June 10th 2015.
It was a Wednesday.
I remember it well. I had not long turned 29 (I actually thought that age was old, I’m a massive twat). I also had one of my “fuck its”.
A ‘fuck it’ is when I mentally say to myself ‘fuck it’, funnily enough.
This could be about the bar of chocolate that’s staring at me, eye to eye (if a Wispa Gold had eyes), willing me to eat it. The angel is on one shoulder and the devil on the other. I think “fuck it” and the devil wins and before you know the chocolate has found it’s way in to my massive, gluttonous gob.
The ‘fuck it’ that took place during the afternoon of Wednesday June 10th 2015 was the inception of this very website. The one you’re wondering why you’re perusing right now. Well, actually, that’s a lie. Not *the* exact one. The one I set up back in June 2015 was on a different platform but it was still called Our Rach Blogs.
I wish I could drop that “blogs” from my moniker. It sounds so lame. And, as I’ve discovered over the last 3 years; I’m not actually a blogger.
When I first put finger to keyboard back in 2015, I genuinely, hand on heart, on my life, thought a blogger was someone who kept an online diary of sorts. A place for somebody to share their thoughts, opinions, fears, updates and passions in the written form. For anyone to have a read of. And, were you to do what I just did and Google the dictionary definition of the word ‘blog’, you’d discover my understanding of the term “blogging” is indeed correct.
However, in practice; it’s not.
WHY?! I (don’t) hear you cry.
Social media, I guess.
Moreover, Instagram. My second least favourite social media platform.
I can remember towards the end of 2015, when my passion for writing/blogging was in full swing (heck, I was obsessed). I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why everyone I’d connected with via social media was churning out review after review after review and talking about PR’s and campaigns and gift guides. This was totally alien to me. And so far from what I wanted to do.
I just wanted to write. About whatever I desired.
I wanted my words to have an effect on the reader. I wanted to resonate. I wanted to help. I wanted to make people laugh. I wanted to get people thinking.
And I’m not sure why I’ve written the above in past tense. Because all of those things, all of those aims, are still a desire of mine. They are still the reason I write (albeit not very often).
Aside from the feelings of pride and overwhelming love my son provides me, the second best feeling I’ve ever known is when someone compliments me on something I’ve written. You might as well have handed me Tom Hardy or Cillian Murphy and told me they’re at my disposable for the foreseeable. It’s that strong a feeling.
Knowing that something I’ve produced has made someone think. Or even made them laugh is addictive. It’s fucking brilliant. The buzz is like nothing else.
Knowing that my posts about anxiety and depression have inspired others to seek help for their mental health battles is humbling.
However, what stops me from writing as frequently as I did in the early days is frustration.
I have made friends with some fucking talented people over the last 3 years. People who make the most incredible videos, or write the most brilliant articles or even come up with the most random, most hilarious posts on Twitter.
But they don’t get the success they deserve.
That success is handed to the people who don’t deserve it.
The arse lickers who would sell their last shred of integrity to the highest bidder.
The shit writers who couldn’t tell the difference between their, they’re and there if there life depended on it (see what I did their?!).
And it’s SO. FUCKING. DEMORALISING.
I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I’m the best writer to ever grace this planet. Because I’m not. That’s Caitlin Moran.
But I know I’ve got something. A modicum of talent. Something that hooks people in and keeps them coming back for more. However, I value my integrity and my own personal ambitions more than any opportunity I’ve been offered before. And I know, deep down, in fact it’s not even that deep, that were I to #Spon it right up, I wouldn’t be being me.
Kudos to those who want to do that area of work. Good for you. But not for me. I can’t even influence my son to not piss all over the bathroom floor let alone influence you, dear reader, to part with your hard earned cash for some product I’ve got fuck all interest in.
It’s been a great 3 years pouring my heart and soul into these posts. It’s drained me. It’s uplifted me. It’s left me cringing so damn hard I’m surprised my toes are left with circulation. But fuck me it’s been worth it. Because when someone pops up on my Facebook page or tweets me to say “loved it”, I feel like I’ve won the lottery 3 times over.
So – THANK YOU.
Thank you for indulging me.
You have no idea what you have done for me.