On being a moody bitch and women in politics

can we really have it all

In my barre class this morning, I felt like the death of a salesman.

My resident career coach decided that today, we are feeling kinky but not in a sexy way. As the pilates instructor told us to rest our palms on the barre and face the mirror, my coach took out the whip. When I looked into the mirror, a loser stared back at me. The alleged crime was the usual one. I wanted you to know more and say it better, and I wanted you to make it look easy. Ay, coach.

I wanted you to be like that guy.

Last summer, I met what looked to me like the most beautiful, talented, charming man on earth—one tailored to my interests and standards. He looked like my male version and behaved like my ideal self. He was both very serious and very funny. How does he do it?

It was the first or second time I recall losing my appetite, and in a good way. Everything was magical. Simply breathing felt good.

It must be rare to have the ability to will yourself into feeling high. I can think myself into a state of pleasure that rivals any drug. I read that there are people out there who can’t think of pictures in their heads; how strange! In my head, I get engulfed by complete sensory experiences. This is why I love texting.

My big Greek female emotions complement my immersive imagination. Sense check: Last summer’s man was not the first time I felt like I met the most talented, beautiful man. #YesAllMen are the MOST TALENTED AND BEAUTIFUL MEN! A mother can’t pick a favourite child. A woman obsessed with love can’t pick a favourite lover. They are all unique and deserving of a chapter in my memoir. One where they come out looking 10 inches taller than in real life. Where they read a description of themselves that pushes all the narcissistic buttons their other ex-girlfriends gracelessly complained about in their subtweets (those weak, pathetic bitches, what do they even know).

See, how easy it is to get myself a bit too excited?

But I am not here to write about that. I came to my keyboard to write about the flipside—the crash. I always have this cycle of highs and lows. Over time, I have managed to dampen the curve, but honestly, I don’t want to temper it too much.

I spook myself by reading about people who have succeeded in the areas I want to succeed in but who have crashed and burned. Usually, they are bipolar, and they have a psychotic break or something similar. When my energy is teetering on the upper end of acceptability for a person who’s had nothing more than a flat white, I interrogate my therapist to promise to tell me if I am going mad. The state that freaks me out is one where I feel extremely inspired and motivated. Almost too invested in everything, everywhere, all at once. I read some essays on people with Adderall addiction last week, and the state they described while high sounds a lot like what I sound like on many normal days. My words can’t come out fast enough to catch up with my thoughts; I am overwhelmed by the world, and I see beauty and find meaning in everything. Not gonna lie, it’s nice. I never had struggle answering ‘what’s the meaning of life’ or ‘what gets you up in the morning’ etc. I am rarely at a loss at what to do. I feel visceral sympathy for the mentally ill who struggle to go on medication. I understand what they mean when they say their pills flatten them and that the peaks are worth the troughs.

My therapist reassures me I am not bipolar or psychotic, just blessed with boundless energy. Internet therapy speak has made us all eager to label our human frailties. My cat talks to birds and flies, but he doesn’t question his mental faculties; he is just playful and predatory. As am I. And above all, I am characteristic of that most cliche of English adverbs: passionate.

Most days are good. My therapist tells me it’s because of my discipline. I sleep and wake up early, exercise most days, take long walks, eat the rainbow, spend time with friends, etc. Not that anyone’s counting, but my to-do lists never linger. Even by London standards, I am very productive.

But today, I come to my page humbled. I can’t shake off a sense of defeat off me. On Monday, I sought advice from an older friend from politics about my career trajectory. The stronger my voice grows in my writing and speaking, the more exposed I feel. There is no going back from a dick joke, and I have been packing a big one.

She told me what everyone says. Stella, you are hilarious but people in politics, and particularly women, need to be very cautious. Everyone is scared. Like every person I go to for advice, she flattered me, and I had to put pressure to get any meaningful (i.e. negative) feedback. Finally, after a few British ahs and uhms, she said some of my stuff is “too close to the bone”.

Aha! Finally, the restless judgment troll running laps in my head got what it wanted. It got its little gavel out and started pounding in my ear drum ‘CLOWN! CLOWN! CLOWN!’! My memories contorted for the next 24 hours, imagining a parallel reality where I am tweeting slurs, posting blackface selfies on Instagram, and I don’t write on Substack but stream porn on OnlyFans.

Here is verbatim what my female mentoring figure said: ‘Women in public life get controlled by their sexuality’.

Here is what I heard: 'You are a whore’.

And this is how I willed myself into feeling miserable.

I power through the days when I have an ambiguous sense of humiliation and rejection because they don’t last.

One of those days, I will wake up, and my demonic energy, Jesus complex and joie de vivre will return. Every man will look fuckable, bread will not bloat nor fatten, trolls will be simps, and Guinness World Records will be sliding into my DMs to let me know I have earned an entry. I will be the first woman in public life to be both taken extremely seriously and allowed to slip in a really good dick joke.

And if I fail, I’ll still die happy. I took one for the team—the sisterhood of people who are female, funny, seriously political and very, very sexy.