page but how can you tell unless you’ve actually seen it in the flesh? Well, that’s a very good point. So make sure that you get your bums to see it. It’s on Thursday 10^th July and Friday 11^th July, at 8pm at the Nexus Theatre Café in Manchester. Make sure you’re there. Not only will you have a genuinely good night, but just think how amazing it will feel when you’re watching the next original British drama series and you go: “Oh, look who it is! It’s so-and-so from that play we went to see!”

Or think ahead by two years and imagine settling down on the sofa with your pyjamas on and a steaming cup of tea in your hands, ready to watch a six part drama called A Walk in the Park, and thinking: “Oh my god, I’m sure this was written by Emily Chriscoli! Isn’t that strange! God, imagine if we’d gone to see it years ago in Manchester?”

Well, now you can. 

Letter to my fourteen year old self.

Yes, you have spots. That’s a fact of life. You’ll have bad skin for years to come, but trust me, it does get better. Don’t spend a small fortune on orange foundation and clumpy Miss Sporty powder in an attempt to cover them up. You’ll still be able to see them and your skin won’t get any air.

Stop fretting about your braces! You might hate them now, but you’ll be glad one day that you’ve got them in your early teens and not your twenties. Don’t worry – all the people who take the piss out of you for your braces now are the ones who have to pay hundreds of pounds for them when your teeth are perfect.

You’re not fat. Not even a little bit. If anything, you’re too thin. Eat a pie every now and then, kid.

You’ll always have hand me downs from your sisters, particularly in school wear. Try not to mind too much. Your mum wouldn’t do it if she had any other choice. Which reminds me, say thank you to your mum more often. She works her fingers to the bone to make sure you and your sisters are happy. Sometimes it would be nice if you showed her a little appreciation when she comes home from work, instead of moaning at her because your tea isn’t ready.

Log off MSN every now and then and go outside into the fresh air. You might not believe it now, but your skin will tan so easily when you’re older. Take advantage of this. On that note, stop spending a small fortune on Johnsons Holiday Skin. It’s cheap, nasty and frankly, it stinks. Save your money and buy proper fake tan.

Don’t worry that you’re still a virgin. You’ll be the last one out of your friends to discover sex, but you make up for it at university. (Study harder at uni and spend less time with the opposite sex! You could get a first if you aren’t being such a rascal.) You’ve got a great set of friends and you’ll stay friends with most of them for years to come.

Remember it’s okay to be clever – never, ever dumb yourself down to fit in with anyone. The sort of people you have to dumb yourself down to be around are not the sort of people you want as friends. You’ll always be a book worm. You’ll always be clever. Read more. Ask questions. Keep writing. You’re good at that.

Try new foods – you’re not allergic to baked beans, you’re just a fuss pot, and the same goes for nuts. Concentrate more in maths. You’ll find it a struggle, but that’s okay. You can’t be good at everything.

Don’t be ashamed to cry – it takes a strong person to admit that they’re hurting. There are tricky times ahead, but also some wonderful times. Capture more things on camera. Smile more. Stop worrying about your bloody teeth.

Don’t be nervous about college or university. You will meet some of your best friends there. Work hard at uni, but enjoy every moment. It will fly by and you will miss it when it’s over. You’ll have a friend called Kyle Gardner. Give him an extra tight squeeze. Soak up your graduation day – it’s normal for your mum to well up with tears. Don’t brush it off because you’re embarrassed. She’s proud of you, and you should be too.

Get used to public transport. You’ll spend a long time using it.

You will spend your entire life surrounded by people who love you. Tell them that you love them too. You will have an army of children around you who love you more every day. They are your greatest achievements and you will always love them the most.

Spend more time with your dad. It’s hard for him in a house full of girls, but he thinks the world of you. You are far more alike than you realise.

Don’t rush into that belly button piercing just to be one of the cool kids. You’ll hate it when it gets caught in your clothes years later, and believe me, changing the bar to have pretty colours that match your bikini gets very boring after the first few summers.

Try to remember that McFly are just a boy band – and not a very good one at that! Enjoy their music, but stop spending what very little money you have on buying so much of their crap. By the time you turn sixteen, you’ll wonder what on earth you were so bothered about.

Visit your grandma even more than you do now. Yes, it's tropically hot in there, but you are her pride and joy and she's a fabulous little lady. 

Give Sooty and Jazz a big squeeze. You will miss them, but they’ll always bring messages.

Celebrate with wine. Dance often. Laugh out loud. Sing in the shower. Trust your instincts. Take chances. Be spontaneous. Have faith in your abilities. Fall in love. Fall in love again. Never stop smiling.

Stop worrying about the future so much. It really does turn out to be quite peachy for you.

P.S. You’ll always lounge around the house in your pyjamas watching Harry Potter for eight hours at a time. Some things never change.

Double cheeseburger, large fries.

I like food. Always have. Always will.

If someone was to say to me: “you can’t eat today”, I’d be devastated. But can you imagine how it feels to want to eat, but to not be able to? Because you physically cannot swallow whatever you’re churning round and round in your mouth?

That’s what life became for me in October 2013. Physically, I wanted to eat. Mentally, I knew that I should eat. I remember walking into the canteen at work one morning and I nearly threw up from the smell of sausages and bacon. Yes. I know. This sounds foreign even coming from my lips, but the bottom line was, I couldn’t stomach food and I couldn’t face eating.

Within a few short weeks of my appetite disappearing, my clothes were roomier, my face looked more hollow, I was cold all the time, despite bundling myself in layers of clothing. I was thinner than I’d been in months, years. Most girls dream of that. So why wasn’t I happy?

I’d gone from a girl who loved her food and would quite happily polish off a large McDonalds meal and go back up to the counter for six chicken nuggets, with a chocolate milkshake, then a McFlurry, then a pit stop to the corner shop for sweets and chocolate on the way home – to suddenly not being able to eat a yoghurt. We all know the reason why and there’s no point going into it. Frankly, I’m sick of thinking about it and definitely tired of talking about it. But I was feeling very lost and it was as if the only thing I had any control over was my eating, so without me consciously deciding to, I stopped.

Then Christmas came. Usually my favourite time of year, but Christmas 2013 was terrible. Long story short – I felt like shit and I looked like shit and it was more apparent than ever because I felt so alone. I wasn’t alone by any means. I had mountains of support on either side of me and that support came in the form of friends forcing food down my throat. Maybe not intentionally, but you know how it can be when girls are down in the dumps: you get offered chocolate, boozy nights out and cosy takeaway nights in.

And although I think that all of those things are good for the soul, and particularly my broken soul at the time, it definitely wasn’t good for my waistline. My appetite was back and back with a vengeance. I bought my dad the traditional Toblerone for Christmas and wrapped it up. And one night, whilst tucked up in bed watching the soaps, I unwrapped it and polished off the lot. So I went out at the weekend and bought another. This one, I thought to myself, this one is being wrapped up and put under the tree so you can’t touch it. Oh no. It got demolished while I was watching Home Alone the next day.

January came, and I was feeling relieved. I’d had a wonderful year which had ended horrifically. As everyone does, I made a vow to myself to lose three stone. I must say this every year but then put at least one stone on as the year ticks by. I’d never been able to stick to a diet before.

I’d wake up with good intentions. No, I’d wake up with great intentions. I’d have prepared my meals the night before and I’d tell myself all day that I wasn’t hungry and that I didn’t really need to eat two hash browns and three sausages on my morning break in work. Sometimes I would last two or three days. But I would always cave in. Why is this? I’d think maybe I’m destined to be a curvy girl. After all, Marilyn Monroe was notoriously curvy and a gorgeous size sixteen. So as my size fourteen jeans were getting tighter and tighter, I’d almost cling on to the notion that it didn’t matter what size it was – I was a nice person and being nice is better than being skinny. (I still wholeheartedly believe in that statement.)

But then we’d reach Sunday night and the diet had come to a crashing end on the Wednesday. I’d lie in bed feeling my bulging stomach, looking at it hanging over my pyjama pants and sometimes I would laugh. Sometimes I would cry. The truth is, I wasn’t happy. I’d gone from eating far too much, to not eating anything, to eating enough to fuel a small country. Possibly even a large one.

Now, during this time, there were lots of people at work (old work. I don’t work there anymore. But I love it there all the same) who were trying various different diets. One where you only ate meat, one where you didn’t eat any dairy and another where you didn’t eat anything at all until you felt positively faint, and then you ate a piece of cheese. (I’m kidding. Kudos to those who work out which film that’s from.) One diet that seemed to stand out more than the others was called Juice Plus.

I asked around and a few people pointed me in the right direction so I managed to get my hands on some information about it. My first thought was that it was blended fruits and vegetables. No. Was it dependent on popping diet pills? No. Was it a crazy diet where you lose six stone overnight but clap the weight back on every time you smell so much as a bacon butty? No.

Basically, the best way to describe it is to say: if it comes straight from a packet, you can’t have it. Simple right? Actually, yes, it was. Don’t get me wrong, the first two weeks were hell on earth, but you’re changing your body. It took years to put that weight on. It isn’t going to disappear overnight.

Typically, my daily food intake is:

Breakfast

Juice Plus Shake (chocolate or vanilla flavoured) with unsweetened almond or hazelnut milk.

Snack

Turkey, one Dairylea Lite triangle, raisins and rice cakes.

Lunch

Juice Plus Shake, plus an assortment of fruit – usually melon, strawberries, grapes, blueberries and my new found favourites, pomegranates.

Snack

Cucumbers, peppers, carrots and humus.

Tea

A hearty meal. A proper, healthy, filling meal. All thanks to Mamma Chriscoli who will cook anything at the drop of a hat for me, but it’s usually tuna, light mayo, sweet potato, broccoli and peas. Or grilled fish, brown rice and steamed vegetables. Or fajitas – grilled chicken, steamed veg, little bit of tomato salsa and a wholemeal wrap. Delicious.

Throughout the day, I just constantly drink water. It’s a shame for my poor manager, bless him. I’m in “personal” at least four times a day, nipping to the loo. I was also sick of filling up crappy little throwaway plastic cups from the water machine, so I bought myself a funky water bottle for a pound from Primark which holds half a litre of water. I fill it to the brim and drink from this all day.

Here’s the crazy part – I’ve actually stuck to it. I can’t believe I’m even writing those words, but it’s true. It’s been seven weeks since I’ve been doing Juice Plus and I’ve lost 1 stone 11 pounds, and in total since October, it’s just over 2 stone.

It’s been tricky and at times, it’s been hard. Think about the last time you considered yourself skinny or slim or thin. If you’re being completely honest with yourself and your answer is ‘years ago’, then don’t be disheartened that it will take a while to lose the weight. It’s not magic. There’s no wonderful solution to it. Nobody can wave a magic wand and watch you effortlessly pull a size six skirt over your bum and watch it fall off you. You just work, and you work hard. I exercise five or six times a week, normally just giving myself the one day off.

I’m not one to go to the gym. For someone who spends her time performing, I’m ridiculously self conscious and the thought of aching all over and dripping in sweat in front of a load of men makes me cringe, so I go swimming twice a week and I bought myself an exercise bike and I keep it in my bedroom. Every time I want to watch the soaps, I jump on. Sometimes, I don’t even realise that I’m exercising because I’m too wrapped up in the Tina, Carla, Peter love triangle, so I look down at the little screen and I’m like, wow. You’ve burnt eight hundred calories. 

Other times, I stick my ipod in and turn the volume up full blast and just go for it. If I’m being perfectly honest, at first, this was the only way I could get my mind to switch off and not stop brooding over the October situation – it was perfect. Exercise is the cure for a broken heart.

Even when I thought I was happy and thought my life was perfect, I still wasn’t happy with my weight. Despite having someone tell you that you’re beautiful, if you don’t see it yourself, you aren’t going to feel it either. The truth is: I wasn’t healthy. And that’s the difference.

If you’re putting crap into your body, then crap comes out – and by that, I’m not being crude and talking about actual poo – but you get out what you put in. You spend a month drinking fizzy drinks, eating McDonalds, pizza, chocolate, sweets, Chinese takeaway. The following month you’ll be dealing with the bad skin breakout, the bloated tummy, the wobbly legs and even worse, your stomach will be so used to eating this way that you’ll actually feel hungry all the time. And eating carrot sticks and humus isn’t going to satisfy your hunger, because your stomach’s so stretched from the sheer crap that you eat, that you need more crap to fill you up. It’s a terrible cycle to get yourself in to.

So, here I am, six months later, feeling healthier and happier than I ever have before and here’s the best bit – I’m using my story to inspire others in a similar situation. I’m becoming a Juice Plus distributor and mentor. So if you’re trying to lose weight or tone up or just trying to feel healthier, message me and we’ll see what we can do for you. Trust me, there is no better feeling than bumping into someone you haven’t seen for six months and them saying “Oh my god, you’ve lost loads of weight” when you’ve worked your backside off. It's by no means magic. If you're after the type of diet when you starve yourself and don't eat for days, only to be skinny for one day, then Juice Plus isn't for you. You need to have grit, determination and willpower. And if you don't have those things, that's fine. That's where I come in. If you’ve ever tried to eat healthily and you just can’t stick to it, let me know. We’ll get you back into your size 10 jeans in no time.

After all, just remember: Eat shit. Feel shit. Look shit.