When NaNoWriMo finished, I raised a glass of prosecco alone in my flat celebrating the ending of it all. It was a really long month this year, and it was really hard for a lot of reasons, and some of those reasons I don't know.
It has been over for a little less than a week, and whilst there isn't the constant stress that invades all of life, I've also only made myself sit and write twice this week and I miss the social elements of write-ins, because whilst chatting with people at work is nice, it's also not quite as sociable as I want to be. It's not talking to writers about their novels and then encouraging them to keep going. It's certainly not everyone being almost as invested in everyone else's project as the person writing it.
Although we haven't had our Thank Goodness It's Over party, it feels like I have my weekends back.
This year was my wordiest year so far, managing to write over 101k, and I will hopefully write something more on that later. I managed two 20k days, which was amazing, and I also kept it together through a month where I felt like my anxiety was pulling me in a million different directions. Despite the overwhelming urge to sleep all of the time, I got up every day, I did my job and I also worked on my novel. I was an ML, I supported my writers, I ran Twitter word sprints and supported other writers and I was all over the Facebook pages for advice, the moments when people forgot words and other general cheerleading. Somehow managed to avoid ever writing a blog post in that, which isn't like me during November.
The upshot of it all is that it feels like only yesterday that NaNoWriMo started, but it seemed to take forever to come to an end, and as a team we needed it to end, but we also didn't want it to. I feel really conflicted about it, I feel disappointed that I haven't been writing as much as I was during November, but I am also so so glad that the amount of stress I was under has decreased, because I'm not sure how long I would have been able to keep going through that.
Catch you later.
5 Dec 2019
3 Oct 2019
Prepping for Pantsing,
Every year, during NaNoWriMo, I proudly pronounce myself Team Pantser, and that's still the case. I am so proud to wear my knickers like Superman and fly by the seat of my pants through NaNo (metaphorically, of course), but that is only with respect to planning the novel. When it comes to Preptober - trust me, I am a prepper.
When I finished NaNoWriMo as a winner for the first time, it was my second attempt. I wrote at college, I wrote on the bus, I wrote at home and for the first three days I had no idea what I was writing. Some of it was utter garbage, it was a stream of consciousness, but I was writing, and I was doing it at speed. The novel that was born in that competition was eventually dedicated to my toaster, my kettle, and my mum. I've proved since then that I don't need to be living with my mum (and relying on her for cooking dinners and making brews) to finish as a winner, but right at that point, I needed her as much as I needed to win.
Over the next few years, I have gotten faster and faster with writing and I've also gotten better and better at preparing myself. October 31st tends to be a day where I nap after work and I get myself a pizza and from midnight, I eat pizza and write a couple of thousand words, but I know it's not just that. I have an idea of the number of events I will be going to, I have an idea of what I'm going to be writing with - typewriter, pen, and paper, something electrical... - and I have a plan for keeping myself healthy for at least the first week. I shop cook and freeze what I can and make sure I have bananas. There's plenty that I think about and make decisions on practical planning for NaNoWriMo.
As such, the @londonnano Instagram page is running a #preptober series of practical things to think about ahead of 31st October. Feel free to follow us, like, comment or message. I'll be writing some blogs on the subjects that are posted up there, too!
When I finished NaNoWriMo as a winner for the first time, it was my second attempt. I wrote at college, I wrote on the bus, I wrote at home and for the first three days I had no idea what I was writing. Some of it was utter garbage, it was a stream of consciousness, but I was writing, and I was doing it at speed. The novel that was born in that competition was eventually dedicated to my toaster, my kettle, and my mum. I've proved since then that I don't need to be living with my mum (and relying on her for cooking dinners and making brews) to finish as a winner, but right at that point, I needed her as much as I needed to win.
Over the next few years, I have gotten faster and faster with writing and I've also gotten better and better at preparing myself. October 31st tends to be a day where I nap after work and I get myself a pizza and from midnight, I eat pizza and write a couple of thousand words, but I know it's not just that. I have an idea of the number of events I will be going to, I have an idea of what I'm going to be writing with - typewriter, pen, and paper, something electrical... - and I have a plan for keeping myself healthy for at least the first week. I shop cook and freeze what I can and make sure I have bananas. There's plenty that I think about and make decisions on practical planning for NaNoWriMo.
As such, the @londonnano Instagram page is running a #preptober series of practical things to think about ahead of 31st October. Feel free to follow us, like, comment or message. I'll be writing some blogs on the subjects that are posted up there, too!
4 Sept 2019
Over It,
I realise it's been a while and I'm sure with the multiple blogs on here about my struggles with my mental health you can guess why it's been so long, but this blog isn't about that. For those who haven't experienced one of my rants before, now might be the time to get yourself a cup of tea and settle in, because this could be a long one.
We, as in society, seem to have become pretty good at calling out phrases like 'man up' as toxic for mental health, but there is a phrase, or a collection of them, which relate to grief and the recovery from grief which I think need to swiftly take stock of their belongings and vamoose out of the door. Granted, our understanding of grief really needs to change, too.
A few years ago, a friend spoke to me about thinking of the loss of a relationship as much like the way we think of losing a loved one when they pass. No, not because we had both been through terrible breakups (we had) and we wished the other parties in those breakups would shuffle swiftly off this mortal coil (I'll make no comment either way) but because it's a loss of a person you were close to, or a loss of who you thought a person was, or who they would be to you. It's the loss of hopes, dreams, and delicately made plans. You can no more step back into that environment, the one where the instinct to call that person with the good, the bad and the downright hilarious doesn't need to be resisted with all of the willpower you can muster than you can call the friend or family member who is no longer with us. It is a loss of an irreplaceable person and should be acknowledged as such.
When we're grieving though, be it for a relationship, a family member or a friend, occasionally a novel or something of that ilk, we seem to get a few days or perhaps weeks depending on the perceived significance of the loss, in which we are given some room to understand this grief and then, urgh, get over it.
We talk about getting over it, getting around it, getting past it, dealing with it, burying it, letting the past lie and all of these other phrases that seem to rely heavily on the idea of grief as a linear structure. You start at the widest part of a cone and as time goes on it diminishes, but surely experience should tell us that isn't true.
A few months ago, Roundtree's brought out a bag of Fruit Pastels - just the red and black ones. I grabbed them, shoved them in my cart and reached for my phone to call my nana, and my heart broke in the middle of Sainsbury's. My nana passed away whilst I was at university. It's been quite a few years, but it hit me all over again that day because she loved black fruit pastels and I love the red ones and this was the perfect sharing pack of sweets for us. She didn't eat the other colours, I prefer eating the ones which I love, but sweets are sweets and I eat them anyway. I still bought the bag of black and reds, but it took me a couple of days to convince myself to open them.
There are things that still hit my mother and me now. It's things like not having her scone recipe written down. Her scones were incredible, and she had spent so many years perfecting the recipe, but we never asked her to write it down. There are cardigans that she knitted me, my brother, and my cousins when we were babies, long since puked on beyond repair, but even the patterns are gone - we thought we would never knit them - and the names never remembered, because I was a baby and my mother was raising one. There's some that we find in charity shops - probably the same fate that her's went to and perhaps due to another family suffering a similar loss. It's wonderful to find her in such moments, but it happens with a pang of sadness. Her loss provoked us getting rid of them, or losing the scone recipe, and that momentary triumph can be slightly eclipsed by a sense of loss that is no longer all-encompassing or everpresent, but I don't imagine will ever truly be 'dealt with'.
I called her the day I got my A-level results to tell her I got into Heythrop, but I never got to tell her I graduated or show her a photo of me getting my degree. I couldn't share the stories of my mum having to help me dye my hair the night before because it was so many shades of - I think it was red - that it looked ridiculous, and the photos of this event would be hanging in my mum's living room for years, or the pride that, despite wearing some really incredible heels (stiletto-heeled boots from Killa Heels) I got up the stairs, across the stage and back to my seats without incident, but after the reception (and a lot of fizz) I was a bit wobbly on them, so walked barefoot down Kensington High Street when we were leaving. I didn't get to share the moment of sheer panic that they read my name before my friends name, despite her's being first alphabetically, and the slight chaos as I tried to hiss 'I'm not graduating without her' at the person reading the names (though they'd simply got us switched on the list).
My mum recently sponsored me for her and my grandpa for the London Marathon, and when she told me she was going to, I had to give myself a minute. I get emotional about running anyway. I cried at the end of London Landmarks Half Marathon this year, and the painkillers had kicked in so it wasn't the pain in my knee. It was half relief that I had done it, and half sheer bloody pride that I had made it through a half marathon. I can only imagine how I'll feel after the full one, but it would really have been something to be able to tell them that I had done it and to show them the medal that I had been training for.
My point is, it doesn't matter the amount of time which has gone past. Moments of grief can creep in quietly alongside moments of happiness. Sometimes they are more than moments. There are times and places or activities which can bring up that emotion so acutely, and the phrases get over it, I thought you were over it or one day you will be passed it don't help. What can help, for me, is to acknowledge it, face it, give it its moment in a way, and see if it passes on its own, but if not, choose to feel it alongside the other emotions the only way I know how.
We, as in society, seem to have become pretty good at calling out phrases like 'man up' as toxic for mental health, but there is a phrase, or a collection of them, which relate to grief and the recovery from grief which I think need to swiftly take stock of their belongings and vamoose out of the door. Granted, our understanding of grief really needs to change, too.
A few years ago, a friend spoke to me about thinking of the loss of a relationship as much like the way we think of losing a loved one when they pass. No, not because we had both been through terrible breakups (we had) and we wished the other parties in those breakups would shuffle swiftly off this mortal coil (I'll make no comment either way) but because it's a loss of a person you were close to, or a loss of who you thought a person was, or who they would be to you. It's the loss of hopes, dreams, and delicately made plans. You can no more step back into that environment, the one where the instinct to call that person with the good, the bad and the downright hilarious doesn't need to be resisted with all of the willpower you can muster than you can call the friend or family member who is no longer with us. It is a loss of an irreplaceable person and should be acknowledged as such.
When we're grieving though, be it for a relationship, a family member or a friend, occasionally a novel or something of that ilk, we seem to get a few days or perhaps weeks depending on the perceived significance of the loss, in which we are given some room to understand this grief and then, urgh, get over it.
We talk about getting over it, getting around it, getting past it, dealing with it, burying it, letting the past lie and all of these other phrases that seem to rely heavily on the idea of grief as a linear structure. You start at the widest part of a cone and as time goes on it diminishes, but surely experience should tell us that isn't true.
A few months ago, Roundtree's brought out a bag of Fruit Pastels - just the red and black ones. I grabbed them, shoved them in my cart and reached for my phone to call my nana, and my heart broke in the middle of Sainsbury's. My nana passed away whilst I was at university. It's been quite a few years, but it hit me all over again that day because she loved black fruit pastels and I love the red ones and this was the perfect sharing pack of sweets for us. She didn't eat the other colours, I prefer eating the ones which I love, but sweets are sweets and I eat them anyway. I still bought the bag of black and reds, but it took me a couple of days to convince myself to open them.
There are things that still hit my mother and me now. It's things like not having her scone recipe written down. Her scones were incredible, and she had spent so many years perfecting the recipe, but we never asked her to write it down. There are cardigans that she knitted me, my brother, and my cousins when we were babies, long since puked on beyond repair, but even the patterns are gone - we thought we would never knit them - and the names never remembered, because I was a baby and my mother was raising one. There's some that we find in charity shops - probably the same fate that her's went to and perhaps due to another family suffering a similar loss. It's wonderful to find her in such moments, but it happens with a pang of sadness. Her loss provoked us getting rid of them, or losing the scone recipe, and that momentary triumph can be slightly eclipsed by a sense of loss that is no longer all-encompassing or everpresent, but I don't imagine will ever truly be 'dealt with'.
I called her the day I got my A-level results to tell her I got into Heythrop, but I never got to tell her I graduated or show her a photo of me getting my degree. I couldn't share the stories of my mum having to help me dye my hair the night before because it was so many shades of - I think it was red - that it looked ridiculous, and the photos of this event would be hanging in my mum's living room for years, or the pride that, despite wearing some really incredible heels (stiletto-heeled boots from Killa Heels) I got up the stairs, across the stage and back to my seats without incident, but after the reception (and a lot of fizz) I was a bit wobbly on them, so walked barefoot down Kensington High Street when we were leaving. I didn't get to share the moment of sheer panic that they read my name before my friends name, despite her's being first alphabetically, and the slight chaos as I tried to hiss 'I'm not graduating without her' at the person reading the names (though they'd simply got us switched on the list).
My mum recently sponsored me for her and my grandpa for the London Marathon, and when she told me she was going to, I had to give myself a minute. I get emotional about running anyway. I cried at the end of London Landmarks Half Marathon this year, and the painkillers had kicked in so it wasn't the pain in my knee. It was half relief that I had done it, and half sheer bloody pride that I had made it through a half marathon. I can only imagine how I'll feel after the full one, but it would really have been something to be able to tell them that I had done it and to show them the medal that I had been training for.
My point is, it doesn't matter the amount of time which has gone past. Moments of grief can creep in quietly alongside moments of happiness. Sometimes they are more than moments. There are times and places or activities which can bring up that emotion so acutely, and the phrases get over it, I thought you were over it or one day you will be passed it don't help. What can help, for me, is to acknowledge it, face it, give it its moment in a way, and see if it passes on its own, but if not, choose to feel it alongside the other emotions the only way I know how.
22 Jun 2019
How Are They Not Panicking?,
Once upon a time, there was a man named Alexander Parkes, who created something plastic in about 1862. Whilst he isn't single-handedly to blame for the fact that the surface of the world can now be seen to be covered in a layer of it, the deepest dived depths of the oceans are littered with it and very few people seem to give enough of a toss to do anything meaningful about it, from my (exceedingly limited) research, he seems to be the start of the chain.
Now, climate change and plastic litter aren't exactly the same thing, but they're produced by the same attitude, which is a generalised ignorance/IDGAF to how the next generation on this Earth cope, I just want my money, my fast fashion, my something for nothing, my ease, my convenience, my slice of the pie. The best reason I can see for this is either the fact that it's what the previous generation got or an enduring feeling of entitlement from everybody who likes to say that millennials are entitled little shits. Either way, I'm conflating the two issues for the purposes of this rant/blog.
Yesterday the world was stunned as a relatively senior government official roughly handled a peaceful protester out of a fancy dinner. The fact that this protestor was a woman and that he's previously made speeches about how women in Britain should feel safe is awful, don't get me wrong, but to treat anyone like that is despicable. Furthermore, how is he, and every other politician in that room, not waking up anxious about the direction that we're headed in? I know I have an anxiety disorder, but I'm genuinely scared.
But here's the big problem I have. The other video I watched on my phone this morning was about the mountains of plastic that we've all dutifully deposited into our recycling bins in the hope of creating a better tomorrow. We're trying. We the public understand we're in a f**king mess and WE. ARE. TRYING. but it turns out that, since China stopped importing plastic waste in 2018 an old problem got a hundred times bigger and now there are large scale dumps of recyclable left out to the elements, where they are damaged to the point they can no longer be recycled for one thing, and for another, there are more and more of them ending up in our water. Yes, it's our water. If the next major conflict in the world is over resources, it won't be about oil - it's going to be water.
With that in mind, I frantically looked into something which has interested me for a while. In Google'd how I can recycle more at home and cut out the middle man.
The first thing that came up was a flooring company and how they use these large scale, industrial machines (which would definitely not fit into my living room) to recycle their own waste and some of the waste from their suppliers, into vinyl flooring. Now, that's incredible and I can only hope that they link up with companies like Huf Haus, who prefabricate housing modules and use their own sawdust waste as a component in their insulation, to provide homes with a really decent eco-vision behind them, but Huf Haus is expensive. It's a build you're own vision of homes, and it's based in Germany so there are all those complications like exchange rates and Brexit, plus all of the miles that the materials travel when they're made into their pre-fabricated panels, but still...
As much as those two companies are amazing, and they are, even them working together is just this idea of a small number of people doing low waste or zero waste really well, and it's not something which can be replicated on a major scale to address the plastic problem (even if prefabricating housing means you can reduce costs, provide a better environment for workers and build homes much more quickly which would also cut across to the housing crisis, and using a lot of recyclable materials which are already doing nothing would significantly reduce costs further). (Take a breath, Charlie)
There is a company which has released their designs for a small production line like set of machines which grind plastic into small pieces, like Hama beads for example, melt these pieces together and create either a wire, which can be wound into things like bowls, or light shades, or can also be melted into molds to create things like bowls, spinning tops, ornaments, or really anything you wanted to make as long as you could create or source the metal mold for it, but the problem with that is, well there are several.
First one, who has the space to fit these things? I live in London, so that's a no. Everywhere we are being encouraged to economise on space, because it's cheaper and because then they can jam more people into a smaller area and the housing crisis looks a little bit less awful through the government issue rose-tinted spectacles. Number 2 (deviating to numerical indicators makes them easier to find - sorry.) These machines are still expensive. I applaud the people at that gave away their designs, really, I do, but the number of people who really have the cash to commit to something like this is not going to be high if we're being completely honest. 3, These are not some IKEA flat packs with a funky sounding name. They are pretty complex pieces of machinery and you need to be able to build them. There are a lot of Youtube videos provided to walk you through the process, but there is a certain amount of tool waving know-how you're going to need to bring to the table, too. And 4, there are only so many plastic bowls and light shades and other things we need in the world. Just because it's made of recycled plastic, doesn't mean people are going to want it.
So, where the hell does that leave us? Or me, because I was originally thinking about this in a context of what can I do.
Well, it seems I'm in the exact same boat I was before. All I can do is try my best within the limits of what I am able to do. I'm proud of the fact I own metal straws and generally, say no to plastic ones in bars (generally because sometimes I don't see them until they're in my drink and then they're going in the bin regardless). I'm proud that I haven't used a disposable coffee cup since the beginning of this year. It has been longer than that, but that's the marker I gave myself. I'm proud I haven't faltered on that even what I've forgotten my reusable and I really want a coffee. I'm proud that most of my clothes come from charity shops or eBay because there is still a hell of a lot of life in them yet. I'm proud that I fix things rather than throw them and I'm proud that I do what I can to find options for purchasing things with reduced or no plastic. I'm proud of the fact that I've been getting cans of diet coke when I want a diet coke, rather than bottles because cans are easier to recycle and are more wider recycled. As far as I'm aware, there aren't the same mountains of Coke cans in Malaysia or elsewhere that have been discarded. I am so proud of those things, but it still doesn't feel like enough, and I don't know what more to do.
Despite the anxiety, despite Pete's screaming that the world is on fire, I know this is something it's reasonable to worry about, and it just has me questioning, how are politicians, bankers, billionaires and the girl who lives in my building who puts her food waste in plastic bags, despite the fact I've politely told her it's a redundant thing to do...how the hell are they not scared? How are they not panicking?
Now, climate change and plastic litter aren't exactly the same thing, but they're produced by the same attitude, which is a generalised ignorance/IDGAF to how the next generation on this Earth cope, I just want my money, my fast fashion, my something for nothing, my ease, my convenience, my slice of the pie. The best reason I can see for this is either the fact that it's what the previous generation got or an enduring feeling of entitlement from everybody who likes to say that millennials are entitled little shits. Either way, I'm conflating the two issues for the purposes of this rant/blog.
Yesterday the world was stunned as a relatively senior government official roughly handled a peaceful protester out of a fancy dinner. The fact that this protestor was a woman and that he's previously made speeches about how women in Britain should feel safe is awful, don't get me wrong, but to treat anyone like that is despicable. Furthermore, how is he, and every other politician in that room, not waking up anxious about the direction that we're headed in? I know I have an anxiety disorder, but I'm genuinely scared.
But here's the big problem I have. The other video I watched on my phone this morning was about the mountains of plastic that we've all dutifully deposited into our recycling bins in the hope of creating a better tomorrow. We're trying. We the public understand we're in a f**king mess and WE. ARE. TRYING. but it turns out that, since China stopped importing plastic waste in 2018 an old problem got a hundred times bigger and now there are large scale dumps of recyclable left out to the elements, where they are damaged to the point they can no longer be recycled for one thing, and for another, there are more and more of them ending up in our water. Yes, it's our water. If the next major conflict in the world is over resources, it won't be about oil - it's going to be water.
With that in mind, I frantically looked into something which has interested me for a while. In Google'd how I can recycle more at home and cut out the middle man.
The first thing that came up was a flooring company and how they use these large scale, industrial machines (which would definitely not fit into my living room) to recycle their own waste and some of the waste from their suppliers, into vinyl flooring. Now, that's incredible and I can only hope that they link up with companies like Huf Haus, who prefabricate housing modules and use their own sawdust waste as a component in their insulation, to provide homes with a really decent eco-vision behind them, but Huf Haus is expensive. It's a build you're own vision of homes, and it's based in Germany so there are all those complications like exchange rates and Brexit, plus all of the miles that the materials travel when they're made into their pre-fabricated panels, but still...
As much as those two companies are amazing, and they are, even them working together is just this idea of a small number of people doing low waste or zero waste really well, and it's not something which can be replicated on a major scale to address the plastic problem (even if prefabricating housing means you can reduce costs, provide a better environment for workers and build homes much more quickly which would also cut across to the housing crisis, and using a lot of recyclable materials which are already doing nothing would significantly reduce costs further). (Take a breath, Charlie)
There is a company which has released their designs for a small production line like set of machines which grind plastic into small pieces, like Hama beads for example, melt these pieces together and create either a wire, which can be wound into things like bowls, or light shades, or can also be melted into molds to create things like bowls, spinning tops, ornaments, or really anything you wanted to make as long as you could create or source the metal mold for it, but the problem with that is, well there are several.
First one, who has the space to fit these things? I live in London, so that's a no. Everywhere we are being encouraged to economise on space, because it's cheaper and because then they can jam more people into a smaller area and the housing crisis looks a little bit less awful through the government issue rose-tinted spectacles. Number 2 (deviating to numerical indicators makes them easier to find - sorry.) These machines are still expensive. I applaud the people at that gave away their designs, really, I do, but the number of people who really have the cash to commit to something like this is not going to be high if we're being completely honest. 3, These are not some IKEA flat packs with a funky sounding name. They are pretty complex pieces of machinery and you need to be able to build them. There are a lot of Youtube videos provided to walk you through the process, but there is a certain amount of tool waving know-how you're going to need to bring to the table, too. And 4, there are only so many plastic bowls and light shades and other things we need in the world. Just because it's made of recycled plastic, doesn't mean people are going to want it.
So, where the hell does that leave us? Or me, because I was originally thinking about this in a context of what can I do.
Well, it seems I'm in the exact same boat I was before. All I can do is try my best within the limits of what I am able to do. I'm proud of the fact I own metal straws and generally, say no to plastic ones in bars (generally because sometimes I don't see them until they're in my drink and then they're going in the bin regardless). I'm proud that I haven't used a disposable coffee cup since the beginning of this year. It has been longer than that, but that's the marker I gave myself. I'm proud I haven't faltered on that even what I've forgotten my reusable and I really want a coffee. I'm proud that most of my clothes come from charity shops or eBay because there is still a hell of a lot of life in them yet. I'm proud that I fix things rather than throw them and I'm proud that I do what I can to find options for purchasing things with reduced or no plastic. I'm proud of the fact that I've been getting cans of diet coke when I want a diet coke, rather than bottles because cans are easier to recycle and are more wider recycled. As far as I'm aware, there aren't the same mountains of Coke cans in Malaysia or elsewhere that have been discarded. I am so proud of those things, but it still doesn't feel like enough, and I don't know what more to do.
Despite the anxiety, despite Pete's screaming that the world is on fire, I know this is something it's reasonable to worry about, and it just has me questioning, how are politicians, bankers, billionaires and the girl who lives in my building who puts her food waste in plastic bags, despite the fact I've politely told her it's a redundant thing to do...how the hell are they not scared? How are they not panicking?
20 Jun 2019
Starting from the Bottom Now We're, Oh Wait, There's the Bottom Again,
So, here we are again.
Up until recently, things had been looking up. I was getting better, my anxiety, Pete, was getting back in his box and leaving me alone for slightly longer stretches (who's a good boy, Pete!) and my giant photo wall of happiness was growing at an alarming rate with all of the amazing things I was doing.
And then it was like moving forwards on the game 'Snakes and Ladders' and there was a snake and I felt like I was right back to square 1. It's like what I imagine was the moment of realization in 'The Good Place' that actually, this was the bad place. In fact, that's pretty much exactly what it felt like.
This blog is going to be super fun to write because the c key on my laptop keeps sticking and I can't right the write right first time over.
My new job was sold to me as an idea of the good place. It was a permanent promotion, it was shiny, spangly and high profile. Just under 9 weeks in and I'm struggling to keep my head out of the toilet bowl because today feels like the same level of stress as when I was finishing university. We're back into the stage where I want to throw up, and will only eat bananas and carbs. (Carb-y things make it difficult to vomit and bananas have a lot of vitamins in. There is logical even in my "madness".)
I know I'm lucky to have a job. I'm really lucky to have a good job, but when you're job is putting pressure on your mental health to this extent, it's not luck, it's torture. I have worked really hard on my career, but I've also worked really hard on being okay, and I was getting there. This slip is so wounding.
Thankfully, this not being the first time I've fallen on the wagon and down the steep, rocky slope to rock bottom, this time I remembered to bring one of those gubs that shoots grappling hooks back up to the road. This time, instead of letting myself continue to plummet, I've hit a ledge and thrown my hands up in the air and said "I need help" "This can't continue" "I can't do this" and most importantly "I'm not letting this happen to me." This time, I know my trigger, and I'm taking my finger firmly off of it and I'm making a plan.
Instead of looking at myself in the mirror and allowing myself to feel like a failure, I'm reminding myself that looking after me is more important than the job. It has to be. That's not to say I'm giving up on my job and my life and moving back into my mum's house because I'm done with adulthood - though God, sometimes I wish I could do that - but I am working with my boss to take some of the stress out and build some more flexibility in. Despite the title of this blog, I've not reached my rock bottom again, because this time I realised I was falling, and I accepted it was happening in time to not let it get that far.
Anxiety is a horrible thing. Pete tried to tell me it was my fault today. I wasn't trying hard enough, I wasn't smart enough and I was being lazy. It feels somewhat miraculous that, despite all of that above, I was strong enough. I was strong enough to tell Pete to piss off. Back in your box now, Pete. I'm starting from a new bottom and I'm going to hike my way back up.
Up until recently, things had been looking up. I was getting better, my anxiety, Pete, was getting back in his box and leaving me alone for slightly longer stretches (who's a good boy, Pete!) and my giant photo wall of happiness was growing at an alarming rate with all of the amazing things I was doing.
And then it was like moving forwards on the game 'Snakes and Ladders' and there was a snake and I felt like I was right back to square 1. It's like what I imagine was the moment of realization in 'The Good Place' that actually, this was the bad place. In fact, that's pretty much exactly what it felt like.
This blog is going to be super fun to write because the c key on my laptop keeps sticking and I can't right the write right first time over.
My new job was sold to me as an idea of the good place. It was a permanent promotion, it was shiny, spangly and high profile. Just under 9 weeks in and I'm struggling to keep my head out of the toilet bowl because today feels like the same level of stress as when I was finishing university. We're back into the stage where I want to throw up, and will only eat bananas and carbs. (Carb-y things make it difficult to vomit and bananas have a lot of vitamins in. There is logical even in my "madness".)
I know I'm lucky to have a job. I'm really lucky to have a good job, but when you're job is putting pressure on your mental health to this extent, it's not luck, it's torture. I have worked really hard on my career, but I've also worked really hard on being okay, and I was getting there. This slip is so wounding.
Thankfully, this not being the first time I've fallen on the wagon and down the steep, rocky slope to rock bottom, this time I remembered to bring one of those gubs that shoots grappling hooks back up to the road. This time, instead of letting myself continue to plummet, I've hit a ledge and thrown my hands up in the air and said "I need help" "This can't continue" "I can't do this" and most importantly "I'm not letting this happen to me." This time, I know my trigger, and I'm taking my finger firmly off of it and I'm making a plan.
Instead of looking at myself in the mirror and allowing myself to feel like a failure, I'm reminding myself that looking after me is more important than the job. It has to be. That's not to say I'm giving up on my job and my life and moving back into my mum's house because I'm done with adulthood - though God, sometimes I wish I could do that - but I am working with my boss to take some of the stress out and build some more flexibility in. Despite the title of this blog, I've not reached my rock bottom again, because this time I realised I was falling, and I accepted it was happening in time to not let it get that far.
Anxiety is a horrible thing. Pete tried to tell me it was my fault today. I wasn't trying hard enough, I wasn't smart enough and I was being lazy. It feels somewhat miraculous that, despite all of that above, I was strong enough. I was strong enough to tell Pete to piss off. Back in your box now, Pete. I'm starting from a new bottom and I'm going to hike my way back up.
9 Jun 2019
Another Woman's Body,
I've been working on the whole #DearJune thing as a project for myself, but this one prompt of bodies makes me want to share it. It makes me feel a little bit sick, but I'll work through it.
People have very often looked at me and wondered why I would be unhappy with my body. The idea of 'You are so skinny' as a compliment kind of upsets me. I was tiny. Partly it's my frame, but it's also partly fear of ending up having another kind of weight problem like some of the people in my family, but I wasn't happy about it. I wanted to have hips and boobs as well as the tiny waistline, and for a little while it happened and I just had to hate the way my joints looked (seriously, I have properly weird looking knees) and then before I knew it, I woke up in another woman's body.
It's partly that we change over time, of course, but then it's also the fact that I love snacking a bit too much and have never been the biggest fan of exercise so when my metabolism slowed down a bit, suddenly, the snacking caught up with me. Half of my jeans don't fit, I split the zip in one of my favorite dresses and don't often feel comfortable in my own body. I have zebra stripes on my thighs from gaining weight rather quickly and also from the running. I hate my running shorts because of it and swimsuits, but if I don't go running and swimming, I'll never find my way back to the body that felt like it was mine. On the other hand, I know I need to learn to love the body that I have, and there are definitely parts of it that I love (the boobs; I love the boobs. Gaining weight in that area has not been a hardship, except for having to buy new clothes) some parts of it I find really difficult to accept.
Part of me wishes that it was a Freaky Friday sort of thing, that there was just a little something to learn and then I could snap back into my old body and that would be that, but obviously it isn't that simple.
People have very often looked at me and wondered why I would be unhappy with my body. The idea of 'You are so skinny' as a compliment kind of upsets me. I was tiny. Partly it's my frame, but it's also partly fear of ending up having another kind of weight problem like some of the people in my family, but I wasn't happy about it. I wanted to have hips and boobs as well as the tiny waistline, and for a little while it happened and I just had to hate the way my joints looked (seriously, I have properly weird looking knees) and then before I knew it, I woke up in another woman's body.
It's partly that we change over time, of course, but then it's also the fact that I love snacking a bit too much and have never been the biggest fan of exercise so when my metabolism slowed down a bit, suddenly, the snacking caught up with me. Half of my jeans don't fit, I split the zip in one of my favorite dresses and don't often feel comfortable in my own body. I have zebra stripes on my thighs from gaining weight rather quickly and also from the running. I hate my running shorts because of it and swimsuits, but if I don't go running and swimming, I'll never find my way back to the body that felt like it was mine. On the other hand, I know I need to learn to love the body that I have, and there are definitely parts of it that I love (the boobs; I love the boobs. Gaining weight in that area has not been a hardship, except for having to buy new clothes) some parts of it I find really difficult to accept.
Part of me wishes that it was a Freaky Friday sort of thing, that there was just a little something to learn and then I could snap back into my old body and that would be that, but obviously it isn't that simple.
27 May 2019
The Last Mentos,
A running buddy of mine experienced the joys of an internet "troll" a few days ago. He's fine, but I'm annoyed with the attitude which seems to be quite prevalent in some people these days.
So, the background of this is he's a really good athlete, even when he's injured, and believe me, there are times that I'm green with envy. The thing is, being a really good athlete doesn't mean you're always on great form, or that you're happy with your performance. He wasn't particularly impressed with a run that he did, and shared this on Instagram, then Nobby the Troll decided to have a go at him for "moaning" about something other people would "dream of".
In the grand scheme of things, it's like the last Mentos. If you get the last Mentos in the packet, great, if not, the world economy isn't going to collapse and everyone's life will go on as normal. Except, it's not that simple.
This sort of person is the type to have taken my last Mentos, and eaten it, then told me to get a grip because there are worse things happening in the world. Yes, there are, but that doesn't make it acceptable for you to steal my Mentos (or have a go at me for sharing when a run didn't go well, because that's what I use Instagram for).
Additionally, you don't know what I had planned for that Mentos. Okay, we're not talking about me taking it to the local registry office and making it my life partner, but maybe I'm stressed and the mint will calm my stomach, maybe I ate a tuna sandwich at lunch and am going on a date this afternoon/evening and don't want to have tuna breath (I mean, I wouldn't, since I don't even eat tuna, but still). Maybe my life partner at home thinks I never do anything considerate towards her, she loves Mentos and I'm going to take her my last one because she hates Rolos but the sentiment is the same (IT DEFINITELY ISN'T, but just humour me.)
My point is, you don't know.
I had a really s****y run the day I was supposed to decide whether to pull out of LLHM or not. I was told something along the lines of, well, you've done better than x person, or whatever, but the problem was it was a s****y run at a time I really didn't need a s****y run. I'm stubborn and pigheaded, so I just did the run and bother to the consequences, but maybe someone's not where they want to be on a training plan, maybe they're in pain, maybe they're a few minutes behind their PB, or they've been stuck a few seconds behind a new one for weeks and they just can't smash through that - my point is, you don't know. You aren't entitled to make that decision for them, just like you don't get to decide if I can spare my last Mentos. Maybe you think it's ungrateful that people fitter or faster or better at something than you are complaining, but trying to make them feel crappy about themselves for it makes you the bad guy; just try and have a bit more compassion and understanding for a situation that is different to yours. And for future reference, keep your hands off my Mentos.
Catch you later.
So, the background of this is he's a really good athlete, even when he's injured, and believe me, there are times that I'm green with envy. The thing is, being a really good athlete doesn't mean you're always on great form, or that you're happy with your performance. He wasn't particularly impressed with a run that he did, and shared this on Instagram, then Nobby the Troll decided to have a go at him for "moaning" about something other people would "dream of".
In the grand scheme of things, it's like the last Mentos. If you get the last Mentos in the packet, great, if not, the world economy isn't going to collapse and everyone's life will go on as normal. Except, it's not that simple.
This sort of person is the type to have taken my last Mentos, and eaten it, then told me to get a grip because there are worse things happening in the world. Yes, there are, but that doesn't make it acceptable for you to steal my Mentos (or have a go at me for sharing when a run didn't go well, because that's what I use Instagram for).
Additionally, you don't know what I had planned for that Mentos. Okay, we're not talking about me taking it to the local registry office and making it my life partner, but maybe I'm stressed and the mint will calm my stomach, maybe I ate a tuna sandwich at lunch and am going on a date this afternoon/evening and don't want to have tuna breath (I mean, I wouldn't, since I don't even eat tuna, but still). Maybe my life partner at home thinks I never do anything considerate towards her, she loves Mentos and I'm going to take her my last one because she hates Rolos but the sentiment is the same (IT DEFINITELY ISN'T, but just humour me.)
My point is, you don't know.
I had a really s****y run the day I was supposed to decide whether to pull out of LLHM or not. I was told something along the lines of, well, you've done better than x person, or whatever, but the problem was it was a s****y run at a time I really didn't need a s****y run. I'm stubborn and pigheaded, so I just did the run and bother to the consequences, but maybe someone's not where they want to be on a training plan, maybe they're in pain, maybe they're a few minutes behind their PB, or they've been stuck a few seconds behind a new one for weeks and they just can't smash through that - my point is, you don't know. You aren't entitled to make that decision for them, just like you don't get to decide if I can spare my last Mentos. Maybe you think it's ungrateful that people fitter or faster or better at something than you are complaining, but trying to make them feel crappy about themselves for it makes you the bad guy; just try and have a bit more compassion and understanding for a situation that is different to yours. And for future reference, keep your hands off my Mentos.
Catch you later.
26 May 2019
Carry Me Home (That Night),
When I woke up on the morning of London Landmarks Half Marathon, I was pumped, I was fired up, I was ready to go. Oh, and my hair was green.
I'd spent that week trying to bleach my hair into submission (a white-ish blonde colour) to make sure the green went over it properly, and then put the green on the day before. Unfortunately it came out a bit more like turquoise, but it was close enough. I had Macmillan sweatbands on my wrist, green socks, green hair, green shirt and a green water bag, too. I looked more like a walking highlighter than at any other time in my life. I was in the last wave, but I wanted to be there early and it was a good job, because the queue for the loos and for the bag drop was pretty long. Plus, getting there early meant I could actually do one of the Equinox warm up sessions that they ran for the earlier waves (but not for the snails...)
This was my first race, and I was so excited. My knee felt good - so good that I forgot to pick up painkillers - I felt good, the weather was good. Seriously - everything was GOOD. We were setting off from Fleet Street, right near where the original bowler hat was made, so we were walked forward by stewards in bowler hats, and then when the klaxon sounded and we were released onto the course, they took them off and waved us off with them. I don't know if it was choreographed or not, but it was beautiful. Finding out that across the 2 editions of LLHM over £10million had been raised for 180 charity partners had me on the edge of tears; that was very nearly it. If I were to list all of the times I nearly cried during the whole of it, writing this would take the whole of the bank holiday weekend.
Past all of the above, I don't remember a great deal about the first couple of miles. I remember smiling, being happy about being there, the feeling of setting off with another group of runners - that was pretty spectacular. I remember snippets of landmarks, like the hotel where I went to my first summer ball with university, the samba band that I was surprised no one was offended by (all Irish pale but wearing "traditional" dress - I mean, honestly...), that first bit out on Embankment... Oh, and the giant Bagpuss. That was pretty awesome. A lot of it has slipped though; most of what I remember was being in pain, the ending (because I knew the pain was approaching the end), the magnificent lady who gave me painkillers and Alex, who is just a bit of a legend in her own right. Oh, and the Tower of London looking beautiful, plus the pub The Hung, Drawn and Quartered.
It's a bit of a strange one as to why I remember the Macmillan cheer station. The first cheer stations were really early on in the race, and I was looking out for the characteristic green that I soon learnt is almost the exact same green as NSPCC and another charity, I believe, and I got to just past mile 6 - in agony, and I couldn't help feeling like Macmillan had forgotten to turn up. It felt very much like they had sacked it off and decided to stay in bed. Half way around and they were still nowhere to be seen. It was only when we were either just approaching mile 9 or just after mile 9 that suddenly they came into view and that was another point where I was on the brink of flooding London with my tears. I did actually ask them "Where the hell have you been?" and one of the volunteers said back (in a friendly way) "We've been here the whole time!" and I did actually say, trying to make it sound like a bit of a joke, "But we needed you a few miles back that way!" There were a few of Team Macmillan providing the party at the back for that race, but there were points before I saw them that I was genuinely on the edge of quitting, because why had I turned up if they hadn't been able to be bothered?
Saying that, I love Macmillan. Really, I do. Working with them as a Cancer in the Workplace trainer is wonderful. Fundraising for them is a breeze, because cancer affects so many people (not a good thing) but the work that they do is so amazing and has such an impact (which is the good thing). They offer a lot of support, they couldn't be more helpful and the fundraising support team are just the other end of the phone. I think I was just upset that I'd seen every other charity out at a cheer station, except mine. Also, I get really ratty when I'm in pain.
It was a gorgeous day for what ended up as more of a stroll/power walk around London for me, but I ran over the finish line, and when they gave me my medal, I would love to say that's the point I finally let myself have a little cry, but that would suggest that I had some control or choice in the matter - I did not. I burst into tears, but was told I wasn't the first crier of the day, so it was okay.
Mostly, I loved London Landmarks, but one thing that really sucked was how far away the bag drop was from the finish line. Whether you've walked it, run up, hopped it or whatever, it takes a lot out of you and the last thing you need to be doing is going on a trek through the City of London to collect your belongings and head back home, but there we go. Also, the loos were revolting by the end and there was so much plastic waste and crap by the end of it that it was slightly turning my stomach, but I rant about plastic enough, so I'll avoid that today.
When I was done, I managed to haul my ass back to my flat for long enough to find a swimsuit and more painkillers and then headed over to my gym and put myself into the spa pool (hot tub, but not mega hot) for half an hour to try and recover a little bit. I treasure my medal, and the photos even though I look like a fat dork on most of them, and the memories that I do have, but I cannot wait to do another run like that when I'm in better shape/health. It's also good to know I can cross a half marathon off my bucket list, and I never actually have to do it again!
Catch you later.
I'd spent that week trying to bleach my hair into submission (a white-ish blonde colour) to make sure the green went over it properly, and then put the green on the day before. Unfortunately it came out a bit more like turquoise, but it was close enough. I had Macmillan sweatbands on my wrist, green socks, green hair, green shirt and a green water bag, too. I looked more like a walking highlighter than at any other time in my life. I was in the last wave, but I wanted to be there early and it was a good job, because the queue for the loos and for the bag drop was pretty long. Plus, getting there early meant I could actually do one of the Equinox warm up sessions that they ran for the earlier waves (but not for the snails...)
This was my first race, and I was so excited. My knee felt good - so good that I forgot to pick up painkillers - I felt good, the weather was good. Seriously - everything was GOOD. We were setting off from Fleet Street, right near where the original bowler hat was made, so we were walked forward by stewards in bowler hats, and then when the klaxon sounded and we were released onto the course, they took them off and waved us off with them. I don't know if it was choreographed or not, but it was beautiful. Finding out that across the 2 editions of LLHM over £10million had been raised for 180 charity partners had me on the edge of tears; that was very nearly it. If I were to list all of the times I nearly cried during the whole of it, writing this would take the whole of the bank holiday weekend.
Past all of the above, I don't remember a great deal about the first couple of miles. I remember smiling, being happy about being there, the feeling of setting off with another group of runners - that was pretty spectacular. I remember snippets of landmarks, like the hotel where I went to my first summer ball with university, the samba band that I was surprised no one was offended by (all Irish pale but wearing "traditional" dress - I mean, honestly...), that first bit out on Embankment... Oh, and the giant Bagpuss. That was pretty awesome. A lot of it has slipped though; most of what I remember was being in pain, the ending (because I knew the pain was approaching the end), the magnificent lady who gave me painkillers and Alex, who is just a bit of a legend in her own right. Oh, and the Tower of London looking beautiful, plus the pub The Hung, Drawn and Quartered.
It's a bit of a strange one as to why I remember the Macmillan cheer station. The first cheer stations were really early on in the race, and I was looking out for the characteristic green that I soon learnt is almost the exact same green as NSPCC and another charity, I believe, and I got to just past mile 6 - in agony, and I couldn't help feeling like Macmillan had forgotten to turn up. It felt very much like they had sacked it off and decided to stay in bed. Half way around and they were still nowhere to be seen. It was only when we were either just approaching mile 9 or just after mile 9 that suddenly they came into view and that was another point where I was on the brink of flooding London with my tears. I did actually ask them "Where the hell have you been?" and one of the volunteers said back (in a friendly way) "We've been here the whole time!" and I did actually say, trying to make it sound like a bit of a joke, "But we needed you a few miles back that way!" There were a few of Team Macmillan providing the party at the back for that race, but there were points before I saw them that I was genuinely on the edge of quitting, because why had I turned up if they hadn't been able to be bothered?
Saying that, I love Macmillan. Really, I do. Working with them as a Cancer in the Workplace trainer is wonderful. Fundraising for them is a breeze, because cancer affects so many people (not a good thing) but the work that they do is so amazing and has such an impact (which is the good thing). They offer a lot of support, they couldn't be more helpful and the fundraising support team are just the other end of the phone. I think I was just upset that I'd seen every other charity out at a cheer station, except mine. Also, I get really ratty when I'm in pain.
It was a gorgeous day for what ended up as more of a stroll/power walk around London for me, but I ran over the finish line, and when they gave me my medal, I would love to say that's the point I finally let myself have a little cry, but that would suggest that I had some control or choice in the matter - I did not. I burst into tears, but was told I wasn't the first crier of the day, so it was okay.
Mostly, I loved London Landmarks, but one thing that really sucked was how far away the bag drop was from the finish line. Whether you've walked it, run up, hopped it or whatever, it takes a lot out of you and the last thing you need to be doing is going on a trek through the City of London to collect your belongings and head back home, but there we go. Also, the loos were revolting by the end and there was so much plastic waste and crap by the end of it that it was slightly turning my stomach, but I rant about plastic enough, so I'll avoid that today.
When I was done, I managed to haul my ass back to my flat for long enough to find a swimsuit and more painkillers and then headed over to my gym and put myself into the spa pool (hot tub, but not mega hot) for half an hour to try and recover a little bit. I treasure my medal, and the photos even though I look like a fat dork on most of them, and the memories that I do have, but I cannot wait to do another run like that when I'm in better shape/health. It's also good to know I can cross a half marathon off my bucket list, and I never actually have to do it again!
Catch you later.
In This Dark Place,
It's always been possible for writing to take me to dark places, but more often than not, it's the shovel with which I dig myself out of them, which is one of the big reasons I'm going to try and get back into it as best I can.
One of the things that is adding to my current dark place is the fact I can hardly flipping run.
Whilst in San Francisco last year, I fell over. I don't just mean tripped over my own feet, got a few bruises and went on with my life - I really did a number on myself. I tripped, went down a few stairs and landed really badly on my ankle; then had to wear stiletto heels for the evening so I didn't ruin my beautiful floor length dress. I knew that the half marathon was coming up and I wanted to be able to still do it, so I took a couple of weeks off to rest it and then started training again, but the problem ended up not being the super sprained ankle. I mean, that was pain, but the real problem was something entirely worse.
I over-compensated for how bad the ankle was and damaged the soft tissue below my other knee and over stretched the tendon above it. Or over stressed. I wasn't very clear from what my physio said. The first physio I saw told me I would still be able to do the half marathon, and London Landmarks doesn't defer places, so I was doing it, come hell, high water or horrid injury. The second physio I saw had to remind herself that calling patients stupid is neither professional nor nice, but her face gave it away and I knew I was stupid for doing it, but I also knew it was the right thing to do, because it was the best I have felt since probably a bit before this time last year...
The problem was that my knee wasn't happy from mile 2. For those who don't work in miles, a half marathon is 13.1. Mile 2 I had to stop running, mile 6 I started hobbling, approaching mile 7 I was in the medical bay whilst they bandaged me up and the rest of the way was done with painkillers, determination and that very Mancunian brand of Northern Grit. John Green wrote in TFIOS that pain demands to be felt, well that certainly did. I can manage a bit of running on it, but not even enough to do parkrun (3.1 miles/5km) let alone in a respectable time, so I've been volunteering most weeks and sitting around wishing I could go swimming - I've been getting home too late and I spent two weeks at my mum's - or running or something, other than the physio exercises and just resting it. Thankfully, I have been able to do a bit of stair running, but my God, that hurts. That's not even my knee - my lungs feel like they've evacuated the building when I'm done!
I was never an athletically inclined person and it's something that I now regret. My parkrun times are longer than most TV shows these days, but I actually love it. Not always the actual doing of it, but the feeling of accomplishment and peace at the end are second to none.
I'm probably going to try and write up about the run now and post it later, because otherwise, I might forget.
Catch you later.
10 May 2019
An Ode to Chivalry,
"CHIVALRY AIN'T DEAD, Y'KNOW?" Oh really? Are you sure?
Here's an idea; can we take chivalry and rebaptise it as human decency?
The reason I have an issue with this idea of chivalry is three main things. Chivalry is about the way a man treats a woman, particularly a woman whom he is romantically interested in and to me that excludes too many people because if you're not romantically interested in the person or they don't fit into your ideas of a woman or how a woman should behave, chivalry can go out of the window. The other issue is why is it that men only have to behave this way to women, and not to other men? The last is that sometimes it can feel a little condescending and I don't have time for that.
I went on a date recently where someone was acting with this old fashion idea of chivalry and it was lovely. He opened doors for me, pulled my chair out from the table (which confused me because I didn't know that was what he was going to do, but it was also really sweet) and generally treated me like a lady. It was quite a novel experience. Now, he is the type that would behave like that towards another man, not because he's interested in them, but just because he's a really nice person.
To me, opening a car door for someone, pulling out their chair for them, helping them carry their child's pushchair down the stairs to the Tube because otherwise, it's really not very accessible for them, they're the sort of things that should be done by everyone for everyone. In some cases, yes, it's better to offer the assistance and give the person the chance to decline, or even just signpost that you're doing something to be helpful 'Here, let me get that door for you' 'Do you need a hand?' and my favourite Irish expression of 'Will I help you with your pushchair?' I had someone grab hold of the front of the buggy of the child I was nannying and take off down the stairs at top speed. The assistance was appreciated except for the fact that I nearly lost my grip of the buggy and nearly fell more than once, and that was quite scary. A bit of warning would have been lovely.
It's not just women who need assistance, even though I did read an article recently that stated that the world is designed for men, and I believe it is true in a lot of instances. It might be to do with hidden disabilities, or it might not be, but sometimes men need help, and sometimes a little expression of human kindness or decency from a stranger is enough to remind us that we are connected in this world; you have to put a hell of a lot of effort into being alone.
Last thing, and this is the controversial one, chivalry is from before the era of #thisgirlcan. In fact, it was far more #nowomancan. Women aren't going to dirty their pretty white gloves touching doors and now, we're more than capable of moving our own chairs. It might be a minority, but there are still people who insist on doing these things for us and calling us dear whilst thinking of us as delicate little flowers who mustn't do things for ourselves. It's outdated, but it happens. If you see a woman struggling to carry something heavy, there's nothing wrong with saying, 'That looks heavy, do you need any help?' but is it very condescending to say 'Oh you poor dear, let me take that from you.' because you think she can't do it. Yes, women these days do themselves an injury trying to do things they should ask for help with, but to assume you know better about what she can do is doing her a disservice, and then she'd prefer to have the injury than the help.
TL;DR: Don't be an arsehole. Offer to help, and do it for everyone. Catch you later.
Here's an idea; can we take chivalry and rebaptise it as human decency?
The reason I have an issue with this idea of chivalry is three main things. Chivalry is about the way a man treats a woman, particularly a woman whom he is romantically interested in and to me that excludes too many people because if you're not romantically interested in the person or they don't fit into your ideas of a woman or how a woman should behave, chivalry can go out of the window. The other issue is why is it that men only have to behave this way to women, and not to other men? The last is that sometimes it can feel a little condescending and I don't have time for that.
I went on a date recently where someone was acting with this old fashion idea of chivalry and it was lovely. He opened doors for me, pulled my chair out from the table (which confused me because I didn't know that was what he was going to do, but it was also really sweet) and generally treated me like a lady. It was quite a novel experience. Now, he is the type that would behave like that towards another man, not because he's interested in them, but just because he's a really nice person.
To me, opening a car door for someone, pulling out their chair for them, helping them carry their child's pushchair down the stairs to the Tube because otherwise, it's really not very accessible for them, they're the sort of things that should be done by everyone for everyone. In some cases, yes, it's better to offer the assistance and give the person the chance to decline, or even just signpost that you're doing something to be helpful 'Here, let me get that door for you' 'Do you need a hand?' and my favourite Irish expression of 'Will I help you with your pushchair?' I had someone grab hold of the front of the buggy of the child I was nannying and take off down the stairs at top speed. The assistance was appreciated except for the fact that I nearly lost my grip of the buggy and nearly fell more than once, and that was quite scary. A bit of warning would have been lovely.
It's not just women who need assistance, even though I did read an article recently that stated that the world is designed for men, and I believe it is true in a lot of instances. It might be to do with hidden disabilities, or it might not be, but sometimes men need help, and sometimes a little expression of human kindness or decency from a stranger is enough to remind us that we are connected in this world; you have to put a hell of a lot of effort into being alone.
Last thing, and this is the controversial one, chivalry is from before the era of #thisgirlcan. In fact, it was far more #nowomancan. Women aren't going to dirty their pretty white gloves touching doors and now, we're more than capable of moving our own chairs. It might be a minority, but there are still people who insist on doing these things for us and calling us dear whilst thinking of us as delicate little flowers who mustn't do things for ourselves. It's outdated, but it happens. If you see a woman struggling to carry something heavy, there's nothing wrong with saying, 'That looks heavy, do you need any help?' but is it very condescending to say 'Oh you poor dear, let me take that from you.' because you think she can't do it. Yes, women these days do themselves an injury trying to do things they should ask for help with, but to assume you know better about what she can do is doing her a disservice, and then she'd prefer to have the injury than the help.
TL;DR: Don't be an arsehole. Offer to help, and do it for everyone. Catch you later.
9 May 2019
As She Sheepishly Enters the Fray,
It's been two months. Why has it been two months? Why is it that I've still not written about San Fransisco properly, or London Landmarks Half Marathon, or my new job, or the perils of going for said job. Why are there so many drafts on this thing, where I couldn't convince myself to press 'Publish'? One of the big reasons is because my anxiety is an arsehole.
Now, obviously, I don't mean an actual arsehole, even if it's primary function does appear to be spouting crap, but instead, it's the kind of arsehole that also is supposed to look like the white-hot center of the universe. (God, I love a 'Grey's Anatomy' reference!)
Every time I think that I've just about got to the I'm back to okay stage, and I think I'm back to my normal self, something happens and I seem to slip back towards "relapse me". "Relapse me" is the person who sleeps all of the time, is constantly reactive and only watches TV outsidre of work. That might not seem like such a bad thing, but way back when I was feeling okay, feeling steady, I had hobbies that I loved that didn't involve drinking, running and vegging in front of the TV. Even my writing has fallen by the wayside.
I think there is a certain amount of fake it until you make it involved in getting better, so I'm doing my best to try and remind myself to write, and do the other things I enjoy as well as running and keeping up with Game of Thrones. We'll see how that goes!
Catch you later.
Now, obviously, I don't mean an actual arsehole, even if it's primary function does appear to be spouting crap, but instead, it's the kind of arsehole that also is supposed to look like the white-hot center of the universe. (God, I love a 'Grey's Anatomy' reference!)
Every time I think that I've just about got to the I'm back to okay stage, and I think I'm back to my normal self, something happens and I seem to slip back towards "relapse me". "Relapse me" is the person who sleeps all of the time, is constantly reactive and only watches TV outsidre of work. That might not seem like such a bad thing, but way back when I was feeling okay, feeling steady, I had hobbies that I loved that didn't involve drinking, running and vegging in front of the TV. Even my writing has fallen by the wayside.
I think there is a certain amount of fake it until you make it involved in getting better, so I'm doing my best to try and remind myself to write, and do the other things I enjoy as well as running and keeping up with Game of Thrones. We'll see how that goes!
Catch you later.
24 Feb 2019
Romance Isn't Dead, But Maybe It Should Be,
What a strange thought for a writer who finds writing about romance somewhat inevitable, but alas, onwards we must charge.
I was watching a video this morning that was some news channel and they were talking about what has changed in the year since the Metoo Oscars (can't find a hashtag on my American laptop right now). One of the journalists, not sure if he was acting dense or being dense, but I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, asked the question of 'if she doesn't kiss the man, what's the point of her being in the movie?' And if it weren't for the fact I was on a train full of people drinking my soul mate in coffee form (Starbucks Blonde Roast Soya Flat White has officially dethroned the AMT Organic Oat Milk Flat White because the coffee is less bitter) I would have probably flipped.
Explaining why is probably going to sound like a tangent, but bear with me.
A few years ago, one of my "great aunts" died. She wasn't actually my great aunt, but it was shorthand for my grandad's cousin or some other obscure relationship. She lived alone, had never married and had never had children. We found a few letters from an American military man whom she had been involved with whilst he was stationed in England (to what extent they were involved, I do not know, cannot know and really, do not want to know) and the last struck me as infinitely sad. There was a line in it that said something about he cared for her more than she for him. It was a fleeting romance and ended when he returned home by the seems of it. The romantically inclined part of my brain imagined all sorts of scenarios which prevented her from being with her love, making her lack of a husband be because she never got over him and there was a desperate loneliness to it, but then I realised something - not getting married does not mean that you lack a husband. The word 'lack' is completely wrong, especially when viewed with a wide-angle lens and looking at the photos of the travels that she enjoyed alone. There's a photo I love of her T posing in front of the pyramids, a cheesy grin blasted across her face. Her love of life could not be more apparent. It's not as though she spent her years looking with heartache at the space on the sofa beside her, sighing wistfully at 'what could have been.'
For some, the idea of a life with no partner is daunting. The purpose of life is to find someone, get married and have babies, or that is what is in the minds of many anyway. It's an idea that seems to me like an old sweater that shrunk a little in the wash. There are a few options on what to do with it.
First off, you could do what many career women do. You can soak the sweater in a water and fabric conditioner solution, pin it out back to its original size and let to dry and your sweater has been amended to fit you. Marriage and motherhood no longer has to mean a woman is banished back into her kitchen to make dinner for the brood and all that comes along with it.
Second, you can give the sweater to someone it does fit. Some people WANT a wedding and babies. For some people, that is their aim in life, and it is the job of the rest of the world to remember that that is valid. Have the romance, have the babies, have your happy. Happiness is not one size fits all, so you do you.
Another option is to do what my "great aunt" did. Throw caution to the wind, throw out the sweater and find a life that fits. Maybe you get tared with the brush of being a lonely spinster who is to be pitied, but as long as that isn't true and you know you're finding your happy, that is all that matters.
The second to last one I would say is never give up. There are precious few good films about finding love in later life, and those that there are seem to get limited attention, or they focus on this being the second love of a person's life. They've already been married, and they outgrew that marriage or something awful happened (cheating, divorce, a death of a spouse, anything really) but the idea of finding your first love at an older age seems like an unattractive concept. If you want a romantic love, never give up on that.
The very last is remembering that not all love is romantic. It is possible to be aromantic and asexual or just go through a spell where the idea of dating is far too cumbersome and instead enjoy spending time with your friends. Maybe one of your friends is really great at people watching with you and the two of you can love that together, but that friend hates art, so you go to galleries and exhibitions with another friend. And you love them. You do the things you want to do and enjoy your life and nobody has to kiss each other or be holding a torch to someone who is blind to it. Maybe you do those things alone.
Maybe you dedicate your life to coding a game or writing a book or tending your garden and you have love for those things and something that's almost contempt towards all other humans because they are rubbish and planet ruining. Romance is not intrinsically necessary for a happy and fulfilled life. Sexual love isn't intrinsically necessary either, so maybe ladies, gentlemen, humans of whatever gender, no gender or whatever descriptive word you prefer, we should pick up out pitchforks and tridents and slay the beast that is romance, or maybe tell it that it has no home with us.
Just a thought; catch you later.
I was watching a video this morning that was some news channel and they were talking about what has changed in the year since the Metoo Oscars (can't find a hashtag on my American laptop right now). One of the journalists, not sure if he was acting dense or being dense, but I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, asked the question of 'if she doesn't kiss the man, what's the point of her being in the movie?' And if it weren't for the fact I was on a train full of people drinking my soul mate in coffee form (Starbucks Blonde Roast Soya Flat White has officially dethroned the AMT Organic Oat Milk Flat White because the coffee is less bitter) I would have probably flipped.
Explaining why is probably going to sound like a tangent, but bear with me.
A few years ago, one of my "great aunts" died. She wasn't actually my great aunt, but it was shorthand for my grandad's cousin or some other obscure relationship. She lived alone, had never married and had never had children. We found a few letters from an American military man whom she had been involved with whilst he was stationed in England (to what extent they were involved, I do not know, cannot know and really, do not want to know) and the last struck me as infinitely sad. There was a line in it that said something about he cared for her more than she for him. It was a fleeting romance and ended when he returned home by the seems of it. The romantically inclined part of my brain imagined all sorts of scenarios which prevented her from being with her love, making her lack of a husband be because she never got over him and there was a desperate loneliness to it, but then I realised something - not getting married does not mean that you lack a husband. The word 'lack' is completely wrong, especially when viewed with a wide-angle lens and looking at the photos of the travels that she enjoyed alone. There's a photo I love of her T posing in front of the pyramids, a cheesy grin blasted across her face. Her love of life could not be more apparent. It's not as though she spent her years looking with heartache at the space on the sofa beside her, sighing wistfully at 'what could have been.'
For some, the idea of a life with no partner is daunting. The purpose of life is to find someone, get married and have babies, or that is what is in the minds of many anyway. It's an idea that seems to me like an old sweater that shrunk a little in the wash. There are a few options on what to do with it.
First off, you could do what many career women do. You can soak the sweater in a water and fabric conditioner solution, pin it out back to its original size and let to dry and your sweater has been amended to fit you. Marriage and motherhood no longer has to mean a woman is banished back into her kitchen to make dinner for the brood and all that comes along with it.
Second, you can give the sweater to someone it does fit. Some people WANT a wedding and babies. For some people, that is their aim in life, and it is the job of the rest of the world to remember that that is valid. Have the romance, have the babies, have your happy. Happiness is not one size fits all, so you do you.
Another option is to do what my "great aunt" did. Throw caution to the wind, throw out the sweater and find a life that fits. Maybe you get tared with the brush of being a lonely spinster who is to be pitied, but as long as that isn't true and you know you're finding your happy, that is all that matters.
The second to last one I would say is never give up. There are precious few good films about finding love in later life, and those that there are seem to get limited attention, or they focus on this being the second love of a person's life. They've already been married, and they outgrew that marriage or something awful happened (cheating, divorce, a death of a spouse, anything really) but the idea of finding your first love at an older age seems like an unattractive concept. If you want a romantic love, never give up on that.
The very last is remembering that not all love is romantic. It is possible to be aromantic and asexual or just go through a spell where the idea of dating is far too cumbersome and instead enjoy spending time with your friends. Maybe one of your friends is really great at people watching with you and the two of you can love that together, but that friend hates art, so you go to galleries and exhibitions with another friend. And you love them. You do the things you want to do and enjoy your life and nobody has to kiss each other or be holding a torch to someone who is blind to it. Maybe you do those things alone.
Maybe you dedicate your life to coding a game or writing a book or tending your garden and you have love for those things and something that's almost contempt towards all other humans because they are rubbish and planet ruining. Romance is not intrinsically necessary for a happy and fulfilled life. Sexual love isn't intrinsically necessary either, so maybe ladies, gentlemen, humans of whatever gender, no gender or whatever descriptive word you prefer, we should pick up out pitchforks and tridents and slay the beast that is romance, or maybe tell it that it has no home with us.
Just a thought; catch you later.
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