My response to the Daily Prompt Ghost
I’ve grown up believing in ghosts and spirits. I don’t believe in Halloween ghouls, ghosts and goblins because it seems very childish and immature; like believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I stopped believing in them when I was six and my older brother broke my heart when he told me that the Tooth Fairy and Santa aren’t real. (The old Peter Pan thing of saying I don’t believe in fairies kills fairies was all that really mattered at the time.)
As a child I bought several books full of ghost stories and I couldn’t get enough of them. I watched the Ghost Whisperer with my Mum and it only made me believe in ghosts and spirits even more. One of my favourite programmes was Ghost Hunting With; essentially a woman called Yvette Fielding takes groups of celebrities to haunted places and searches for ghosts. It’s a programme that I can never watch in bed because it leaves me spooked by any kind of noise I hear during the night when everyone else is asleep.
The house I call home hasn’t made it any easier for me not to believe in ghosts, because my home is haunted by spirits of the women who worked as housemaids in the Victorian times. Having friends come round when they know that your house is haunted is a very difficult thing to achieve. From the day I started high school none of my friends were willing to stay the night in a haunted house.
As an atheist I don’t believe there’s a heaven or hell or anything like that, but I do believe that our loved one’s spirits are still with us. I believe that my Mum and Nan’s spirits haven’t left my side and are still taking care of me when I need the most whether I know it or not. I don’t want to visit my Mum’s grave because remembering her spirit and knowing that she’s with me wherever I go makes it easier to deal with the grief. Sounds silly, but who doesn’t want their Mum to be their guardian angel?
My response to the Daily Prompt Carry
Carry is a simple word that has a literal meaning and a figurative meaning. In the literal sense it means to lift something or someone up and move it to somewhere else. In the figurative sense it means supporting someone through a tough time in their lives. For example when a loved one dies some people’s emotional reaction is feeling that they have to carry the entire family through the pain of grief. They feel like they have to be the strong one for their family.
I’ve been that person. When my Nan passed away eight months after my Mum I felt like I had to be the strong one for two reasons. Firstly, I’m the only woman left in our small family. I’m outnumbered by two men and while I hate being in that position now; back then I didn’t mind it all that much. I wanted my Granddad to know that he didn’t need to worry about how I was dealing with the grief of loosing two motherly figures in my life.
Secondly, I felt like it was my fault because we weren’t in the safety of our own environment when it happened. We were on holiday in a caravan park at the time. It had been my idea to go away for my Mum’s birthday, and because of that I felt like her death which happened because of a diabetic seizure was a reaction to me asking if we could go on a family holiday for the first time since I was nine.
I know that it wasn’t my fault now but while I was stumbling blindly through the black cloud of depression it was all I knew. I couldn’t pull myself out of the negative thoughts of how everyone else was blaming me for her death. I self harmed because f how much blamed myself for causing my Granddad so much pain in such a small space of time. I hated myself for hurting my only fatherly figure that much.
It was easier for me to accept what the voices in my head were telling me than try to figure out why I felt this way about what had happened.
My response to the Daily Prompt Confused
I grew up as a tomboy. (Not the tree climbing kind of tomboy, more the kind of tomboy who point blank refused to wear any kind of girly clothes. There were never any bows in my hair or flowers on my clothes.) My Mum once told me that as a toddler I would wet myself if she tried to force me to wear a dress or skirt of any kind. Being a tomboy is so ingrained in my DNA that even after I’ve lost all of the weight I want to loose I won’t be in any hurry to start wearing dresses, skirts, and frilly things that look ridiculous.
I’m quite happy being a tomboy and everyone else around me don’t really pay attention to what I’m wearing on a daily basis because there isn’t really that much of a noticeable difference between men’s and women’s clothes. I have a pixie hair cut and no one bats an eyelid over it. Most of the comments I get about my hair are how I shouldn’t grow my hair long because it wouldn’t suit me at all anymore.
The only person who has anything negative to say about me being a tomboy and wearing men’s clothes is unfortunately the one person who shouldn’t be judging me for what I wear is my brother. He’s of the opinion that I’m magically going to turn into a lesbian because I wear men’s clothes and have pixie hair.
Wearing men’s clothes has nothing to with what my sexuality might be; because I’m still figuring that out. But it has everything to do with what makes me feel comfortable and confident. I don’t know where this opinion comes from and all it does is confuse me; because what if I am a lesbian and he’s being homophobic? He’s only mentioned it to me a few times, every time I laugh it off but it doesn’t mean that the comments don’t hurt me.
The way he views the world confuses me to no end. He sees the world in black and white, there’s no grey in the middle in his world. Men should wear men’s clothes and women should wear women’s clothes; there shouldn’t be any mixing between the two. Anything in the middle of his black and white views is going to confuse him because it doesn’t make sense to him.
My response the Daily Prompt Complicated
Complicated, an adjective with the definition of something involving many different and confusing aspects. Everything about the modern world is complicated, relationships, family life, work, and holidays. There is nothing straightforward about going anywhere anymore; where would the fun be in a straightforward world? Complicated is what we English people do best.
My family dynamic couldn’t be more complicated. My relationship with my brother is complicated and civil at best. My relationship with my biological father is straightforwardly complicated. My relationship with my Granddad is confusing to the outside world. My relationship with my Mum’s sister is complicated. My life is complicated and most of the time I wish it could be so much simpler.
My relationship with my biological father is complicated because I’ve never spent more than an hour in the same room as him. The first fourteen years of my life were spent with hearing a small number of stories about how he was a drug addict and didn’t treat my Mum the way she deserved to be treated. He remained being rarely mentioned and that was the way my Granddad liked it.
I didn’t consider meeting him or think about him until after my Mum passed away and he sent my brother and I a card which didn’t do anything to keep our already disrupted household stable in the slightest. My Granddad wanted to burn it before either of us had a chance to read it, whereas my Nan, who had a much less judgemental attitude towards my biological father, wanted us to meet him.
I wanted the first time I met my father to be something that every other girl in my school year had with their Dad’s. I wanted to be a Daddy’s girl. I wanted a fairytale reunion. I wanted to believe that he wasn’t the person my Grandparents portrayed him as. I was wrong; it was never ever going to be like that.
A few days later we met my biological father and his mother, who has lived in the same village as my primary school for as long as I’ve been alive, at Pizza Hut. I won’t lie or beat around the bush about how the meeting went because it was a complete waste of time. Neither my father or his mother acknowledged anything I told them about myself, their attention was focused on my brother and explaining everything from their perspective. Afterwards my biological father gave me a hug and we went our separate ways and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
I recently found out from my Mum’s sister, who wants me to see him again and build a relationship with a former drug addict, that my father’s family don’t think that I am biologically related to him. The other side of my family know that my brother is his son, but apparently I might not be his daughter. But the only person who can tell me the truth isn’t here anymore. I wouldn’t blame my Mum in the slightest little bit if I wasn’t his; honestly, it would be a blessing.
My Mum’s sister and I don’t get a long at all; she’s very domineering and thinks that her opinion is the only one that matters in every single conceivable situation. I don’t like her at all. When we do talk over the phone she always brings the conversation round to the topic of my biological father, normally the conversation is about how I’m missing out on knowing my biological father’s sisters, and how difficult it would’ve been for him to come back into our lives after my Granddad told the drug addict that he needed to leave.
She keeps telling me that I’m dishonouring my Mum’s memory by not having a relationship with the man who hurt her, didn’t make her happy and made her feel afraid being in her parent’s home. Why would I want to have a relationship with my father or his family if I know how much I would be hurting my Mum in doing so? Surely, she’s the one dishonouring my Mum and her sister’s memory by talking to me about it?
I don’t need my biological father in my life when I know that I have an amazing man like my Granddad in my life. He’s the man who has raised me. He’s the man who has comforted me when I’ve cried. He’s the man who has loved me unconditionally as his daughter from the day I was born. He’s the man who I will always buy father’s day cards for.
My response to the Daily Prompt Maybe
Maybe, when I was younger the word maybe was something that I often said when I couldn’t or didn’t want to give my opinion on something. I used to be quite shy and didn’t think that my opinion really mattered; I still don’t sometimes. Saying maybe was my way out of having everyone’s attention focused on me.
It might sound like a cop-out but when you’re an overweight girl being invited to spend the day walking through clothes shops with very slim girls it’s not the most exiting option in the world. I’d rather spend the day hidden in the corner of a book shop, lost in a world of fantasy, crimes and thrillers.
In the last four years my reason for saying maybe changed to wanting to avoid talking about topics that I just wanted to avoid at all costs. The main topic I forever wanted to avoid was anything remotely related to me loosing weight; I didn’t want to talk about it because I knew at the time it didn’t matter what anyone said I wasn’t ready to take control of my compulsive binge eating. I wasn’t ready to deal with the emotions that I knew I could numb with food.
Maybe one day I’d be ready to deal with the emotions that were hidden with the food. Maybe one day I would be slim. Maybe one day I’ll finally feel happy, secure, and comfortable in my own skin. Maybe one day I’ll be proud of something I’ve achieved on my own. Maybe one day someone will love me for who I am instead of what I am.
My response to the Daily Prompt: Joke
Is it just me or are some of these daily prompts chosen randomly or is there someone who picks a word that they know will be difficult to write about just for jokes? I know what the word joke means; it’s a noun, something said or done to provoke laughter or cause amusement, as a witticism, a short and amusing anecdote. I thought the prompt stubborn was difficult; but joke completely throws that prompt out of the water. Do I know what could potentially be written for the prompt?
No, I do not.
I write for the Daily Post Word Prompt every day and until today I hadn’t wondered if whoever choses the words for the day wants to put some people off of blogging. I know that the prompt is there to force people to write because it isn’t easy to think of a subject to write about on a daily basis. I’ve tried that process before and it is a really difficult thing to achieve when you’ve never blogged until now.
I love writing about anything and everything; the Daily Prompt gives me the encouragement I need to write when I’m not inspired by something else. It’s become a part of my daily ritual to blog because of the Daily Prompt; but when I look back through the archive searching for another eye-catching prompt I wonder if I’m the only one who has missed out on past prompts. Am I the only blogger who still wants to write about old prompts?
Are there rules that I haven’t seen that would turn the whole concept of the Daily Word Prompt into a joke if a new blogger like myself responded to an old prompt?
It’s a really good idea and I refresh my feed until the new word appears at the same time every day; but what should I do when I’m not inspired by the prompt in the slightest? Should I force myself to blog despite a lack of inspiration? Is it right that I feel guilty for not posting anything and feel the need to apologise at the beginning of the next post?
Sometimes I take one glance at the word and I know what I am going to blog about; but when the word stubborn appeared on my screen I had no idea what to write about. It took me well over an hour to come up with an idea; but not even half an hour after posting my response I deleted the post.
I had written my response after spending the entire night being ill and suffering from a lack of a good nights sleep and the result of it was a page of sentences that made no sense to anyone. So, it was probably for the best that I deleted it.
My response to the Daily Prompt Luxury
“When you come to analyse the love of money which was the general impulse to effort in your day, you find that the dread of want and desire of luxury was but one of several motives which the pursuit of money represented; the others, and with many the more influential, being desire of power, of social position, and reputation for ability and success.” — Edward Bellamy
Luxury, in the 21st century it has several meanings. Firstly, it’s a word wealthy people use to describe their lifestyle of great comfort or elegance filled with expensive things. Secondly, it’s a word that is used to describe an inessential and desirable item which is expensive or difficult to obtain. Thirdly, it’s a word used to describe a pleasure obtained only rarely.
For the super wealthy luxury means being able to fill their small island sized mansions with anything they want (whether they need it or not) without thinking about or looking at the numbers on the label. Sure, their houses look amazing and the things look nice; but how many of the expensive and rare things actually make them feel happy? How long does it take for them to decide that they’re bored of binge spending on pointless things?
For some people luxury can mean something being able to do something as simple going on a family holiday. Something like a holiday is a luxury that is both expensive and very difficult to obtain. Yes, they desire the time away from the mundane routine of their home lives but at the end of the day a holiday isn’t an essential thing that will make their lives better.
I am one of these people. For me something like going on holiday isn’t a moment in time that is going to change my life. Yes, my passport has expired but it is not the end of the world if I don’t renew it just because it’s a form of identification that is a supposed necessity in this world. Why would I spend £75 on renewing my passport if I’m never going to use it to travel anywhere? (For me that’s a luxury that I can’t afford without saving up for a few months.)
Finally, there are the people who often find themselves spending the night in a cold shop doorway or protecting themselves from the weather behind bins in an alleyway; who see luxury as something that is rarely obtain. I haven’t been in the position of not knowing where I’m going to sleep the next night or sitting in an unused doorway with an empty money pot in front of me. I’ve never known luxury as something as basic having a meal or a mattress to sleep on in the safety of four walls or having a shower every day.
My response to the Daily Prompt Paint
Is it just me or is being able to pain a skill that only certain people have? I’m sure that there are some people who are able to paint with very little effort, they can pick up a paintbrush, dip it in some paint and create a world-class masterpiece. They don’t really have to think about what they’re going to paint, it just so happens that magic spreads through their fingers and the paint comes to life on the canvas. I am not jealous of those people in the slightest, nope, not at all.
Why would I be jealous of being able to paint? (I am very jealous.)
I am one of the billion people in this world who cannot paint no matter how hard I try. It would be pointless for me to even try to paint; my art teacher told me that I should avoid coming into contact with any kind of paint and paintbrushes. I tried to redecorate my bedroom by painting it sky blue a few years ago and I was very proud of it until it was pointed out to me that you could still see streaks of yellow from my wallpaper, which was oh so helpful when I had no cans of light blue paint left. So, I think that’s a very valid reason for me to be jealous of people who can paint.
One of my favourite hobbies is drawing. I mostly draw Marvel Superheroes and Disney cartoons. From a young age I’ve loved drawing all kinds of things; but at the age of fourteen I discovered that I’m very good at drawing Disney cartoons and Marvel Superheroes. So much so that I showed my Aunt a drawing of Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh and she didn’t believe me when I said that I’d drawn it; she thought I’d traced it or coloured it in. (I still don’t know if she believes that I drew Rabbit myself.)
There are a lot of unopened tubes of paint that were probably never going to be used but looked nice when I bought them, lying around my house for two reasons. Firstly my although my Granddad used to work as an advertiser, he’s colourblind, which means that he sees colours like red as a completely different colour to what I see as the colour red. So, the chances of him ever touching a tube of paint to teach me something that would go some way to improving my painting skills are pretty much sealed as non-existent.
But when I do actually want help with painting in general he can’t help me very much so I have given up on hoping that I’ll ever be able to paint whenever and whatever I want to. It’s probably for the best that I don’t try to paint anymore because the last time I really tried to paint something was at school, it was an alien and it came out looking like a four-year old had painted it. (I was fourteen and the alien was pink and really badly drawn/painted hearts for antenna and eyes.)
My response to the Daily Post Praise
“A continual feast of commendation is only to be obtained by merit or by wealth: many are therefore obliged to content themselves with single morsels, and recompense the infrequency of their enjoyment by excess and riot, whenever fortune sets the banquet before them.” — Samuel Johnson
Praise, noun, the expression of approval or admiration for someone or something. When I Googled the question “what is praise,” there were more hits about praising God than anything else; almost as though it’s more important to praise God than anyone else. As a non-religious person, I find it strange that I didn’t find any searches related to praising loved ones, especially children, for doing something remarkable.
As a child receiving praise was a big deal, I always felt pride in myself, and all warm and fuzzy, when my Mum praised me for something. It could have been something as small as doing well in school, but receiving the praise was honestly the highlight of my day because it came from my Mum. It never felt quite the same when someone else praised me for something.
She never went over the top with the amount of praise she gave me or my brother; but I think in a way that was a good thing because the quality of the praise became a verbal reward of sorts that I wanted to earn.
Now that I’m less than two months away from turning twenty-one, receiving praise doesn’t hold the same excitement or warm fuzzy feeling that makes me feel slightly special as it did when I was five-years-old. As well it not being an action that I would willingly go looking for; I never knew how sincere my Granddad is being when he praises me for something.
I get praised every time I announce to him that I’ve lost another inch from my waist line. I get excited when he gives me praise because I know that him being proud of what I’ve done is worth the effort I put into losing a few inches from somewhere on my body. Yesterday for example, I noticed that my thighs looked thinner in my jeans, and when I pointed it out to my Granddad he told me that he was proud of what I’d achieved in a very small space of time. I spent the rest of the day smiling because of how much his praise meant to me.