Valentines is Bullshit!
There I said it.
While scrolling through my numerous feeds for the day’s news, basking myself in all the piping hot tea I’ve missed while having eight hours of mirtazapine induced sleep I noticed my usual newsfeeds had been hijacked with declarations of love, commitment and public displays of boring missionary sex.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-love, I love, love and it’s not because I’m single either, I’m happy being single. I’ve just always found the concept of Valentine’s Day a little bit repugnant.
I mean It’s not like we're still basting vestal virgins with blood from a goat’s arse, putting their names in a bucket and pairing them off to a bunch of local fuckboys in an Asda carpark, so what’s the point? Is it a day to celebrate love? Or a day designed to make every singleton feel totally inadequate for being alone? For me, it’s quite obviously both and whether you’re single or in a relationship, you have to admit its cookie-cutter bullshit.
I might just be cynical, but it’s just how I feel. People are always telling me I’ll feel differently if I fall in love, however, I’ve been in love, truly madly head of heels in love and if he handed me a stuffed bear and box chocolates just because some outdated social construct told him to I’d probably vomit. I mean for all means buy me gifts, every day if you have too but just make sure they’re more Valentino than Valentines.
When you’re a couple, you have countless celebrations, holidays and traditions to show you love each other all while making single people feel slightly inferior. In a way, you don’t need another day, shouldn’t you just be loving each other and showering each other with your commitment anyway? I don’t know, I’m not claiming to be an expert but it makes total sense to me. If you only appreciate each other on a holiday or an anniversary is it really love? I get the human desire for love, for companionship, but it’s really not everything.
Easter excluded because anyone can enjoy a chocolate egg without fear or judgement, social media should be avoided at any holiday time, or the very least come with a disclaimer “14th Feb – Log on with caution, may cause vomit, irritation and mild depression.”
Valentine’s day isn’t all that bad, it is the one day a year I get peace from the guy’s in my DM’s, mostly because they’re out for dinner at Ménagerie with their girlfriends, wives etc. I’m always of the opinion that those guy’s always buy the best presents when St Valentine beckons. He may have been with me the night before, but that’s a lovely Michael Kors bag Sarah, said no one ever.
You might think this is the reason, I was scorned and now I’m incapable of romantic feelings but It’s not,
I’m not a jilted lover, nor am I jaded because the man I’m in love with is in love with someone who isn’t me.
When I transitioned I did so fully aware that I may never marry, may never have children, that my life would be completely different from those of my friends and family. Nine years on I know better, I may get married, I may have children if I decide I want those things but point is I’m okay If I don’t have any of those things, I chose my Valentine a long time, so whether I’m in a relationship, married, or your friendly, neighbourhood sexually liberated spinster I’ll always be my own Valentine and that’s ok.
The idea that we are only somebody unless we are loved is 90’s propaganda and we deserve more than that. Opening your heart to yourself, well that’s true love. So, if your single this Valentines, be your own date, stay in and order a Chinese, get in a bubble bath and light some candles and enjoy a good book like me or get dressed up, grab your other single friends and dance till February 15th and normal life resumes.
Cause whether your alone, claimed, lost or found, Valentines is like using a double-sided dildo, no matter what end you’re on your fucked either way. So, you might aswell enjoy it.
Photograph by Studio Grab Down.- Twitter/Instagram @Studiograbdown
The events that led up to this are a bit of a blur. All I really remember about that cold autumn morning was being at the lake of a local woods, with a hand full of leaves that I'd somehow managed to convince myself were sage, and a clear intention.
I had wanted to end it all.
The numbness I was experiencing wasn't uncommon nor were the feelings of suicide, I have lived with them for such a long time and I had started to believe that they were just a part of me. They were, however, getting louder and much more difficult to ignore.
Their driving force was unknown. Could it be the demons of my past, demons I thought I'd vanquished long ago? The recent death of my childhood friend or the absent mind of the one person I had only ever really needed? Whatever the reason, it was like it had consumed me, entirely.
I woke up on the floor of A&E, still holding on to the bunch of leaves which had now dried. My mum was curled up on a giant blue chair across from me. It took me a few moments to come round. While I was still figuring out my surroundings I realised what a cataclysmic event had passed. I tried to think carefully about what had happened, snippets of conversations echoed around my mind, had I really been that honest? Should I have been that honest? I started to doubt my decisions as if I'd revealed too much Even in my writing I'd been more preservation than revelation. A nurse entered which broke my concentration. I don’t think she expected me to be lying on the floor. he brought in a bed and made sure I was okay.
Every inch of A&E was filled with people, the oldest of them seemed to be left alone to line the hallway, unable to move, faces full of sadness.
I doubted this was the vision Bevan had in 1948. The entire hospital reeked of austerity and the staff worked tirelessly to tend to every patient. It made me feel even more guilty for being unsuccessful in the woods, like me being there was the reason behind the NHS lack of funding and staff.
I was at A&E for the next four days Time passed slowly and my thoughts were getting increasingly worse, the only thing that seemed to be helping was sleep. When they found me a ward bed I was a little relieved, but I was also scared stiff. I began to overheat, it was like I couldn't breathe. I went outside and smoked cigarette after cigarette, I contacted my friends and family but nothing would take the fear away. I had studied mental health in my second year at University, and although my only knowledge of mental health hospitals wasn’t limited to what came from pop culture, I kept having these irrational visions of being taken to Briarcliff Asylum, being strapped to a bed whilst I had electrical currents forced fed into my brain. I arrived back at the room to see my Mum repacking my bag and judging me for how I’d just stuffed everything into it. Then a paramedic who could only be described as a Norse God entered, a clear descendant of Thor, his blonde hair was swept back, his slightly trimmed beard covered a strong jaw and his smouldering eyes were like pools of blue crystals. Typically It would be my luck to get the world’s hottest paramedic when I looked like the creature from the black lagoon. I found myself unable to look at him, let alone speak. He carried my heavy bag to the ambulance with such ease and I swear I nearly fainted so he’d carry me too. It was nice to know even at dire times I was still that girl.
I sat in the back of the ambulance trying to hold back my tears when another paramedic arrived, she was incredibly upbeat, a trait I’d normally find irritating but now soothing. She was with another patient, and her partner was saying his goodbyes to her reassuringly. He kissed her cheek just before the door closed, and the smiling paramedic distracted her by asking her how they met. I listened and started to think about how remarkable love was. She had travelled all the way from Venezuela to be with him, they'd been separated by the wildest circumstances and now they were being separated again due to her mental health, but his love for her was unquestionable. I felt a sense of regret that my relationships had been so disastrous. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that kind of love before.
We arrived at the Hospital at Hillview at around 10.30pm, entering locked door after locked door, walked up three flights of stairs until we arrived at the ward. A woman in her late 50s with short pinkish blonde hair buzzed us in, our belongings were taken away to be searched and she began to give us a tour around the ward, explaining how the assessment process would go.
I noticed a beautiful girl with wild hair, kneeling in a prayer position colouring. Another girl with shaved green hair stood over her watching. I tried not to make eye contact. There were a million things going on, but the only thing I could think about was my razor. Although I transitioned several years ago, laser treatment was only something I’d be able to do properly within the last year and I was still using a Gillette daily. I approached the nurse to discuss how I would go about getting it when I needed it. She looked me up and down “Oh, you know you’d never have guessed!” , like it was some kind of compliment. I stared at her. She continued “Have you had ‘the op’ then?” her eyes shooting straight to my crotch. “Some,” I replied … I was astonished that even in this environment the first thing she thought to ask me was about my genitals. I was too mentally exhausted to educate her, I’d just had enough.
I asked to go for a cigarette, only to learn the last one was at 10.30pm. Now that, I did care about. They took me for one (which meant two) even though it was past the time. I showered away the last four days off my body, got into bed and slept.
‘Hillview’ was an assessment ward, one of the first of its kind. They had social workers, nurses, doctors, consultants, occupational therapist, phycologists, even people to help you apply for benefits. In theory, it looked quite promising but in reality, they didn’t provide half of these services anymore. You were pretty much left to your own devices most of the time.
When some of my friends came to see me they didn’t even get searched. Looking back, I should’ve asked them to bring me in a bottle of Gordon’s finest instead of the novelty Prosecco Gums I was gifted. After three days I was allowed unsupervised leave, which meant I could smoke when I wanted up until 10.30pm.
One night, I had a 1-1 with my named nurse. He had his pad and I could see he’d already taken notes. He asked me questions about things I said in CAMHS when I was fourteen. I felt like I was reliving everything all over again. I remembered things I’d put to bed years before. When he mentioned Jay, I just cried. I thought about the support he gave me when I first came out and what an influence he had been on my life. The next day my mum and I had a massive argument, I told her not to come to see me. I felt like I was a teenager all over again, I was angry at her for things I’d forgiven her for years before. That night one of my exes drove to see me, we smoked a joint and had sex in the back of his Volkswagen Golf. I tried to hold back the tears but the moment he dropped me back of at the hospital I cried, I had wanted a shoulder to cry on and instead went for the one human connection I was capable of. Sex. I’m not saying I don’t have sex when I’m happy, but I have it a lot more when I’m down, sometimes it’s like the only form of validation I know. When I got back to my room I sat in the shower fully dressed and cried. A health care assistant who was doing observations couldn’t see me and came into the room. She sat with me and talked, I didn’t tell her what I’d just done but I did speak to her about how irrational I’d been over something so small. After I'd stopped crying she began to ask me about me inappropriate questions about my transition. I get she wasn’t being vindictive and she was just curious. However, It isn’t my job to explain the complicated world of gender to her while I’m being treated in hospital.
Over time my moods worsened, I was happy one minute, crying the next and I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on reality.
To distract myself and to make time go that little faster I gave myself daily tasks. I tried to read, write poetry, I even tried my hand at short stories.
I integrated a little with some of the other patients too, It was interesting, meeting people I’d probably never meet again. As you can imagine it was sometimes chaotic. The girl with shaved green hair managed to set another girl’s0l room on fire and one woman ended up crawling about the ceiling tiles for about 45 minutes before anyone noticed. I still have to know idea how she got up there.
My moods were so interchangeable, I wasn't much company so I mostly tried to keep myself to myself. Finally, Tuesday arrived and it was time for the dreaded CPA. I had spoken to one of the nurses earlier that morning in preparation but I was NOT prepared for what was about to come.
This was my first time even seeing a doctor while I was at Hillview, I had been on no medication and I was feeling worse than ever. Throughout the conversation he was talking about my transition, like that was the root cause of all my issues. I finally had had enough and told him it was completely separate, that being transgender wasn't a mental health condition and his theory of what was wrong with me was a reach at best. Again I reiterated why I was there, how I was really truly feeling. He listened to my hysterics and eventually said he was going to prescribe me some medication and refer to a treatment bed. I felt kind of relieved that he'd finally listened to me. The weird thing is, I did want to leave, this is the last place on earth I ever wanted to be but I knew what the alternative was and if I was to go without getting any help then I'd just be back again, or worse.
The next day flew by, I had finally finished Trans Britain by Christine Burns and was feeling like I’d accomplished something positive. Then someone knocked on room and told me I'd be moving to another hospital, it was a little closer to home which was good and I'd finally receive some treatment. I called everyone I needed to and packed up my belongings. I then felt overcome with fear again. I put on my headphones and started to play Fleetwood Mac, there was something about Stevie Knick’s voice which just calmed me. A sleek black car arrived to transport me and we travelled the hour-long journey to the Priory. The roads were dark and windy and I'm pretty sure he got a little lost. The car eventually pulled up to this large Georgian-esque manor, Victorian streetlamps lit the paths of the grounds and in the centre was a giant, leafless weeping willow.
To be continued.
Disclaimer: *This post contains themes of a sensetive nature and content around depression and suicidal thoughts. I've tried to be honest and open as possible without going into to much detail and as always there are resources at the bottom.*
As you may have noticed, or not, things have been a little quiet on here for a while. You see I needed to take a little hiatus from the world, I deactivated my social media and have been living unplugged, well as unplugged as you can be, being a millennial.
You see 2018 has been a formidable year, to say the least, I was beginning to become overwelled with all the changes that were happening in my life, as a consequence my mental health began to deteriorate rapidly, my mental health has always been something of a contention, in fact, it's monopolised my entire life with gender dysphoria, depression, anxiety and substance misuse. This time away has allowed me to reflect on my life, my wants, desires, my unhealthy relationships and has been a way for me to grow and move on.
Taking time for yourself can be such a powerful thing, it doesn't make you a bad person nor does it mean you're selfish. C'mon the great prophet Ru Paul has said (countless times) " That if you can't love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love somebody else?" I was never sure I believed in that till I could no longer feel my love for people around me, so by withdrawing from everything I was able to really try and get to the roots of my feelings without any outside influences.
During my self-appointed exile, I began writing, however, the one thing I struggled writing about was these feelings and although I knew I needed to write about it, I wasn't sure how to. It wasn't until taking part in an interview for Vice written by the amazing Juno Roche (which will be published soon) where I said something along the lines as "I know who I am, I'm no longer searching." I finally knew what to say because these words wouldn't stop haunting me. Even though they were true, and I do know who I am, that doesn't mean I should've stopped searching for what that meant, where I belong and what I want to do to with myself. The truth is I have not been satisfied with my own existence for a long time, not because I'm transgender or that I hate who I am but due to the fact I've not been living.
I settled for a life with no fulfilment, replaced a passion for life by going out and getting fucked or I just sat and watched while everyone else lives progressed. I thought I was just moving slowly when in reality I'd just stopped altogether.
I'm still unsure if I had just let the fear stop me from even trying in the first place, but I did know I'd given up. I was allowing my anxiety and the naysayers to win by default.
Which brings me to why this was so difficult for me to write. I remember before I came out as transgender, I felt like I only had two options, die or transition. I chose the latter, I decided to live and here I was 7 years later contemplating taking my life again because I was no longer living.
Suicide is very real, especially within the queer community, It's something that began to follow me around like a dark cloud, no matter where I was or what I was doing I couldn't get rid of these feelings, I could hear it like a clock ticking in quiet room, it had infected my dreams and made everything feel so impossible. These feelings were only exacerbated when I was asked to leave my home off the last 3 years, deep down I understood why, I was no longer functioning like a person, however, it didn't make it any easier. It established that old theory within my mind that nobody no matter how close you were, could be trusted.
That night I cried as I packed and left the next day with no real plan.
My friend had picked me up and took me to her house, she looked at me worryingly my once pristine appearance wasn't there, I hadn't brushed my hair in so long it had begun to matte to my scalp and my smooth skin was covered in specs of stubble which I'd normally expertly shave and laser off. I got a shower and as the water splashed off my body I imagined what it would be like to drown to regain consciousness, I pressed the razor against my thigh.
When I'd arranged a place to go to I thought I might feel better but everything still seemed so uncertain. The next few days felt like a daze, I sat in silence hoping nobody was able to read my thoughts. One night my mind was so chaotic I called the Samaritans It felt weird speaking to a stranger and at first I was uncomfortable telling them my problems but I can honestly say that phone call may have saved my life.
The weeks since that phone call have still been tough and these feelings didn't just evaporate. I'm aware this is going to be a working process but I've done the hardest part. I've reached out and have asked for the help that I need, I've thought calmly and clearly about how I can progress forward and that's what I'm intending to do I'm feeling stronger and I've made sure I've got things in place for when things began to get difficult again.
I'm grateful for services like the Samaritans, they are invaluable services that never get enough recognition. I'm also thankful to the people that stood by me, the ones that helped and tried to build me back up especially when I couldn't give them any love in return.
I've not shared this for sympathy or for attention, nor do I want people to feel sorry for me. I just wanted to share this story as I feel I owe my readers an explanation for the lack of content and If being open and honest about everything helps just one other person that may be going through a similar experience that's all I can hope for. Mental illness, self-harm, thoughts of suicide or even attempts are not anything to be ashamed of (nor are they the same thing) together we can help to the end the stigma and help people reach out in times of difficulty whether that be a friend, a family member, professional, or a hotline.
Love Chrissie x
116 123 (UK)
116 123 (ROI)
(This piece will be published in the award winning Fruitcake Magazine (Issue 2))
My Mum and I used to have such a strong bond. She allowed me to create, play and explore the world in my own special way. I was supported and encouraged to always be myself even if that meant I was dressed up as a princess dancing around the living room with a t-shirt on my head pretending it was my long flowing locks, or singing bad renditions of Britney Spears classics such as (ironically) "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman".
You see my brother and I are immeasurably different. He was very boisterous and football mad. There was never any doubt of his cis and heteronormality. Whereas I, on the other hand, was too femme to function. My queerness was labelled before I even knew what being queer was. Nonetheless, I was never loved any less or forced to conform to gender stereotypes. Those early years, where I was allowed to flourish and embrace my feminity were so formative and I'm even more grateful now, knowing it was frowned upon by society and realising how much she had tried to protect me.
Although I was lucky enough to have such a supportive childhood, as I got more aware I began to be ashamed of my feminity, I couldn't understand it, I started to become introverted. I'd subtly try to hide what I was discovering and started distancing myself from my family. Embracing the world in my mind where I could be the girl I knew I was, whilst on the outside trying to hide who I was from the world. I remember asking for a David Beckham lunchbox instead of the ‘girls’ one I wanted. I knew all the other boys wanted to be just like him, whereas I only wanted to marry him. It was little things like this I used to try and trick people, but looking back the only person I was fooling was myself. My queerness was no longer a theory, it was an established fact by everyone around me. I started to feel isolated, I felt as if my mum was more focused on her new family, I felt less protected, furthermore she didn't notice the pain I was in.
This was the beginning of our relationship breakdown and me becoming an open target for people to abuse.
As I reached High school, I knew these feelings were going to intensify. I knew I needed to be honest. I knew I liked men, it was the only thing that made sense. I must be gay.
Coming out to my family was traumatic for me, I hid this by developing a bitchy persona, unapologetically gay, filled with wit, hate and shade. It was my shield, just like I'd done with the lunchbox years before except this time it had worked.
As my home life started to spiral out of control, I moved into my grandparents. I rebelled at every opportunity, I was too much and was exiled to my fathers, again I did everything I could to hide the pain, and the rejection I felt for my changing body. The next 5 years of my life were filled with drink, drugs and barebacking across my hometown looking for love and desire I didn't have for myself.
My relationship with my mum became more strained than ever before. I needed help, but I feared I was too lost to find it. My behaviour resulted in me going into care, I'd just turned 16 and was in my last year at school. It was there I finally had the ability to admit who I was, what I was denying to myself and what the repercussions of my actions were. When I came out as trans, it was the first time in my life I truly felt free. The staff where I lived were understanding and accepting but lacked knowledge. My transition was policed by social services at every turn. I told my mum via phone, I never really saw her and there was a lot of resentment from both of us. I don't know what I expected but I knew I needed to be supported and helped.
I didn't get that but more than ever I was determined. I ostracised myself even more because I needed to live my truth, I'd spent so many years undercover, I couldn't wait for other people to accept it.
There were so many pivotal moments in my transition I wished I could have shared with her, especially the silly stuff like shopping for clothes and makeup, I remember going shopping for the first time with the home manager and arguing over a see-through leopard print shirt which she said I couldn't have. The countless hospital visits alone, the figuring it all out. learning what being transgender meant to me. Over the next five years, my mum and I spoke and saw each other intermittently with it usually ending in tears. I needed her, but I also needed her to see me as her daughter.
Those times we did see each other were difficult, the silent critiques, the guilt and the overwhelming dysphoria. I'd never feel more masculine than when I saw myself in the reflection of her eyes.
It got better over time. We were able to speak a little bit about ‘it’ and we started to slowly build our relationship back up.
It was when we sat over a coffee and she explained how she felt I finally got it. The five years I was blossoming into the woman I truly was, she was grieving the loss of her son, the dreams she had for him, the fear and guilt for not being able to look past all that. I was wrapped up in living my truth I hadn’t stopped to think that she might be suffering and what she has had to sacrifice while overcoming the grief. Our relationship today is a lot better, It took a couple more years to receive that "Happy Birthday Daughter" card but I knew she loved me, I know she is proud of me and nothing else matters. I've been fortunate to have people around me to love and support me, help me grow and become the person I am today. I admire my mum for allowing me to do what I needed to do, and although she couldn't do it with me I now know she was always with me.
What I'm trying to say, is sometimes the relationship you want to have with someone isn't always what you get but it doesn't mean it's not worth having.
My transition has taught me many things over the years but the most important lesson I've learnt is that occasionally people have to love each other from a distance in order for each of them to blossom. But being true to yourself should always come first. Parents don't always get it right straight away, some might never, everybody is different, but you should never allow someone else to dictate your truth.
Love comes from within.
If you are a young person that feels at odds with their assigned gender, or you are a parent with a child who feels this way, don't despair there's support I wish I knew about back then.
Check out the charity Mermaids UK.
MERMAIDS HELPLINE: 0344 334 0550
Disclaimer: This post contains slight themes of a sexual nature, so if you're underage or related to me please Do NOT read. However, feel free to check out some of my other work.
ROMANCE is dead. OFFICIALLY! You may wonder how I know this?
Is it from the string of Grindr messages I rise to each morning or my nightly invites for secret rendezvous with boys in junk-filled Vauxhall Corsas.
Well, yes, you're ABSOLUTELY right!
I like to imagine my dating life as a modern-day Jane Austen novel, just like Pride and Prejudice except there's hardly any pride, a hell of a lot of prejudice and instead of Mr Darcy I'm stuck with "DL ST8 Guy 4 TS BTM SLUT". Elizabeth Bennet didn't have it half as hard (pun intended).
Not that I'm complaining. It's not all dick pics and cheap thrills, I've had some serious emotional connections with lovers over the years and have gained some invaluable anecdotes for dinner parties. it's just I've never really liked the idea of being someone's Pornhub fantasy.
Now don't get me wrong I'm not totally opposed to dating "chasers", In fact, the majority of cis men who date trans women are extremely open, their views on gender and expression are far more profound than how they appear, I can envision it being quite an isolating experience, having these thoughts and not being able to share them with world. However, this post isn't about the good ones, it's about the fuck boys.
When I started dating, and I say dating because we are in polite society I was young, around 12/13. It was how I found the desire I didn't have for myself and my body. I thought I was in control when in reality I was being taken advantage off by people who should've known better.
However, now that I'm grown and more in touch with myself, I feel more in control when I'm dealing with trade.
" I know what I bring to the table and I'm not afraid to eat alone. "
Way back in the autumn of 2012, when I was an 18-year-old babe, a video of me was threatening to circulate ALL over social media. The video was of me performing a sexual act. I was distraught. I'd never even heard of revenge porn before, I thought I'd lose my job and that my whole life was going to be over. It occurred to me that I wasn't even sure there was a video, I mean I'd of noticed right? I stayed silent and stopped replying to the abusive messages while I sought advice from an old pro.
I decided to call their bluff! I was SO nonchalant about the whole thing, I think it freaked them out "You couldve told me, I'd of told you how to get a better angle" I typed nervously. They abused me again, I remember thinking right, well if they post, I'll just have to deal with it. Although I did have one last card to play, for it to work I was counting on their toxic masculinity. I suggested that they post it, I was aware of the abuse I'd get but I made them aware of the backlash they'd receive because I was a transwoman and I'd kept the ALL the receipts. I was blocked shortly after and fortunately, the video never saw the light of day. I learnt some valuable life lessons that day, own your promiscuity, NEVER let someone threaten or slut shame you and always keep the goddamn receipts.
This wasn't the last time someone tried to do this.
Over Christmas last year, a guy I'd seen a couple of times threatened to release nudes of me and said he'd give some cock and bull story of how I sent them without disclosing my past if I refuse to let him pick me up.
I sat there a couple of gins in and was feeling brave. I told him to do it, in fact, I said I'd do it myself and took his power away.
I wasn't going to be made to feel ashamed about my body or who I was.
We live in the age of dating apps and social media, you just don't meet lovers in bars, coffee shops or anywhere else Meg Ryan could've filmed a rom-com. In fact, we could possibly blame Tinder for the demise of her movie career.
It would be unrealistic to not use these apps, especially for trans women, and nudes can be an unfortunate byproduct of this. Using apps to find love or a sexual partner can be dangerous, these fuckboys and serial chasers can be spiteful and vindictive. They can even cause serious damage, not just to one's reputation but to your safety. I'm not trying to discourage anyone from using these apps or sites because frankly, it'd be unrealistic but be safe, find your own way to control the situation and make sure you know the person before you arrange to meet or before you exchange images.
Now I'm 23, I've gotten smarter, I respond to every unsolicited dick pic with a bigger one (usually a picture of Donald Trump or Theresa May).
I try to be more careful and minimise the risks where I can, I want to be stimulated intellectually, I want to know what they've read, what their opinions are and their stories before I jump in head first.
On the occasions that I don't and I'm seduced by a fuckboy's spell,
I remember these simple rules.
1. ALWAYS tell a friend who you're meeting and where.
2. send them pictures and their contact information
3. Take a picture of their registration and make sure that they see and send it to someone you can trust.
& most importantly
4. Keep in contact and let people know when your back home.
The risks are always there and although they're probably my favourite part I wanna know that it's as safe as it can be.
Own your promiscuity and stay safe when swiping!
Love Chrissie x
If you find yourself being a victim of a hate crime or of revenge porn remember you're not alone. Don't be stupid like me, contact the authorities or the revenge porn helpline.
Revenge porn is a grotesque crime and is a serious form of abuse.
Revenge Porn Helpline
0345 6000 459