This is me

Many people think of me as a dark, mysterious being that gives the impression she hates life but let me tell you: the title of this post came about because I was jamming to the epic Camp Rock tune in my room earlier on.Yes, I like Camp Rock songs. Yes, you have my permission to judge.

Many people also believe I like to keep to myself and open up to few. Were it not for the numerous blog posts I have published dealing with very personal issues of my past I would say those people are accurate in their beliefs. I promise though, there are valid explanations behind my attitude/behaviour and those of you that have I have opened up to will understand that.

For those of you that haven’t had the privilege of venturing beyond my walls, now is your chance to delve just a little deeper into the present mind of Olivia Dawson. You must be humbled.

Between the age of 13 and 16 I had very low self-esteem, very little self-belief and little or no confidence in myself (apart from when I was on the pitch). I struggled with the social aspect of school because of this. In an attempt to "fit in," I found myself morphing into a person I believed would be admired by others, even if that person was just a character I had created to fit the show that was my early teenage life.

Though it may sound hard to believe, popularity was never something I craved, mainly because the ‘popular’ people in my town were dicks and I most certainly didn’t want to be known as a dick. Ironically I became known as far worse, but that’s a story I’ve probably already written about. Basically, I wanted people to think of me as the cool, laidback girl that was really good at sports and liked Paramore. And that’s exactly who I was until 3^rd year.

To think that I went from that broken, shell of a girl to the person I am now is pretty incredible, not to blow my own trumpet or anything. By the time I reached the end of Transition Year I was in the I-don’t-give-a-flying-fuck-what-you-think mind frame and there was no going back from there. What really helped my self-esteem issues was parting ways with the year group I had been with from 1^st to 3^rd year. Starting 5^th year with a group of girls that knew (more or less) nothing about me was so refreshing and uplifting. Also, I was free from most of the teachers that had seen me at my worst so I felt like I was turning over a new leaf in all aspects of my school life.

One thing that changed my whole perception of myself was starting this blog at the beginning of 5th year. I had always kept my thoughts and my writings to myself but the blog allowed me to truly express how I felt with my own words; not the gossiping words of other people. Not only did putting my thoughts online for anyone to view help me to grow in confidence, so too did the amount of encouraging feedback I received from my peers at school. All of whom were part of my new year group, might I add.

I slowly began to walk through the corridors with my head held high again, taking little heed of the people that disliked me and focusing more on the smiles I got from the ones that now respected me. In my spare time I helped to train an u.14 girls team with my local soccer club and many of those girls were also students in my school. After a few weeks of training them and getting to know them, I started to notice younger girls in the school staring at me in the halls and whispering as I walked past. At first the self-conscious me began fretting that they knew something about me or they that thought I was a freak (which I kind of was, to be fair).

It was only when I overheard some girls talking in the bathrooms one day that I realised I was wrong. They must’ve only been in first year but I heard one of them say to her friend, “Is that the girl that plays with Ireland?” The other one answered, in a flatteringly excited tone, “Yeah. She trains me up at Celtic!” All I could do was smile.

From then on I started to walk with a tinge of arrogance in my step, knowing that some of the younger students looked up to me, sort of. I had never felt like that in my previous five years of school so I was rather enjoying it. I mean, who wouldn’t? This was the new generation of teenyboppers in the school and they knew who I was. I had a presence that they noticed. I felt like Queen B herself.

However, I never let that show. If you passed me in the corridor you would think I was having the worst day of my life. I was always frowning with a serious expression on my face. Even my friends said they were once scared of me! For those of you that remember that look on my face let me tell you, it was all an act. I made myself look scary and intimidating on purpose. I did that so people would know better than to cross me again; that I was no longer in a position where I had no choice but to put up with people’s shit.

And it worked. Numerous girls that I became friendly with in the year group told me that at first they had been afraid to sit next to me or to even talk to me. Now most people would hate for others to think of them in such a way, but not me. I loved it. One of the girls told me that her friends said I “look angry all the time” and that she can’t convince them that I’m actually quite a nice person. I’m not going to lie - hearing that made me grin like a Cheshire cat. How sadistic of me.

I went back to work after I finished my Leaving Cert last summer and one day found myself talking to a girl about our Pres days. She suddenly remembered something her younger sister, who was in either 2^nd or 3^rd year in the Pres had said to her a few weeks prior. She told me that her sister asked her one day, “Do you work with Olivia Dawson?” When she replied yes her sister exclaimed, “Oh my God, she’s so cool! All of my friends are afraid of her in school. She’s such a bad-ass.” I couldn’t help but wonder how they would know of my bad-assness. They weren’t even in the school when I was in my prime pretending to faint on April Fools’ Day or when I drank vodka at lunchtime in 3rd year. See? Bad-ass.

What led me to writing this post was another story my sister told me this evening. She said that during the week at school a girl in her class came up to her and asked her was she friends with me outside of school. Elena replied, “Umm, she’s my sister?” to which the girl proclaimed, “No way! I’ve always thought she was so cool. She’s the girl I always saw with the guitar and thought was really cool. I saw her walking through town with your mom one day and I wanted to say hi but I thought she wouldn’t know who I was, so I didn’t.” Once again, the tinge of arrogance returned to my step.

It’s easy to think you’re worthless and invisible in a world where the amount of ‘likes’ you get on a Facebook status define your social status, but it’s also just as easy to look at the small things that can make you feel great in a big way. That’s my secret. That’s exactly what I did. Yes, I may have grown up and matured a little after a transition year filled with doing nothing, but ultimately my confidence came from the positive energy I felt from others. Positive energy from total strangers made me feel like I could achieve anything and it still does. Every few months I’ll get an anonymous comment on my blog saying how much someone likes my style of writing or how great the blog is, and it’s these comments more than anything that keep my self-esteem on track.

I don’t need a hundred ‘likes’ or a thousand page views to make me confident in myself. I don’t rely on social media popularity to verify that people like or respect me. It’s easy to click a button on a computer screen to show your support but sometimes that can be misleading. So if you think I share these posts on social media platforms to get my “fix” you’re sadly mistaken. My highs come from spoken words, direct messages, blog comments and most of all, people who tell me I have inspired or enlightened them in some way. Even if it’s in the tiniest of ways.

That’s just me. This is how I’ve developed as a person. This is how I maintain my levels of self-esteem and this is how I have become the confident person I am today. I don’t keep to myself because I lack the confidence to do otherwise; I keep to myself because I am confident enough in my choices to know that I don’t need the whole world to think I’m an amazing person. So if I have ever offended you in any way by not making polite conversation or small talk, don’t take it personally. This is me.

"You play for Ireland?"

I can’t remember a day of my entire childhood where I wasn’t kicking a football around, wearing a jersey or planning my future career as a professional soccer player. As a child, the dream was to wear the green jersey. Not a shop-bought one, though – the real deal. The fact that I’m a girl was never an issue, nor did it ever hinder me in my ambitions on the pitch. So you can imagine my delight when I received "the call" for the first time.

I began playing soccer as soon as I could walk, and that is no exaggeration. My poor sister’s first word was “ball,” for God’s sake. My learning of the beautiful game first came from my two older cousins, male of course, who showed me no mercy despite the two and three year age gap between us. I then moved houses and a new neighbour (also two years my senior) became my mentor. He taught me every trick in the book and after five years of playing matches every single evening until dark, I earned my place on my first Gaynor Cup squad with South Munster.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Gaynor Cup, it’s the female version of the Kennedy Cup. And for those of you unfamiliar with both, it’s an annual soccer tournament with teams from every province competing in it, where trials are held in order to make the team. So this was some serious stuff for a thirteen year old, let me tell you.

The Gaynor Cup took place in the University of Limerick at the end of June every year. It was a weekend tournament, so I had experience of staying in Kilmurry Village long before I ever moved here for college. For the first two tournaments that I was at, I was very much a timid player that would be considered a substitute rather than one of the starting eleven. I had no confidence in myself as a player outside of my comfort zone (the Kerry league) and I was intimidated by the big names on my team, such as Clare Shine, Amy O’ Connor, and the likes.

However, things changed dramatically in 2011. It was my third Gaynor Cup and for some reason beyond my recollection, the big names were never at training leading up to the tournament. That in itself gave me far more confidence in the build-up to the tournament because I was no longer intimidated at training sessions. June came, as did the opening match of the tournament. I believe it was the Midlands (or something to that effect) we were playing. All I need to tell you is I scored a hat-trick in the first half of that match and we went on to win the Gaynor Cup that year.

Within a matter of weeks I received a phone call from a member of the FAI with news that I had been selected to attend trials in Dublin for the Ireland U.17 women’s squad. Bear in mind I was fifteen years old at the time. I can still remember the moment I got the news. It was a dark, rainy evening but as soon as I heard, I darted out the conservatory door and ran two laps of the field in front of my house before texting every number in my contacts. I wasn’t excited or anything.

From there I secured a place on the U.17 squad heading to England at the end of August for a week’s training camp and two friendlies against England. It was hands down one of the coolest experiences of my life running onto that pitch wearing the number 17 jersey. I played left-midfield for Ireland, which was a position I was not accustomed to. Growing up I was always either centre mid or up front for Killarney Celtic, so it took a while to get used to my new position. Let me warn you, playing on the wings involves A LOT more running than you think. Than I thought, should I say.

Heading to Dublin for training camps became fairly routine from then on. Harry Kenny, the manager of the U.17s at the time, kept me on that squad because he “saw the potential in me” to be the starting left-midfielder when I was the right age. Roll on a year and I am the starting left-midfield for the U.16 team, playing against Arsenal Ladies, and then the U.17 team playing against Northern Ireland. I was at my ultimate level. Amy O’ Connor in right-mid, me in left-mid – there was no topping us. There was no-one my age in my position in the country that was faster than me, more skilful than me, fitter than me, a better goal-scorer than me; I was feared by every newcomer at every trial. I truly felt untouchable but remained modest at the same time. I prided myself on the fact that I never became an arrogant, cocky bitch, unlike some of the other girls I played alongside.

After the Gaynor Cup of 2012 it was announced that Harry Kenny would no longer be U.17 Head Coach. With cuts being made to the FAI’s budget, of course it had to be taken out on the women’s teams. From then on, the U.17s would be managed by the U.19s coach, Dave Connell. Now at this stage I had built up a pretty nice relationship with Harry. I liked Harry. Harry liked me. He had kept me under his wing and groomed me until I was ready to be unleashed. Unfortunately, I hadn’t a clue who Dave Connell was, nor did he have a clue who I was. This did not work in my favour at all, as you will realise shortly.

Nevertheless we regrouped in Dublin for another three-day training camp, expecting the same routine as always. Gear up, do a lengthy warm-up, a few drills and then full-length matches for the rest of the day. Oh, what a shock we got. Not only were we appointed a new Head Coach, we were also given the news that we would now be training alongside the U.19s. Let me inform you, the U.19s were a different breed. They were bigger, faster, stronger and a hell of a lot more aggressive than the U.17s.

We struggled on and it eventually became normal to train with the U.19s. It was mid-August and we were preparing for a UEFA qualifiers tournament in Macedonia (I think) in October, so there was a great buzz around the AUL Complex.

And then, one sunny Sunday afternoon, my international career came to an abrupt end. We had been doing some drills with the U.19s and in a bid to show I was unafraid and to impress my new manager, I lunged into a slide-tackle with one of the older girls. Needless to say play carried on but for me that was where it all fell apart. I lay on the ground in staggering pain while the physio and doctor rushed onto the pitch to me. They bandaged my ankle and laughed as they assured me I would be back up to training in two weeks, good as new. How wrong could they have been?

That day I tore both ligaments and tendons in my right ankle, meaning I was going to be out of action for a minimum of three months, depending on recovery speed, etc. I was devastated. To be so close to such an important tournament and having to watch as I was replaced on the squad list was torture. I had spent two and a half years travelling up and down to Cork every week for training and matches, going to the gym every other day, spending my parents’ money on trips to Dublin for training camps only to fall short at the final hurdle. It turns my stomach just thinking about it.

My recovery time was far longer than I had anticipated. In total, I was unable to play a full match for 12 months. Even when I was playing for the last twenty minutes of matches I was a shadow of the player I used to be. My ankle was not strong enough to shoot with the power it had in the past, and it also meant my speed and reflexes were greatly inhibited. Basically my overall performance was no longer good enough to play on the Irish team.

The last time I attended a trial in Dublin was this time two years ago. It had been over a year since the injury and I was invited up in the hope I had fully recovered. I had been handed a chance to reclaim my number 11 jersey but my ankle just wasn’t right. I lasted the trials, just about, but I didn’t receive another email after that. I knew what it meant. Managers like Dave Connell don’t wait around for players, they simply replace you. So I was replaced.

That’s the story of my time as an international soccer player. I’ll never forget that feeling when people asked “You play for Ireland?” Even today when I tell others of my glory days I feel pride when they proclaim “You used to play for Ireland?”

Yes, I used to play for Ireland. Yes, I miss playing for Ireland. No, I will never play for Ireland again.

Is same-sex marriage the inevitable next step in 21st century Ireland?

Two years ago my secondary school English teacher suggested I enter a writing competition with the headline above as the essay title. For some reason, though I had plenty to say on the topic, I decided against writing the essay. I guess in some subconscious way I was waiting for the right time to voice my opinion. With the same-sex marriage referendum just around the corner, I believe that time is now.

In just over three months’ time, this small nation will cast a vote which will have massive consequences regardless of the outcome. Should the majority of people vote yes, the constitution will be amended and same-sex marriage will be made legal in Ireland. Should the majority of people vote no, no changes will be made and same-sex marriage will remain illegal. Right now, the main question being asked is how do we know whether to vote yes or no?

First and foremost, a yes vote would be historical. We would literally be making history. Just over twenty years ago homosexuality was illegal in Ireland, punishable by imprisonment. Fast forward a few years and here we are, the power to change the lives of thousands of Irish citizens in our hands.

From my understanding of marriage it is the eternal binding together of two people, made possible only by love. Who are we to decide which couples can love and which cannot? That would be utterly pretentious of us, would it not? Unfortunately, an extremely powerful and persuasive body in Ireland does its best to convince us that we can in fact make that decision on behalf of others.

The Catholic Church in Ireland teaches that marriage is a commitment made by a man and a woman to love and cherish one another “til death do us part.” However, when you consider the large number of divorces filed each year in this country, it hardly seems fair to say that the Church make clear, unbiased judgements when it comes to the union of marriage.

Since the 12^th century when marriage became a practised custom in Ireland, the Catholic Church has ruled that only two people of the opposite sex can wed. These teachings cannot be blamed on the Church of today. Today’s bishops of Ireland are simply going by teachings that have been handed down century after century, from a time when homosexuality was unheard of.

The reason, I believe, the Church has always taught that marriage is between a man and a woman is because homosexuals of the 12^th century did not even realise they were homosexual. In fact, the term “homosexual” wasn’t coined until the mid-19^th century. Back then, it was all to do with “unnatural practises.” Readings in the Bible comment on how sexual relations between two women or two men are “unnatural” and should be punished. However, is it natural for a man to watch porn every day, despite the fact that he lies next to his wife every night? No it’s not, but we accept it because it is part of 21^st century culture.

In that very same way, we should accept that homosexuality exists and it is an undeniable part of today’s culture. By that I don’t mean homosexuality is a construct of our culture; more so that it is no longer a vice than ought to be supressed or hidden. I’m sure many of us don’t approve of our neighbour’s binge-drinking habits or of our grandmother’s three-legged cat that hisses every time we pass it. But just because we don’t approve doesn’t give us the right to take away the bottle or run over the cat. In that very same way, just because we don’t approve of same-sex couples doesn’t give us the right to take away their right to marriage.

 I could have used this time to inform you of all the legalities and intricacies same-sex couples face concerning custody of children, ownership of property, etc. But I felt at this stage you would have heard enough of that on Vincent Brown, and the likes. Instead I wanted to take you back to when it all began. Are we going to let an outdated scripture dictate the lives of thousands of Irish citizens? Love is the foundation of every marriage, not sexuality. Who knows how long we will have to wait for another opportunity like this if the referendum is not passed. Are we willing to put peoples’ lives on hold any longer than they already have been?

So when I’m asked if I believe the legalisation of same-sex marriage is the inevitable next step in 21^st century Ireland, my answer always has been and always will be yes. Would I encourage you to vote yes in the upcoming referendum? Of course I would. As the Bible teaches - true love waits. And it cannot be denied that the thousands of homosexual couples of Ireland have waited long enough for their love to be recognised. Let’s bring that wait to an end this May.

Where I find my inspiration

The past few hours I’ve been wandering around my house in my pyjamas, longing to write but not knowing what to write about. It seems I’ve exhausted almost every aspect of myself on this blog already. As the frustration built and built within me, I realised there is one topic I am yet to write about. Ironic as it is, that topic is where I find my inspiration when writing.

It’s difficult to say exactly what leads me to a blank Microsoft Word document with a mug of tea in hand, but I’ve come up with a few ideas.

First and foremost, the bulk of my inspiration comes from real-life events. Things that have happened to me in the past, issues I am currently working through, or even issues I have watched others go through. I write about my experiences, my emotions, and my opinions. It may sound self-centred and somewhat egotistic, but that’s my style. I don’t just write for the benefit of others’ reading habits and entertainment, I write as a form of expression and release. To be honest, I’d say the person that benefits most from my blog posts is myself!

Another area I draw inspiration from is music. I listen to a wide array of artists and bands, ranging from the likes of You Me At Six and Paramore to Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. Not a day goes by without my iPod being played, whether it be Kelly Clarkson in the shower, or Alesso whilst getting ready to hit the town. Music helps me open my mind to stories and experiences I love to remember or long to forget. Either way, it triggers something inside of me and I feel the creativity pouring out.

Oftentimes, people are the greatest source of inspiration. I am inspired by different people every single day, and they don’t realise it most of the time. Observing is a skill and just happens to be something I am very good at. I like to watch people going about their normal routines, or listen to their opinions on anything and everything. You can never tell when someone is going to say one word or one sentence that will spark inspiration inside of you.

One thing that really drives me to succeed in writing is seeing others doing well in their areas of interest. For example, seeing others in my course getting work published or sharing links to their own blogs makes me want a reason to share a link to mine. I don’t mean it in a competitive way obviously, it just works as a source of motivation. For me, that’s a great thing. I can only see it as a positive that we motivate each other to write more often.

Having said that, getting work published is not my main concern. In fact, I have never once tried to get any work published. I write because I enjoy it, and I love making something beautiful from words. Many of you may be wondering how a basic blog post can be beautiful, but I guess that’s something I can’t really explain to you. It’s like when an artist paints a picture or a poet writes a poem. A finished blog post is, to me, lyrical and expressive. Some people express themselves through music; I express myself through writing.

I’m sure there’s one source of inspiration you are waiting for me to state, but guess what? I don’t read. Shock, horror I know. A journalist in the making that doesn’t read. Is that even possible? Of course it is. Back to inspiration, though. I can imagine how much more I would have to write about and how much more open my mind would be if I read any sort of writings, but I don’t. I’ve never been interested in reading and I’m not sure I ever will be. I like to read other blogs and some feature articles in magazines, but that’s literally it. The last book I read was “The Fault In Our Stars,” and that was about two years ago. I can’t even read a newspaper without getting bored. Not your average journalism student but hey, c’est la vie.

What inspires and motivates me most to keep this blog going is my love of writing. From serious to light-hearted, poetry to personal essays, I am in love with the English language. It is the reason I’m in the course I’m in. I’ve never been interested in reporting facts and writing without an opinion – that bores me to death. I write what I write not because I feel it’s relevant and current in society, but because it’s relevant and current to me. And that’s the way I will write for the entirety of my career. If you read otherwise, I’m most likely a POW in a Nazi newspaper and you should really come help me out.

13 things I won't do next semester

1.  Pay more than €3 for a taxi home 

Taxi drivers can be really decent human beings, from time to time. Other times, they’re utter assholes. They prey on the intoxicated, already devilishly poor students that they find stumbling down Ellen Street, in search of any means of getting home. The reason taxi drivers target these students is because they view them as an easy profit. Any young person, if adequately inebriated, will fork out anything between €5- €10 each in order to get themselves home. Boom, a nice jackpot there for the lucky taxi driver. 

This semester however, I will point blank refuse any taxi driver that is not willing to take me home for €3, provided there are four of us in the taxi. He should be thrilled by the prospects of €12 for a short, less-than-ten minute drive out to the university. If not, I’ll simply walk two metres down the road to the next taxi. By the time you’ve shut the door on nine taxis, the tenth taxi driver definitely won’t say no.

2.  Go out wearing heels 

Not that I ever did that during the first semester. I’m just restating the fact that I refuse to wear heels in Limerick. Towards the end of the first semester I honestly tried my best to wear a pair out one night. I got as far as the house twenty metres from mine and couldn’t endure the pain any longer.

I don’t know how I used to do it in Killarney. Every night without fail I would wear heels on a night out. Now I can barely look at the damn things without a blister forming on my heel. I guess when it boils down to it, going out in Killarney is all very pretentious compared to Limerick. It’s all about who you’ll see out, what they’ll see you wearing, who they’ll see you with, etc. In Limerick, it’s all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no trouble… Okay no it’s not, but it really is all about the dancing and the drinking. How it ought to be, in my opinion.

3.  Buy chicken from Lidl 

Since coming to college and realising that Lidl is a far shorter walk than Aldi, Lidl has become my bae. Chocolate, ice cream, drink, cookies; you name it, Lidl has it. And for way less than the likes of Tesco or Super Valu, my once preferred choice of supermarkets.

With the development of this newfound love for the German super-company, I made the decision to trust it with my main source of nutrition in the whole college week – chicken breasts. Chicken curry, chicken stir-fry… I expected my list of chicken-based meals to be longer, but that’s it. But yeah, I like my chicken. So you can only imagine my disgust when I realised the chicken I had bought (with five days left before the use-by date, btw) was entirely gone off. Now imagine my horror at the thought that I am chickenless for the entire week. That’s a good three dinners out of five gone out the window. Chicken balls.

4.  Miss more than 10 hours of college a week 

Probably something I shouldn’t have to put on this list. Nevertheless, we all know there are times in the week when you have zero motivation to make that ten-minute trek to a lecture you know will be online the next day. Especially when it’s raining. And getting dark. And the housemate asks who wants tea. And you really would love a cup of tea.

Maybe then it’s okay to miss an hour here and there, but certainly no more than that. Last semester was pretty reckless and although there were only a few weeks where I missed a significant amount of hours, I’m going to redeem myself this semester.

Last semester, I devised the idea of a drink jar. For every hour of college that is missed, a euro must be placed in the drink jar. At the end of the semester, the money is spent on, well, drink. Unfortunately, I contributed a large sum of money to the drink jar. That won’t be happening this time around, though. My housemates laughed when I told them I plan on going to every college hour of semester two. Well, I’m determined to prove them wrong. For my pocket’s sake, at least.

5.  Say hi to the village manager 

Quite simply, he’s a bit of a bollocks. Many an evening I have walked past him, made eye contact in an attempt to say hello, and he has glided past me as if I wasn’t even there. I don’t know if he suffers from massive blind spots in both of his eyes, or if he’s just a miserable fucker. Either way, I won’t be caught almost wasting my breath on him again.

6.  Go to the library 

You would think, what with all the time I missed of college last semester that this would be on my list of things I WILL do this semester. But no, it is not. I don’t know about you, but I hate the library. It’s always full no matter what time of the day you go there, and there’s always a bloody queue greeting you when you get through security. Because yes, that’s what it feels like to me when I walk through the library doors. I feel like I should be whipping out my passport as a second form of ID in case my student card fails me.

On top of that, I haven’t a fucking clue where anything is in there. For those of you that need to find a book but haven’t been into the library yet, don’t bother. Seriously, don’t. It’s too big. You’ll spend longer trying to find your way back out of the library than it would take to order the book online and have it delivered by standard mail from China.

7.  Order pizza twice a week 

Or even once a week for that matter. The amount of fivers I have handed over to the men in little cars is ridiculous. Not only that, it’s so unhealthy. There’s a reason those pizza deals are five euro, and it’s not because they’re made with only the finest ingredients.

I know what you’re thinking. “But it’s so convenient and it’s relatively cheap and it means no cooking for the night, woooooo.” Oh believe me, I love seeing that anonymous number appearing on my screen as much as the next person but cutbacks must be made this semester.

I know what you’re thinking. “Boo, you whore.”

8.  Leave my bedroom door unlocked overnight 

Somehow I survived the whole of the first semester without having my room raided and destroyed. The other not so lucky housemates had toothpaste on their mirrors, chairs stuck out their windows, clothes thrown everywhere and even a fortress made out of their whole room. How I escaped the wrath of the “lads” is pretty obvious – I put the fear of God into them. I know damn well they’d be too afraid to even breathe in my room for fear of me noticing.

I hope to maintain this fear factor right through to May, so as to safeguard my personal belongings and most importantly, my food. Having said that, I will still take precaution and lock my door at night. You know, just in case.

9.  Stay up until 6am on a Sunday night 

Ah, Sundays. The day of rest. The day we all arrive back in Limerick for the week. The night we all go to bed before 12am because we all have 9am starts the following morning…

WRONG. Even though literally nothing exciting ever happens on a Sunday night (unless we order Chinese. That’s pretty exciting), I somehow still end up awake at all hours of the night. It actually bothers me. Why do we do that to ourselves?! I don’t even… Anyway. Let’s hope for better sleep this semester.

10.  Have a midday shower 

You know that thing in the hot press that allows you to put the hot water/ heating on earlier or for longer? Yeah, ours doesn’t work. Maybe it’s this way for every house in Kilmurry, but in our house the hot water takes about three hours to heat up from the time it’s actually switched on. So every time I leave the hot water on for an extra two hours in the mornings to accommodate my afternoon showers, I still end up having a lukewarm shower. And we all know how miserable one feels after a lukewarm shower. It spoils your mood for the rest of the day. That 5pm lecture looks even more depressing than it did before your lukewarm shower. Then it starts raining. Then your housemate offers you tea…

11.  Rejoin badminton 

Remember that feeling of anticipation and excitement at the start of the semester, as you signed up for different, exotic sports you had never tried before? That was me when I joined badminton. No, let me rephrase. When I wasted a fucking tenner to play a sport I don’t even like for about three weeks.

This semester I will be wiser. I will tread with caution at the Clubs & Societies registration day. In fact, I might just stay at home and eat. Yeah, I think I’ll do that.

12.  Arrive late to a lecture 

From what I’ve seen of students that arrive late into a full lecture hall, they immediately regret it. They are usually greeted with a sarcastic remark from the lecturer, followed by sniggers from the hundreds of people staring at them.

I can understand why someone who is two minutes late to a lecture the whole way down in Kemmy would go in, but those people that stroll in twenty minutes late with a blank expression on their face? They bewilder me. My face winces just watching them open the door (that always creaks when you're late, might I add) and try to creep in unnoticed. Oh no my friend, we all see you. We will continue to see you as you search for a seat amid the rows of staring faces. And we will laugh when the lecturer picks on you and makes fun of your hair or your flowery shirt. You pussyshit.

13.  Get a bus at 5pm 

Oh merciful Lord. For those of you craters that are forced to get a bus from the Stables at 5pm every day, you will know what I’m talking about. All’s well and good until the screen shows “304 Ballycummin – 2 mins.” Then people start getting anxious. The crowd swells around the outside of the bus shelter, each person trying to estimate where the front door of the bus will stop. When the red light of the bus comes into sight, all hell breaks loose. If you’re with someone, grab their hand or you’ll lose them in the crowd. It’s like a stampede of elephants racing to get to the watering hole first. Getting that 5pm bus is a safety hazard.

Finally, after squeezing every last person onto a bus that should only hold about fifty, you sit there uncomfortably for forty-five minutes before you reach the city centre. I kid you not. I’ve taken that bus at least four times and timed it each time. So after all the chaos and mayhem of getting onto that 5pm bus, you probably would’ve gotten into the city faster on the 5:15pm bus. Oh, the irony.

The Year of Memories

It’s been almost two and a half years since I set up this blog, and every year since then I have written a post on New Year’s Eve. This year is no exception. In fact, 2014 may be the year I have the most to say about. I’ve seen so many other posts and pictures on various social media platforms of people raving about how 2014 has been such an amazing year for them. I am no different to these others because my year has also been spectacular. For this year’s post I’m going to take you through each month of my 2014, and hopefully you’ll understand why I am so sorry to see it come to an end tonight.

January

2014 couldn’t have gotten off to a greater start than my girlfriend’s 18^th birthday. Her present from me was flights to Paris in July for our two-year anniversary. I know what you’re thinking – fucking sap. I don’t care though, it was one of, if not the best present I’ve ever gifted someone with. And before you ask, no she did not cry (which I was mildly disappointed about). We then celebrated her birthday with her best friends at her house that night. I don’t think I’ve had a better time with her friends than that night. They really are great people that I’m fortunate and grateful to know.

February

So February was indeed the month of my Leaving Cert pres. This may justify why the only pictures I have from that month are of the weekend Caoimhe’s friends and I spent in Dublin once the exams had finished. To briefly mention those exams, I thought they had gone okay so it’s safe to say I was celebrating in Dublin. I remember walking down one of the streets in the capital with Caoimhe and saying to her that I hadn’t felt this free since we started 5^th year.

We shopped, we fine-dined, we drank, we partied, and one of us (who shall remain anonymous) got kicked out of a gay nightclub. A wonderful weekend was had by all.

March

I’m beginning to realise that I made quite a few trips to Dublin this year, two of which took place in March. The first trip I made was with my Killarney crew. We had bought Kevin (my bestie) a ticket to an Ireland match in the Aviva as part of his 18^th birthday present, so we were hardly going to let him venture there solo. The match was enjoyable even though Ireland did not emerge as victors. However, it was the night out that truly made the trip worthwhile. It was so enjoyable that I don’t believe there are any pictures of it to be found.

My second trip to Dublin was with Caoimhe. We went to see one of our favourite bands, All Time Low, cause havoc in the Olympia Theatre. The absolute nutters that we are, we sat outside the Olympia from 11am that morning, just to be as near to the front barrier as we could be. Hence the Starbucks takeaway cups in our hands. The wait was worth it because the concert was phenomenal. All Time Low interact with the crowd in a way I’ve never witnessed with other bands. To top it all off, we came away with two guitar picks, the setlist and the beanie hat Jack had been wearing. #Winning.

April

Ah, April. My month of birth. It being my 18^th year, of course I had an 18^th party. To be fair, I really did have everyone I love at that party. My family, Caoimhe, my Killarney friends, my Listowel friends; everyone that mattered to me was there. My incredible group of friends (The Lissivigeeners, refer here for full description - http://hustler007.blogspot.ie/2013/12/wrapping-up-2013-with-splash-of.html ) bought me a ticket to Disneyland Paris, as they knew we were going in July. Caoimhe also took the liberty of sorting out the hotel arrangements in Paris, so I had very little expenses left to pay. What unreal presents, eh!

Another major occurrence for me in April was the Young Artist Development Awards showcase. Now this may sound very professional and fancy, but really it was just a little concert in front of the whole school. However, the part of it that was “major” for me was the fact that not only were myself and two other girls from my music class performing in front of almost 500 people, a few judges and Voice of Ireland winner Pat Byrne, we were performing a song I had written. By that I mean that I wrote the lyrics, and the other two girls came up with the melody and music for it. But still, having my lyrics sang in front of that many people was overwhelming. Even more so was the reception we received. Many, many students approached me in the aftermath telling me how much they loved the song and how powerful it was. Though we didn’t make it through to the YADA final, that showcase meant a great deal to me, and stands out as one of my greatest accomplishments this year.

May

Graduation. That is all anyone cared about in May. Yes, we may have been a mere month away from the most important exams of our lives, but all the Leaving Cert class of 2014 was concerned about was the food arrangements, the songs to be sung at the mass, what dresses each of us would be wearing, and where the hell the night would take us once we were let loose.

The night, as expected, was special. The mass was special, the songs that we chose to sing were special, the interlude from Ms. Healy on the flute was special, and the tears it brought to my eyes were special. For me, the mass was the highlight. It was the last time I would ever stand side by side with an inspirational woman, playing songs on guitar that we both loved to play. I’ll never forget the wink she gave me when we finished playing my favourite song. I felt like I had swallowed my heart.

Also, May brought about my last day of school. It was emotional, exciting, nostalgic, and in many ways a very triumphant day for me. I had finally done it. I lasted the six years that many thought I wouldn’t. By that very last day, I was clear on so many things. I knew the reasons I shed a few tears that day, and I knew who I was shedding them for (and who I most certainly was not shedding them for). The best part of that day was the teachers vs students dance-off. The reason that was the best part is because it gave me the picture below. What a way to sum up my feelings leaving that school.

June

Surprisingly, there’s not much to say about June. I spent the vast majority of it sitting in the confines of my school, taking the most anticipated exams of my life. When those exams came to an end, I really didn’t do much. I relaxed, I went out a few times, and I just lapped up the feeling of complete freedom. So yeah, it was a pretty boring month which is why I have zero pictures to show.

July

Christ, if I was to go through every aspect of July we would all be here a very long time. In fact, it wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve anymore.  To sum it up, I went to Paris with my girlfriend and when we landed back on home turf, we went straight to an Arctic Monkeys concert. Fucking epic. Since there is way too much to say about July, I’m going to let the pictures do the talking.

August

The month of the dreaded Leaving Cert results. Oh, how I was anxious. When the day finally came, I went into a sort of shutdown mode. I showed no emotion as I walked into the room with my vice-principal. It was only when she handed me the certificate that I broke. As I scanned the sheet of paper through bleary eyes in search of my English grade (the one that mattered for my course requirement), I fell to the floor when I realised all the grades showed the same letter. The vice-principal got the shock of her life, I’d say. I asked her to tell me my English grade, just in case I had hallucinated my results. When she said A1, I said fuck off. I immediately apologised, of course. I continued to weep and sob until she told me my points. I then said “Are you shitting me?” and as before, I apologised again straight away.

That, my friends, was a moment I would pay anything to relive again.

August also saw the best Muckross staff night out EVER. For the first time in my four summers working there, all of the summer staff got along really well. There were no bitchy cliques (as there had been in the past) which made the night out so great. I became friends with people I never thought I would, and I strengthened my relationships with people I already adored. Success? Hell, yes.

September, October, November

The reason I am putting these three months together is because they have sped by so fast that I can’t even pick them apart. The facts of each month haven’t changed, though.

I moved to Limerick at the beginning of September, excited yet nervous of what would be awaiting me. I met my housemates, liked them, met their friends that lived nearby, liked them too, had a few nights out, liked them, and so on. You see the pattern that formed, right? I liked everything about college in September. It wasn’t until midway through October that I fell head over heels in love with college.

As I grew closer to my housemates and their friends week by week, my perspective began to change. I no longer felt like their housemate, nor did I feel they were mine. I felt like I was living with friends. Friends that I wish I had known all my life. Friends that showed me why my “friends” of the past are exactly that.

I love my life in college. I had the best four months of my life this semester. The closest friends I have right now are friends that I have made since moving to UL. That, for me, says more than enough about the position I’m in right now.

“Perhaps I should just leave it at how amazing it is that someone who was, four months ago, a stranger to me, can now mean so much to me.”

December

What a wonderful December it has been. December 2014 has undoubtedly been one of the best Christmases of my life thus far. To begin with, I was presented with my scholarship certificate by the university, with one of my best friends alongside me receiving the very same award. Not only that, I got a massive surprise to see that my English teacher, Ms. Hennigan, had travelled up from Killarney to be there to receive the award with me. What a bloody honour it was having the woman that inspired me to choose that course in that university standing by my side. Words cannot describe how much that moment meant to me.

Then, of course, came the final hoorahs of the semester. With Christmas dinner had and the exams finally over, we danced our merry hearts away to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” in a Limerick nightclub. How utterly satisfying. Saying goodbye to the crew for Christmas was especially difficult, knowing that I wouldn’t be seeing them again for weeks.

Christmas in Killarney, however, has been extremely successful. In our family the rate of success was measured by the fact that for the first time in 20 years of marriage, my mom did not ask my dad for a receipt for the presents he got her. See? Successful Christmas in the Dawson household.

…

2014 really has been a special year in many ways. I’ve made memories I will always remember, I’ve shared experiences I will never forget, I’ve said goodbye to people that changed my life, and I’ve met people that I know are going to bring me a ridiculous amount of joy and happiness in the new year.

So that’s it from me this year. I apologise for the lack of blogposts (Leaving Cert and all), but I will be sure to increase my blogging output in 2015. Until then, have a wonderful New Year and be ready for 2015 – I already know it’s going to be spectacular.

Refreshment, anyone?

In just under two weeks I will be sitting my first end of semester exam. My first taste of a real college exam. Where have the past thirteen weeks gone?

Originally I had planned to write a post at Christmas entitled “What I’ve Learned So Far,” or something along those lines. A few nights ago however, my housemate suggested the title above instead. I knew exactly what she meant. Rather than simply listing off all of the things I’ve learned thus far, I’m going to write about how things have changed for me, personally since my big move to Limerick.

…

Bitch. That was my first impression of her. The “her” I am referring to is one of my housemates. The first of the females in my house that I was to meet. Her room is opposite mine and for the first few weeks, I wished it wasn’t. I was so sure that we wouldn’t get along and that I’d end up hating her within weeks. What a promising start, eh?

Well, I couldn’t have been more horribly wrong. This girl who I initially despised is the best and closest friend I have now. It just goes to show how wrong we can be about people when we judge based on first impressions. Having said that, she also thought I was a bitch, so I don’t feel that bad.

My judgement is usually spot on when it comes to sussing people out, but I can hold my hands high and admit I made a balls of this one. The connection that has formed between us is crazy. I’ve only ever had one other friendship that can compare to this one, and that friendship lasted 11 years. I’ve never even compared any friendship to the 11-year one so to even make that comparison says so much. I still can’t really believe how lucky I got to be put into a house with this girl. Out of the thousands of people I could be living across from, I’m living across from her. Hashtag winning.

Seriously though, if you lived with us you’d understand why I’m so dumbstruck by it all. It couldn’t be any more obvious that we get along like a house on fucking fire. It’s like we have the same mind, just split in two and in different bodies. We have identical sense of humours, meaning we spend most of our time laughing rather than studying. I’m smiling now because I can remember the first time I knew our personalities clicked. We were watching Forrest Gump at the part towards the end of the movie when Lt. Dan introduces his fiancée, Susan. I don’t know exactly what we said to each other, all I know is we laughed hysterically and uncontrollably for the rest of the movie. Not only are our sense of humours in sync, we literally say what each other are thinking ALL OF THE TIME. It’s no wonder we find it impossible to close our bedroom doors at night – we never, ever run out of things to talk about or laugh at. I truly mean it when I say I couldn’t have gotten any luckier if I tried.

My luck didn’t run out there, though. I have also been blessed with an incredible new group of friends. Between my house, house 38 and a few stragglers we found along the way, the banter is always in plentiful supply. A day hasn’t gone by where we haven’t had the usual visitors, or made the tedious twenty-metre trip to 38 ourselves.

When I was moving to Limerick the one thing I absolutely did not want was housemates that knew each other. You can imagine how horrified I was on the realisation that three of my housemates went to secondary school together, and another was from the same county as those three. I immediately assumed I would be isolated from their group because I was the outsider from Kerry. Of course there was the sixth housemate whom I had been banking on but by the end of week one he had bonded so well with the others that I began to think he, too, was in fact from Clare.

Yet again I was wrong about the whole thing. They are honestly the nicest, most genuine group of people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, not to mind living with. I know that invitations to visit them in Clare over Christmas are sincere and not only that, my desire to visit them is also sincere. These are people I truly believe (and hope) I will be friends with for the rest of my life. Fuck it, sure I’ve already asked one of them to be my maid of honour! Not everyone that lands into college in first year gets on with their housemates as well as I do, and I will never take that for granted.

Meeting so many new people has had a massive impact on the person I am now compared to the person I was four months ago. That may sound ridiculous because of how short of a space four months is, but it’s the absolute truth. I feel so fresh and renewed, but most of all I feel untainted. I came here with a blank sheet of paper. No marks from my past followed me here. College has really allowed me to fully close (and lock) the door I had spent six years walking through. I was finally able to ditch the oxygen tank I had been relying on in secondary school and learn to breathe fresh air. What a difference it has made.

Even just living away from home has done so much for me, personally. I know 110% I was not ready to leave home last year, so thank Jesus for that extra year in school. This year, however, was the right time for the change to happen. Everything has fallen into place so perfectly. In fact, I honestly couldn’t have even scripted this; it’s better than any storyline I could write. The transition from living in Killarney to living in Limerick has happened so naturally that it’s almost as if I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. For the life I’m currently living. The best life I’ve ever known. 

And that is something worth writing about.