Be. More. Fishcat.

Why the world only gets brighter adding photos of yourself you hate, to the eyes of people you love. A random life lesson from my 2024 camera roll!

CATFISH

It’s 2024. I’ve just arrived on holiday with my friends. It’s August. I’ve not slept yet, having done an all-night date, thinking, What’s the point in sleeping if I’m up so early for my flight? Nursing a cigarette between my teeth at 4am while holding a can of margarita. Chatting to a man who my brain can only translate as Ryan Gosling. High and chatting a million miles an hour.

I shower in my room, shove on my bikini and a big T-shirt, and get ready to head down to see everyone properly. Usually on holidays I leave my phone in my room. But this time, I search for it in my bag and clutch it in my hand as I walk towards the pool where everyone is sat. The sun’s heat hits my back and it feels glorious. There’s a BBQ starting somewhere, and the excitement of being here starts to sink in.

But every third thought is about last night, and when he’ll text me. At 6am I sent a photo from the airport. My heart dropped when nothing had arrived on my phone in response when I landed and got signal again. Maybe he’s still asleep? I guess it is still morning there, I told myself, at 11am. And we didn’t sleep, so maybe he’s still in my flat? I left crumpets out from the freezer and peanut butter for him.

I greet everyone, grab a beer, and laugh about the night I’ve had. I tell everyone he’s amazing. Really relaxed and interesting. Athletic and kind.

“He’s still in your flat?” one friend says. “Rose, that’s so weird. He’s a stranger.”

I laugh and look down. For some reason I trusted him. Something felt familiar. He told me at 5am he couldn’t wait to see me again. He spent all night commenting on my appearance. So what’s the problem? I thought. Not defensive, but genuinely unsure what could have gone wrong.

We catch up and talk about the week ahead. But I’m looking down at my phone every five minutes. Flicking between my WhatsApp conversation with the Ryan Gosling lookalike - which still hasn’t started yet today - and the clock app, where I’m glancing down at the time in the UK. Just an hour behind us.

We eat lunch and rub our bodies with lotion. The view looks like a canvas and my eyes start to water. I can’t tell if I’m sad or just super emotional to be here. The thought that he’s ghosted me feels too horrendous. Surely not? Surely not after all of those conversations and joyful moments?

But suddenly it’s 3pm. Maybe he’s still asleep? It is 2pm there, I think. I guess that’s not weird. We didn’t sleep at all, I keep telling myself. Not everyone can miss a night of sleep, Rose. He must be tired.

But the day goes on and I’m unfocused. I start to feel embarrassed by the message I sent so early today, saying how much fun I had and how much I can’t wait to see him again. I hate myself and want to put my phone in my room. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I need the hit of a reply.

I start telling myself that whatever pops up is better than this silence.

Then it’s 6pm. Then it’s 8pm.

I get too embarrassed to tell people that the same guy I did my all-night date with still hasn’t messaged me back.

One of my best friends sees my mood swing - thick and fast on zero sleep. I can’t drink anymore. I eat a huge dinner. Suddenly staying awake past 10pm feels impossible. A rapid-cycle low hits like a truck and I can’t believe it.

I hug everyone at the table before walking up to my room. I know they don’t mind me being me, but I wish I could hold it together. Chatting with everyone till the early hours. Doing the normal holiday thing.

I cuddle myself in bed and turn the lights off.

Why am I so sensitive?

I cry and fall asleep.

The next day, I wake up to a text. He messaged late at night saying he ate the crumpets. I start the day with a huge spring and smile. I run 10km on the treadmill, shower, and blast music in my ears on the way down to the pool. Holding my phone again. Excited to text. To maybe plan another date.

“Maybe I can tell him I don’t like my phone on holiday?” I ask my friends.

But they tell me to be chill. Not to make any rules. Just text him a bit while I’m here and maybe see him again when I get home. Not to read into anything.

The flight to happiness feels too quick. I know he has caused it. The possibility that this whole holiday is highs and lows depending on his communication sinks in.

I am five years into managing Bipolar, not seven, and I am still not confident enough to admit that my gut is always right about how I manage things. No matter how weird it seems, I should have sent that message. Just to be in control. To deal with the rollercoaster when I get home. To not let someone back in the UK affect my mood all week while I’m here with my best friends in the Spanish sun.

But I agree with them. I want to be normal.

“I guess you’re right?” I say, and send him a song to listen to rather than cutting off the conversation.

It’s 9am.

No messages come in for another 72 hours.

I sink down into another low on our second night. I order a cocktail but pretend to drink it, sipping Diet Coke when I can and hoping the caffeine kicks in. I go to bed at 10 again. I have smoked around 30 cigarettes and feel like I’m going to die all afternoon.

By the third day, a tiny slither of hope kicks in as I admit to myself that he’s not the one. I laugh with everyone and they tell me he’s an arsehole.

The shock of 72 hours without a peep of a text is rude by any standards — not just my own - and it’s laughable. Weird. Unnecessary.

They tell me to hold out for someone kind and caring. Someone who understands my mood.

I smile. I know deep down they’re right.

I flick between my two best friends in their end-goal relationships. Both happily in love with men they are so compatible with.

But as a last sad attempt I take this photo and post it on my story. I have colour in my cheeks. I feel like I look at least good enough to get a reply.

He views it, hits like, and finally replies to my WhatsApp message.

The thirsty photo leads to an unghost.

I get a wave of validation.

Another man who also ghosted me after Glastonbury hits like and sends a message: “Where are you?! Xx”

A few randomos join in with the wave of dopamine.

But my friends saw the real effect of this photo. The hope it gave me for the next two days that he’d show some interest, or want to see me again.

When in fact, day three - laughing - was sadly the peak of that holiday.

After one more reply he returned to another three days without any message. My heart sank again and the spiral around dating felt all too much.

I lost my spark and listened to others much more that week. I kept catching eyes with my best friends and going in circles with them over the situation to one side.

I thought I looked the best I possibly could in this photo. But the people validating me are people I will never see again, and mean nothing.

---

FISHCAT

It’s earlier that year in 2024... I’m 21km in.

Jesus fucking Christ. I just got the weirdest wave of energy at the halfway point.

I have no idea how this has happened, as the first 10km was potentially the most horrible experience of my life.

I am smoking 20 cigarettes a day at the moment, and this marathon falls just three weeks after breaking up with my ex of two years. I have been prescribed more Quetiapine to prevent a manic episode, given my first one was triggered by heartbreak.

For anyone managing Bipolar, you will understand the side effects of heavy medication.

And my God - a higher dose of an antipsychotic is like saying yes to holding a bag of lead for the first few hours of your day. Sedation to a whole new level. Tranquillised to keep up sleep.

But for some reason - probably to do with the weather and professional athletes not being on Quetiapine - all marathons seem to start first thing in the morning.

And having raised £2,000 for Leukaemia Research, with my family and friends all at the sidelines to cheer me on, I know I am ready to at least give it my best shot.

I’m aware they’re all tracking me. Stopping feels impossible, however slow I run.

With every kilometre towards the finish line, my eyes fill with tears.

As one of the most sensitive people on the planet, I’m not wholly surprised to feel like this. Especially with the distance I’m covering and the recovery it represents, being here.

But this high is new for me.

It’s not manic. It’s not weird.

It’s a runner’s one.

My body has clicked into flow and I start to think back over the past few years, and just how far I’ve come to even be on my own for a few hours - let alone at the end of four months doing long runs on freezing January mornings.

Forcing myself out of bed despite the impending possibility of another break up and breakdown. Something in me fighting to get here. To this day.

Between 21km and 35km I go into this flow. I put my music in and my legs keep moving. No matter how slow, I start to realise I don’t think they’re going to give up on me.

I see my nephew. I squeeze him into me for a hug before I head into the last leg of the race.

My group of friends are shouting my name. They’re cheering and smiling. They’re so obviously proud of me.

I see the start of the flags towards the end.

I can’t believe I’ve made it. I can’t believe I’ve made it.

It sinks in that this race feels like a recognition of fighting through the last six years. Of getting to the end of them. Of not repeating history and going to hospital again after a breakup.

I break down in tears and limp beyond the finish.

It’s the best day of my life so far.

I know it is.

I am putting myself in the top 1%, rather than being told I’m in a category of 1%.

My mum took these photos.

I thought to myself that they’re the worst photos I’d ever seen of myself. I couldn’t believe I looked so horrendous. I asked her not to share them with anyone.

But, if you’ve got to the end of these two scenes, I want you to know that that was the first year I recognised that only adding “perfect” photos of myself was maybe only doing more harm than good.

I’ve since become more lax with whatever goes up of me online. If friends want to add anything, I couldn’t care less how I look.

I now also kind of love the marathon photos? They make me remember how happy I was that day. How inspired I felt to keep up long distance running.

And the summer selfie? I remember how I took about ten versions of this. How I refreshed my screen until he saw it. How, when it disappeared, so did he.

Let’s maybe all be a little more fishcat. Because the world doesn’t end? It’s perhaps filled with a greater glee.

Completely Normal & Totally Fine to loose control over your online appearance x