Can we do it all again?

What do you do when it's all done?
What do you do when there nothing left to organise, or plan?
When they have been commemorated or celebrated and cremated and then...
What's left?
When you're not building up to the funeral of someone you love, and worrying about whether it's going to be done right. 

Then what do you focus on?

Suddenly you're back in the real world: the world you rediscover the day after they die, because the day they die the world stops.
But the world keeps on spinning as if they never left and the next day you find it's business as usual, except you have an event to organise. 

And when the date comes and goes, and the event is over, then the really real world comes back. 
And it's actually business as usual.
And suddenly business as usual seems so fruitless and pointless and you're inconsolable and inconsolably angry for no reason and you're feel like you're stuck in a dead end which wasn't signposted as a dead end so surely there's another way out.
But you can't find it. You don't find it. Things are "normal" but they're not.

You're so irreparably changed that suddenly you can't stop thinking about the next one. 
Wondering who will be next and how that event will go and how they would want it.
And whether you'll do them proud.
As if they could ever be proud of you for accurately planning and executing their funeral.
As if your choice of flowers, or words, or music, affects how they feel about you.
It doesn't: it's all for you, about them. 
It's not about doing them "justice". 
It's not about saying goodbye to them in the appropriate manner.
It's about doing whatever you need to do, to say what needs to be said or what you want to say.
It's about realising that life is short, even if it's 80 years long, and if you don't say it now it may remain forever unsaid or unheard. 
And if it is too late for them to hear, saying it anyway, to people that will hear and will listen and will understand. 
Because then you've heard it said aloud. And you know it to be true. 
And since anyone so loved is gone but not forgotten, you have still said it to them, and they have still heard. 
They hear you because they still live in you. When you breathe, laugh, smile. Cry. 

They are a part of you in a way you cannot alter.
They always will be.

I love you, tomorrow/You're only a day away

I feel I want to fold in on myself. 
Fold myself up until I'm small enough to slip into someone's pocket.
And stay there, warm and safe. In the dark, with only a crumpled receipt and some spare change to keep me company.

Unless, of course, the pocket has a hole in it.
If that is the case, I might think I'm safe and warm in the pocket, and once my eyes have adjusted to the gloom, I'll go exploring.

And that's when the floor will give way and I'll fall through it, and be trapped in the lining with no way out.
Unlike the pocket, the lining isn't comforting.
The lining is that feeling when you're in a maze, and you're actually trying to find the middle, or the way out, without cheating, but you can't and you're trapped and you start to wonder if this is where you'll be for the rest of your life. If you'll ever see the outside world again.

Like the hole that you might disappear into, when someone you love dies it leaves a hole in your life.
A rip in the fabric of space, and time.
A rip in the fabric of you.
Suddenly, you are the pocket, and the hole is where your granddad used to be. And whenever you go anywhere near it you get the sense of emptiness, of a never-ending gloom. 

Tomorrow is going to be awful. There are no two ways about it. I am going to be crying or on the verge of tears from the moment I wake up. There'll be moments throughout the day when I think that maybe the tears have dried up, and then they'll spring afresh in the wells of my eyes and come streaming down my face and it'll be all I can manage not to let out a heaving sob.

I want to fold in on myself. I want to save the memories of my granddad that are inside me and if I fold myself up and shut down from the outside world they will be safe. And warm. Protected inside. 

I don't want to lose them like we've lost him. Because now the memories I keep of him only live in my head. They are gone from his. 
He is gone.

When he was in the care home, he said, "I'm ready to die tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes."

Tomorrow came for him, and now tomorrow comes for us.

Memories Follow You Around

I thought I saw my granddad driving through Carshalton High Street today.

Of course it wasn't, and the random man was probably mildly disturbed by the woman staring at him.

This is not my first great loss, but it feels like it. Both my dad's parents have passed away, but although I liked them and had a decent relationship with them, it was nothing like the one I had with my granddad. That's why it feels like my first great loss.

But whilst I had a really big cry after losing each of my other grandparents, since my granddad passed away I haven't had a really big cry. Perhaps because I had a really big cry before. And perhaps because I cried a lot when we were there for his final moments.

I cry little and often.

I have been struggling to get to sleep since he passed away, and there are myriad of reasons for this. My mind races when I try to lie down and go to sleep because I know that if I'm thinking, I'm living.
Because there's so much I want to do with my life, and lying there, going to sleep again, I worry that I won't be able to do it all.
And as my breathing quietens and slows, it reminds me of the way his noisy, chesty breathing started slowing, and quietened. Until it stopped.


He could be harsh, and strict. He hated people crying, at least when I was younger. He was intolerant of foreigners and same sex relationships.
But he was always the granddad with the silly jokes, that my sister and I rode like a horsey when we were kids. No wonder he had two knee operations!
And boy did he make a mean Chinese. Boxing Day was never the same again after he stopped doing it.


It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like he's gone for good, just that he's not here. We're planning a funeral for a man that I saw die and yet he doesn't feel dead to me.

The old cliche of "he'll always be alive in our hearts" is true.
I can only be grateful that I was with him at the end, that he knew he was loved, and I will be eternally grateful for having had him as my granddad.

All Men Must Die

He is going to die soon. It could be this week, or next week, or the week after. But it is going to be soon.

It is going to be before any of us are ready, because no one can ever be ready for this.

I have never seen cancer up close before. I hope I never have to again. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't share this, that this is something to be kept private, these last moments with my grandfather. But I find it hard to talk to individuals about this. It's easier sending it into the ether. 

All men must die. But if this is dying, it is ugly and messy and distressing. 

It is not how I imagined death: a calm cold, quiet that gradually falls upon you. This is an upsetting fading. This is my grandad only being my grandad for an hour a day, and being a vacant, elderly man who mumbles and mutters and groans for the rest of it. A man who asks for a piece of the mountain in the picture on the wall, and accepts a bottle top the same colour as the mountain. 

Today I told him we love him. And he said he loves us too. 

But even men who love and are loved must die. 

Not Yet

I never knew watching someone die would be so tiring. 

Being on alert for their mutterings and mumblings, to respond to their half-crazed conversation. 

My grandad used to read my blog. Once I think he even sent the link to The Telegraph because he thought it should be published. 

I have many and more memories of my grandad. He was a lot of fun when we were kids, but he was strict too. He couldn't abide crying. But he mellowed with age, and in the past two months I've seen him cry more than I ever did the previous 25 years of my life. I'd cry too, if I was given a death sentence.

But this is my grandad now, in his final days. This elderly man who talks to people only he can see about things that aren't happening. This man who looks at me, but doesn't see me. Who tells me I'm lying about who I am, but calls out for me when he's distressed. 

This man who tries to call people on his catheter, and needs new boots to see the captain tomorrow. This man who has been husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle. This man so well loved, will be so sorely missed. 

But not yet.

Life after Prison/Sexism is alive and well

*Trigger warning: rape, sexual assault


Is it any wonder that a huge number of rape victims don't report their rape to the police? It's hard, of course, to determine how many women are raped every year because an estimated 89% of rapes go unreported. But estimates show approx 78,000 rapes happen a year - 69,000 of them being female victims, 9,000 male.

The reason for this post is because Judy Finnigan, veteran presenter, spoke on Loose Women about how Ched Evans, the former Sheffield United football player, should be allowed to go back to his job when he comes out of prison.

I hadn't heard of this case until I saw a petition floating around to stop him from going to the Sheffield. And then a friend drew my attention to Finnigan's comments. 

On Loose Women, Finnigan said: "He’s served his time. The rape – and I am not, please, by any means minimising any kind of rape – but the rape was not violent. He didn’t cause any bodily harm to the person.

“It was unpleasant, in a hotel room, I believe, and she was – she had far too much to drink. And you know, that is reprehensible, but he has been convicted and he has served his time.”

Now, I am not surprised that Judy fell into the stereotypical trap of victim blaming. I am rarely surprised by victim blaming these days. What I am heartened by is the outrage shown by viewers and people who have complained about these comments, leading to Finnigan issuing an apology.

So she apologised, which means Hooray! No more victim blaming!? No. Finnigan's apology said she didn't intend to "minimise the terrible ordeal" that the victim suffered. But minimise she did - and her comments cannot be taken back. There was no need for her to even mention the fact that the woman had been drinking (because surely everyone knows inebriation does not equal consent? No?) or the fact it was not a violent rape. There are enough individuals that are outraged by these comments to show that victim-blaming is being held up for what it is and people are being made to apologise for it. But what we need to do is reeducate society from the bottom to the top about rape, sexual assault, consent, and how to treat victims. 

Our society holds on so dearly to the idea that rapes happen in dark alleys by violent attackers, when the reality is so much closer to home. But that's why we hold onto this ridiculous notion - because the truth that as many as 97% of rapes are perpetrated by people we know is too uncomfortable. Home Office stats showed that 56% of rapes were committed by a former or current intimate partner. And victims are beaten in 9% of rapes. So Evans' rape victim is actually the norm. And what an upsetting and horrifying norm that is.

Finnigan has, however, raised a good point about ex-offenders and them being allowed to get on with their lives - should he be allowed to go back to his job as a footballer? Understandably, as a footballer he will not only be paid very handsomely (for kicking a ball around...) but he will be in the public eye - kids will look up to him as a role model. He will wear a kit that bears the logos of sponsors. Ex-offenders often find it very hard to reintegrate into life after prison, and Judy is right that he has done his time for the crime he committed. Criminals must face the very real consequences of their actions - although in the case of rape convictions the police have a 60% success rate. Not hugely encouraging. The England & Wales average for detection of rape, i.e recorded rapes that result in a charge or a caution (a CAUTION???) is a measly 18%. So the average rape victim has a less than 20% chance of having their rapist even charged with the crime, and then only a 60% chance of them being convicted.

Committing a crime - and being punished for it - will have a major impact on someone's life, and undoubtedly will have had an impact on Ched Evans. I guess the thing here is whether being punished by the law is enough. The reason why so many people are against Ched Evans picking up his football career where he left off is because it would seem as if the crime never happened – he never raped this woman, he never went to prison for it. It could be seen to negate the consequences of committing crime. The very consequences that are supposed to discourage committing crime in the first place.

Discussing that Ched Evans' sentence is being halved with my sister, she pointed out that if there are no incentives for criminals to reform, then they won't. This doesn't just mean good behaviour early releases, this means reintegration into society. Ever heard of a second chance? It's easy to judge a person on the worst thing they've ever done. I'm not advocating soft-heartedness on all criminals. In fact, I don't know what the solution is. 

All I know is I am the kind of person that believes that if people seek help, they should be given it. Apologies will never take a crime back, will never bring back a loved one, will never heal the physical or emotional scars of a crime. But we need to be focusing on building a society where people are better, so that our prisons aren't so full, as well as establishing schemes where ex-offenders can get back to their lives. We only have one life, after all.  

***

The other night, my sister & I attended a talk with Laura Bates and Caroline Criado-Perez, discussing what needs to be done to overturn the institutionalised sexism in our society. The point was raised about Emma Watson's recent appointment as a UN Goodwill Ambassador and her launch of the HeForShe campaign. The idea that feminism is unpalatable to men has long made feminist's eyes roll - as was pointed out by the speakers, the idea that we have to show that sexism is bad for men too in order to get their support is commendable, but the simple fact of the matter is that we should be asking men to support the destruction of institutionalised sexism because "they bloody well should". Women are 51% of the population. Isn't it well past time that we achieved gender equality?!

If you're a man, and you don't think sexism is a problem, then quite frankly, you are naive and culturally blind and how about doing a little bit of thinking about it? 
And if you do that thinking and you still come back and think it doesn't exist?

The government statistics on rape and sexual assault will prove you wrong.
The government statistics on equal pay will prove you wrong.
Counting Dead Women will prove you wrong.
Countless surveys on women in the workplace, women at home, women in education will prove you wrong.
The practices of sexual harassment, the consistent and overwhelming entries on Everyday Sexism project will prove you wrong.
The practice of FGM will prove you wrong. 
The only recently banned 2 finger test in India will prove you wrong.
Malala Yousafzai's story will prove you wrong.
#BringBackOurGirls will prove you wrong.
The barrister who called a 13 year old female abuse victim "predatory" will prove you wrong. 
The "she had it coming/was asking for it/shouldn't have been out that late/on her own/drinking" victim-blaming narratives prove you wrong.
The LSE Rugby club will prove you wrong. The Stirling University Hockey team will prove you wrong.
The statistics on rape and sexual assault and the lack of adequate policing and support on American campuses will prove you wrong.
The 200+ restrictions passed across states in America that make it harder for women to obtain safe, legal abortion will prove you wrong.
Anita Sarkeesian will prove you wrong.
Caroline Criado-Perez will prove you wrong.
Stella Creasy will prove you wrong.
Mary Beard, Hadley Freeman, Grace Dent, India Knight and Laurie Penny will prove you wrong.
Jennifer Lawrence will prove you wrong. She had her private photos stolen - and then when she dared to publicly name it for what it was  - a sex crime - her Wikipedia page was adorned with those very same naked selfies. The message here is silence yourself woman. 
Yes, there are idiots in the world. But ever wondered why the idiots always seem to be attacking, threatening, trolling women with sexually explicit or sexually violent comments?
The stud/slut paradox will prove you wrong.
The leader/bossy paradox will prove you wrong.
The Downing Street catwalk will prove you wrong.
Don't tell me that pink is for girls and blue is for boys.
Don't tell me to get back in the kitchen. Don't tell me to make you a sandwich. 

Don't tell me that sexism doesn't exist. Because it's 2014 and it does and it bloody well shouldn't.




Sources:


http://www.thesite.org/sex-and-relationships/single-life-and-dating/rape-myths-9147.html  

http://www.theguardian.com/media/2014/oct/13/judy-finnigan-apologies-rape-comments-ched-evans-football

https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/97907/government-stern-review.pdf

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-27726280

http://www.theguardian.com/news/datablog/2013/jan/11/male-female-rape-statistics-graphic 

#WorldMentalHealthDay

Last night, shortly after I'd settled into my bed, I heard what at first I thought was my sister arguing with my dad. Question Time was on, and she was still downstairs cooking something for her dinner today, so I figured they were just having a heated debate about something. Then after a moment or two I realised I recognised those noises - they were the noises of utter desperate crying.

I literally leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, to find my sister crying into the shoulder of my dad as he hugged her.

I stood there until they parted and asked "What the hell happened?" I was so bemused - I'd been upstairs about 10 minutes and when I'd left them all was well.

And then my sister said, "Dad asked me why I was cooking."

Now, that doesn't sound like a reason to burst into tears. But my sister had started cooking a bit before, and told our dad she was cooking something to eat for her dinner tomorrow [Friday] night. 

Dad: Oh right. Where are you going tomorrow night?
Claire: I'm going to a gig at Wembley. I'm seeing a comedian, Miranda Hart.
Dad: Ok.

So how, approximately 15 minutes later, had my dad forgotten this entire conversation and asked my sister again why she was cooking? He is not elderly and suffering with memory problems. 

The simple fact is that he is an alcoholic and he was drunk.

My sister leaves early in the morning for work, before my dad, so she often doesn't see him until she gets home. And by the time she gets home he's already had a glass of wine or two. At weekends he gets up at 10am and starts drinking about 1pm, unless he's driving somewhere. Added to which my sister works alternate Saturday mornings. This means that on average, my sister sees my father sober for about 9 hours a week, give or take. 

There are 168 hours in the week. So that (if my maths is right) means my sister sees my father sober for less than 6% of the week. 

He repeatedly forgets conversations we've had, because we only really get to have conversations with him in the evenings, by which point he's almost near the end of the first bottle of wine, or starting on the second. He frequently falls asleep at his desk downstairs, or even at the dinner table. I've found him asleep downstairs at 1am. He has even fallen asleep whilst eating his dinner.

Our father is an alcoholic. Addiction is a mental health issue. And today is World Mental Health Day.

My family has had a range of mental health issues on the years, the most significant being depression. My sister has been recently treated for it, my mother has had it, her mother has had it, my uncle has had it, and my grandad currently has it. So literally everyone on the maternal side of the family. I was treated for "behavioural" problems that was probably depression when I was younger. This had made us - especially my sister - hyperaware of the strength of our mental health, and protecting it. And right now my sister's mental health is not being protected. She is not in any regular counselling and whilst she is not being treated for depression now, that is not to say she cannot be treated for it again. Living in a house with an alcoholic father who has pointedly said he doesn't care if his drinking kills him is not the easiest, most loving environment for my sister. It's not the one she needs as she delves into the working world, having got through her depression and graduated from one of the toughest universities in the world.

It's not that we don't love our dad, and we don't doubt that he loves us. He just needs alcohol more than he sees the need to grow old and see us through life as far as he possibly can. 

And we said as much last night. He did his sad puppy dog face when he knows he's in trouble, and he went and sat down in his computer chair, hanging his head. It was hard to know what to say. So we just told him the truth: that it is hurtful and painful for us to accept that he doesn't care about us enough to care about living. "What if we have kids", Claire asked. "Will you be around to see your grandchildren? Don't you want to see how we turn out?"

Both my sister and I are worried about our drinking habits. Having seen what wine has done to both our parents (our mother's drinking habits have significantly improved since she got a new boyfriend, because having her two daughters intervene and cry about how much she drank was not enough to make her stop or even cut down, but a disapproving new boyfriend was), we are worried about becoming dependent on alcohol. On "needing" alcohol. It is an issue we will probably both be concerned about for the rest of our lives.

That is why treating mental health is so vitally important for everybody. It has been the "underdog" of the NHS - never treated the same as physical health. But my father's addiction to wine is going to have physical implications - he is overweight, and he is doing daily damage to his organs. Can you see how connected everything can be?

And there's the rub. Our mental health adversely affected by the mental health of our father. Aspects of our futures wrapped up in actions of an alcoholic. 

For my father, his future lies at the bottom of his second bottle of wine. At the 4th, the 8th, the 13th. 
7 days a week, my dad drinks about 2 bottles a night. 

If a vampire were ever to attack, I'd be surprised if blood flowed from my father's veins. Instead the vampire would probably just get drunk.
Then they'd have something in common with my father.


Update 12/10/14: On Friday night (10th) I was leaving to go out. My dad had arrived home from work and when I said "I'm off to Sutton." he asked "OK, are you meeting Claire there?" I started to say "No Claire is in London" and halfway through I realised this question meant he didn't remember her telling him where she was going. And I had a bad feeling he didn't remember their argument either.
I was right. Saturday morning, when we all got up, Dad admitted that he couldn't remember Claire telling him where she was going...and he couldn't remember their argument. He looked sheepish (as he had done Thursday night), but at least this time he was sober when we told him the reasons why we had argued - his drinking, how it affects us, and how horrible it makes us feel.
He's on glass of wine number "no idea" (his words). I estimate 2nd or 3rd. It's 7pm.

It's Been A While

I haven't written in this blog for a while. A whole month in fact. Sometimes, a week won't go by that I don't have some thought I want to put down in here. But my Head Aches blog/vlog has been taking priority.

I want to explore that concept of priority. It's hard to know what are your priorities, and the difference between what they are and what they should be. Most of us feel strong obligations to one thing or another: work, family, money. My strongest obligation at the moment is family, particularly my grandparents. With my grandad now in a care home, I need to be around to go and see him, and also to take my nan to see him on occasion. My sister only gets the opportunity to see them at the weekends, and if I was working full-time I would be in the same position. 

I'm struggling with not working. The thing is I'm not not working, I'm just not in my usual environment of a full-time 9-7/8/9 job in TV. I'm having to work off my own initiative to work for my friend on her business, on a film project. I have to sit myself down and say "Right, today I need to get this done" or "Ok this afternoon I'm going to get that finished."  It's not easy, and the house can be full of distractions like the washing up or the hoovering. Often I go and sit in my local library to be free of distraction. But I am going to have to learn how to work from home.

Much as I miss working in TV, and I miss the money, I want to be volunteering like I do each week - something that working in TV would not allow. I want to be around for my grandparents, because we don't know how long my grandad has got, and my nana is now alone in her house. For a woman that does not want to make her own family, I am curiously devoted to the one I already have.

When I got home in May, I felt like I'd made the wrong decision coming home, and my plan was to get back to work and save up enough to get away and out of the country again to somewhere else by the New Year. And then my mother told me my grandad had cancer. Lots of cancer. Cancer that will kill him (though won't technically won't kill him). Terminal, aggressive, untreatable cancer. They started chemo in order to give him more time. But only a few sessions in they said it was too aggressive and chemo would make no difference.
There was no more bargaining for time. This is it. 

And so he sits in his care home, in pain, uncomfortable, but being given more care and attention than we could if he were at home. He says he's ready to die tomorrow, but tomorrow doesn't come.

But I'm not ready.

Having a family is so selfish. You create people who are bound to you by blood and more often than not care about you like no other in the world. And sometimes your kids die before you and that's tragic, no parent should have to bury their child. But why should the children have to bury the parents? Is it part of growing up? An inevitable part of the human experience - the loss of a loved one. An experience that cannot be ignored, that cannot be got around. Unless you are an orphan hermit perhaps.

And I can easily empathise with people, fictional or otherwise. Watching the beginning of season 7 of Castle I was crying even though I knew what was going to happen. But the heartbreak of Beckett's face - it cut through to my own heart.

I'm not ready for this loss. How can I possibly become ready?

Microsoft Word puts me right.

I try as often as I can to not use the limiting "his or her" or "he or she". Because there is more to our society that "him or her"; not everyone identifies as one of these two available genders. 

Gender is a construct, and Word is encouraging me to continue to reinforce this construct.

I suppose I can't expect a piece of software to comprehend the nuances of language in the discussion of gender.

"No substitutions, exchanges, or refunds."

I know I am not alone in simply thinking "What? No!" to the news that Robin Williams has killed himself this morning. A comedy great, a man whose biggest films are loved by those who grew up with him, and those that came later too.

What I hope can be taken from Williams' passing is a strengthened resolve to tackle mental health issues. Every year 1 in 4 people in the UK suffer from a mental health problem. Suicide is the main cause of death in men under the age of 35, although women are more likely to be treated for a mental health issue than men. Perhaps because our society still has no room for supposed "weak" men. And what is weaker than your mind falling apart?

Well that's wrong, and we need to change the perception of people with mental health issues. I have a history of depression in my family: in fact I think everyone on my mother's side of the family up to my grandparents has had depression. My sister and I have both attempted suicide by overdose. And yet mental health is still not treated in an equal way to physical health in the NHS, despite the Coalition Government's promise to do so; NHS England this year announced cuts in funding to mental health services. Mental health problems continue as a silent issue, one that affects so many of us: people we love, people we work with, or even ourselves.

Robin Williams' isn't the first acting great we've lost this year: Philip Seymour Hoffman died from a drugs overdose earlier this year. Addiction can be considered a type of mental health problem, and it has been in the news lately with Nick Clegg promising to abolish prison sentences for people caught for possession of drugs for personal use, because they are "people who need treatment". The Lib Dem's have a point, of course, that personal drug use should be approached as a "health" issue and not one of law & order. But if there aren't the resources available to help people get off the drugs that control (and are possibly ruining) their lives, then what difference does it make?

I am going to watch Hook, and remember Robin Williams' for the comic genius and Oscar-winning actor that he was. Not the broken and desperate man the depression inevitably made him at the end. And there is no substitute for Robin Williams.

Robin Williams: Career in Pictures (Only Oscar) 

Let it Go.

*Trigger warning: sexual assault

Today I saw my arch-nemesis. 

Then I realised how silly it is that I refer to her as my arch-nemesis. 

Because I'm 25. And it was 9 years ago. 

And then I started ruminating on my biggest problem - I can't let go. 

This is no sudden revelation for me, that I dwell on situations long passed. I think about how I handled them, and I wish I'd done it differently. How I could have backed down in that argument, stood up for myself in others. Standing up for myself is the reaction I most frequently wish I'd had, though today I was pleased that my reflexes are so honed that if anyone remotely beeps, whistles or catcalls me, my middle finger responds. That's about all the acknowledgement they deserve. Let's see if it reaches their brains, which clearly don't live where the sun shines otherwise it'd get more oxygen and act in less misogynistic way. New theory? 

For those of you who don't know the story, my arch-nemesis is a girl from my form group in high school, who was also in my Drama class. She was behind in her coursework, and asked me for help. I had already handed mine in, so I sent her one of my essays to guide her.

She copied it. We were called in by our Drama department. She cried. She denied it. They told her to rewrite it. They told us that we were lucky that they were not going to go to the full extent of their powers: reporting us to the exam board. Because that exam board could then disqualify us from our Drama examination. And any other exams we took with them. And then could report this to the other exam boards, who could then disqualify us from all the exams we were taking with them. 

In short, we could have ended up with no GCSE's. 

I never forgave her. I barely spoke to her ever again, although she came to my 16th birthday party because she was dating a friend of mine. 

In fact, we actually share being dumped by him. 

The last time I spoke to her, the summer of 2005, she told me she wanted to smash my face in. 

Now, years later, does she still want to? I highly doubt it. 

I'm not going to stick around and ask her though, so I did a quick whirl round and found another way to the M&S changing rooms. 

When I was 16/17 I had a blog in which I weaved an elaborate story of this girl having a baby with a horse. She was really into horses and her ex (he was then still my friend) had had a cryptic phone call from her from which we deduced (read: came to a conclusion with no actual evidence) she was pregnant. 

So I made up this ridiculous periodical of the Horse-baby saga.

It was juvenile. And pathetic. And simply an example of my imagination. 

And it's very probably lost in time. Somewhere on the internet.

Anyway. So this girl is my arch-nemesis because she almost ruined my life. Not having an GCSE's  would have ruined my life because I am no Richard Branson. OK maybe not ruined, just substantially damaged.

But what's done is done, and I'm going to stop calling her my arch-nemesis. 

I'm letting go.

But is letting go of my assault going to be as easy?

I'm still mistrustful of men to an extent. I still wonder if they have an agenda, because he must have done. He spent all night getting me drunk. Insisted on walking me home. Insisted on staying. 

Feminism as a movement has helped me get so far. Teaching me that it wasn't my fault. It's all his. He is the only person to blame. 

Which is why when someone denies that feminism is a movement for positive social and political change; when MRA's spread misogynistic language; when the media objectifies women and when people use sexist language - "you run like a girl", "don't be a pussy", "grow some balls" - like it's totally normal to demean one gender; I take it very, very personally.

Saying we don't need feminism, or there isn't a problem with sexism to me is like saying I am overreacting to what was a very serious and quite traumatic experience, that actually still haunts me. And it makes me so angry on behalf of EVERYONE. Everyone that doesn't have a voice. Every victim that is silenced the world over. All of us that have experienced sexual violence. The one woman killed every week by a current or former intimate partner (and not just in the UK). Any young girl having her genitals cut or being married off before she's even hit puberty. Every man who is ridiculed for wearing pink, or being the sole child-carer. Any man who feels he cannot tell people about being a victim of rape or domestic violence, because if it isn't enough of a taboo to be a woman and suffer it, men are often left feeling even more isolated. Every transgender person who is still called by their old name, and referred to as "he" when she is a "she". Or "she" when he is a "he".

So I take it very personally because by saying we don't need feminism is like feeling that fist hit my face all over again.

When you tell me that we don't need feminism, to me you are accepting that I stared into Aamir's eyes as I tried to fight him off, and his fist found my eye socket. It fitted perfectly. Twice. And that is ok. Because that kind of stuff just happens. And I probably had it coming.

I refuse to accept that. I refuse to accept that domestic and sexual violence happens; that rape and assault against all genders but especially against women happens and is questioned about what they were wearing or what they'd had to drink; that harassment and being underpaid are part of our working life; that we can't "have it all" but men's ability to "have it all" is never questioned. I refuse to accept all of those, and more.

That's why I will never let feminism go. How can I possibly let go of a movement that wants equality?

But what I will let go of?

The hold that Aamir has on me. The way his punch made me not trust men. The way his punch gives me flashbacks and makes me anxious. The way I have never worn those pyjama bottoms since, even though I still have them because they are really nice. But I am letting go of the negative emotions and experience that they remind me of. 

I am trying to let go of the hold that he has on me. 

But I am keeping hold of the strength that has been born out of that black eye.

I am never letting go of that strength.

Lewis puts forth "a great way to highlight how people feel about girls who are to blame for their own rape."

Massive thank you to Lewis Bishop for allowing me to republish his thoughts sent to me on Facebook during our now continual discussion around sexism, misogyny, rape culture and the general rubbishness of society.

****


Say a girl tells me she wants to fuck me. She is being incredibly seductive - kissing me, whispering in my ear, grabbing my cock, gyrating against me, the works. Say we go to a hotel room and she undresses me, then does a sexy strip as she undresses me. Then, as we're about to have sex ...
She changes her mind.
She says she doesn't want to have sex. Why? Because she actually enjoys being a tease. And that's all there is to it. The point is, I was led to believe we were going to have sex, but now she doesn't want it. 

Say I rape her.
How much of this rape is her fault?
The one and only correct answer is, of course, absolutely none.
Who thinks she asked for it? Who thinks she deserved it? Who thinks it was her fault? Who thinks the cocktease got what was coming to her?

Whoever thinks any of those things needs to seriously evaluate how they think about sexual assault. People have the right to choose who they do and do not have sex with. The circumstance does not matter. To overpower someone who does not want sex and forcibly have sex with them is just as damaging, invasive, cruel, barbaric and - most importantly - wrong to the siren I described above as a shy 10-year-old girl. 

The opinion needs re-evaluating because the emotional reaction is directed at the wrong thing entirely. The decision to rape, the urge to rape, the crime itself, the perpetration of rape, is entirely the fault of nobody other than the rapist. Sex is something consensual. Rape is not. There is no in between, no middle ground. There is no understandable or acceptable rape. To entertain the thought that rape can be a form of justice is so barbaric as to defy belief. That someone can deserve it completely admonishes the responsibility of the rapist. No matter what the circumstance, nobody should ever be allowed to believe that rape is ever the fault of the victim. 

"Yeah, obviously we don't mean they DESERVE to be raped, but they are bringing it on themselves. That woman's behaviour gave the man cause to rape her. If she had not behaved in that way, or if she had not dressed or acted seductively, she would not have given you the urge to rape her. OBVIOUSLY rape is wrong, but she made it worse for herself. It's like walking around with money sticking out of your back pocket - you're inviting the crime upon yourself, whereas if you altered your behaviour, nobody would have wanted to steal your money. The same applies to that girl you raped. You have to be realistic."

This argument is always put forward. And you know what's wrong with it? It lays the foundations that say the crime itself is acceptable because there are always people who are going to do it. It's just one of those unstoppable things. People are gonna rape! So alter your behaviour. This reinforces the idea that, on some level, this is an accepted part of society. It's just one of those things.

But what if the common response only consisted of hatred towards rapists? What if people jumped to the defence, always, of rape victims, regardless of their appearance and behaviour? What if in no way was a rape victim ever even partly to blame for their rape? In the same way that paedophilia is always reviled and hounded? What if as a society we took more care to protect women at clubs, in the street, everywhere, because rape is in no way ever acceptable or something a woman can deserve? If as a society we recognised unhealthy tendencies in other men and challenged them, and highlighted them, and warned others of them? Is it not possible that this rape culture could be improved? Is it not possible that less people would become rape victims? Is it not possible that rape victims would feel more supported, and perhaps more comfortable with regards to reporting a rape that they felt too ashamed to report? Which in turn would lead to more rapists facing justice, and thus preventing any more rapes from those individuals? Is it really impossible that taking the stance that women can NEVER be even PARTLY responsible for their OWN RAPE could be better than blaming women for wearing REVEALING CLOTHING and putting themselves at risk?!

A Need for Feminism

So, my friend drew my attention to this: http://dontpaniconline.com/magazine/radar/women-against-feminism

These women are apparently against feminism. Often, people say they aren't a feminist because they love men. That they like being a mother and a stay-at-home one at that. Because they love heels and make up and short skirts.
Well guess what?
The only thing you have to believe, as a base principle, is that feminism is about equality for ALL. Genders, races, abilities, sexual persuasion, age. Everyone deserves equal rights and opportunities.
It's really simple.
And it's also about having the CHOICE. The choice to work or stay at home, the choice to wear flats or heels. The choice to love men, or not love men. Deciding that actually you don't really want to be involved in men is not misandry. Misandry is being prejudiced and discriminating against men simply because they have a penis.

It's more often the case that it ISN'T feminists who are using the language that people use in this Facebook page, and it’s usually more to do with MRAs and anyone else (mostly men) who hate women having equality.  (and when I say “mostly men” I mean it is mostly men disparaging the feminist movement, I am not saying most men are disparaging feminism. Very big difference. And seriously, have you ever, ever met a woman who didn’t want to be equal to men? To be treated equally, to be paid equally? To be dictated to about whether or not they can have an education, get married, do what they want with their body? EVER? REALLY????)

I have never met a woman, or man for that matter, who truly understands the base principle of feminism that would say feminism is about building a matriarchy, making women superior, that we need to oppress men, that we demonise men and tell others that all men are potential rapists (only that women are at far more risk of rape and sexual assault than men, and we do too speak up for the male victims of rape & sexual assault).

They don’t need feminism? Fine. I’m glad they have the free speech to tell us that, because feminists won that for them. Feminists won them the ability to vote, to have access to education, healthcare. They don’t need feminism? That’s great. Tell that to the women in Saudi Arabia who still can’t vote. Or drive. Tell that to Malala who was shot in the head for campaigning for education for girls. Tell that to the girls who don’t get an education in many countries across the world. Tell that to the girls who are abandoned in China because having a girl in a 1-child policy country is not something you want. Or in India, or other countries across the world where having a baby girl goes not just uncelebrated, but is positively a bad thing. Tell that to the girls and women across Africa, and in this country, and other countries, who have been the victims of FGM not because it’s part of any religion (though that would not make it ok either) but because it’s a tradition to make sure girls and women cannot ever feel pleasure from sex. Because women enjoying sex is a bad thing. But women not giving men sex is also a bad thing.

They don’t need feminism? Ok. But let them tell that to me, who was assaulted and then blamed myself because I had so strongly internalised the victim blaming that goes and for ages believed it was my fault he tried to rape me because I should have known better than to get drunk with him. One of my closest friends.

I need feminism to give me the voice to say "It was not my fault. The blame lies squarely on his shoulders."
Feminism is empowering. Not empowering victimisation. Just plain empowering.

 

When any person who says they are a feminist speaks about anything, they are representing themselves and their own understanding of feminism. Before I learned more, I thought feminism was about women being superior to men. Now I understand that society is constructed (and was constructed by white men btw) to make women inferior to men, to make blacks Asians Hispanics and all non-white races inferior to white, to make gay inferior to straight. And these are all things feminism fights against (it has its problems – feminism as it began was founded by middle-class white women and it does still struggle to be as fully inclusive as it needs to be but I believe huge steps are being taken to recognise and work towards a wholly inclusive movement. But it’s hard to do that when you’re talking about thousands, millions of individuals across the world – we all have different things we see as priority).

Every individual will say different things, but the one underlying principle remains the same:
Equality for all.

And if anything, feminism demonises ignorance. And so it should.
 

Why Dontcha Do Something?

Earlier this month I glanced over my New Years resolutions for this year, and I thought "next year I'm gonna keep it simple. Next year my resolution will be 'Do more'. That way I can't lose."

I've always needed my NY resolutions to be quantifiable. I certainly took to heart the training about SMART goals from school. 

But sod that. And sod waiting til next year. 

I'm scrapping those New Years resolutions. 

From now until the end of 2014, my single, solitary resolution is going to be "Do more". 

That way I can't fail. 

Second Half

It's July. We're officially in the second half of 2014. How the hell did that happen?! I am sure the older I get, the faster time flies. When there's not enough time to get stuff done this is no good thing. But when you are counting down the months, or weeks, or days til something or someone special, days flying by is no bad thing.  

But the second half is a good time to take stock of how life is going this year, 6 months into it. Although, 5 months of this first half I spent abroad, exploring new places and meeting new people. And feeling like I didn't fit in. 

Melbourne, Australia's culture capital, invented White Night last year. The second celebration of art, music, film, visual projection, had the streets filled. Jammed. Like standing on the pavement wondering why no one is moving, having your ankles rammed by pushchairs, your toes trodden on, making small penguin steps. Instead of feeling as if I was a part of the crowds - after all, I was traveling and seeking new experiences and culture and that's exactly what White Night gave it's public - I was caught by surprise at just how uncomfortable I am with the world we live in.  

When were we taught that we were all the mattered? As a species, how can we advocate looking out for  number one? How can we let councils erect anti-homeless spikes in doorways? How can we sit there in our cars, watching a homeless couple raid bins? Is it because we are in the safety of our cars? The physical barrier protects us. 

Is it because we are taught that the world is that way, it always will be that way. 

I call bullshit on that.  

This is the society that we chose to be. We are responsible for this. We invented the fast food that does damage to our insides. We invented the drugs, legal and otherwise that people use because sometimes they need more to life. Or sometimes less. We invented banking, and more to the point, money. Did we create the greed that comes with it?  

In these crowds of people at White Night, I felt like I was swimming in consumerism. I felt like I could not and would not engage with them. These are not my people, this is not my world. I don't want any part of it. I want out. Stop the world; I want to get off. 

There is guilt in me. That while I'm in constant pain, there are those that are in worse, with no chance or respite. While I worry about cash flow, I'm not worried enough that I have to choose between eating and heating. 

My problems are minuscule, negligible. 

And I have to recognise that the problems of this world do not lie on my shoulders alone.  They are everybody's problems.  

We are all human beings trying to get by.  

Lately I've been losing sleep, dreaming about the things that we could be. 

We, the people. We, humans. 

We have so much potential. Why are we wasting it? In the second half of this year, I will strive to stop wasting my potential.

I like baggy jumpers. But they may have to go.

Just now, as I was scrolling through Facebook for the umpteenth time today, I spotted this.

It was posted by Unpacking the 'F' Word, and comes from Curves Ahead (click here for their page).

Today I went to a Colour me Beautiful colour & style consultation. for years I've felt trapped in jeans and t-shirts. I look young, and I dress young because it's easy, comfortable, and I'm bored of it.

I like baggy jumpers. I like the kind of jumper you can snuggle up in. The kind you can put on and you become the jumper; your world is that jumper.

But baggy jumpers, according to my style consultation, are not good for me. Not good for my body type.
For my figure, I should be wearing fitted tops and jackets, to define and highlight my waist. Wear things that make my short legs look longer.

Baggy jumpers are the antithesis of fitted jackets. And aside from the aforementioned comfort, baggy jumper serve another, more sinister purpose.
They cover me up.
They hide my body.
They theoretically stop me from being harassed on the street.

When I make a conscious effort to highlight my figure, meaning my boobs and my waist, I get more looks and, ultimately, more comments.
This is not a scientific study by all means. It's just my own experience.
Comments in themselves are not necessarily harmful. It is the context in which they are made - a person assuming that their opinion of your appearance is of any consequence to you; by them saying you are looking "sexy" or that they'd "do you" as if you were an object to be, well, objectified.
And the reaction of the comment maker if they do not get a positive or any response - "f*ck you bitch"; "miserable c*nt".

And the idea amongst the comments and the consultation I went on that looks are important. Very important. In fact, the most important.

(Actually, that's not what the consultation was about. It was about finding what suits me and what works for me and I can choose to use that how I like. Looks are whatever you make them, and everyone is beautiful. It is only your perception of beauty that makes other people in the world ugly.)


So being told that I should wear fitted jackets and show off my waist, show off my figure, now that's easy to hear, easy to accept, but hard to put into practice.

Perhaps I shouldn't expect such behaviour from men. Not all men are street harassers DUH.
But why do I automatically anticipate it? Why does the idea of wearing clothes that actually FIT me terrify me a little bit? Because of the countless times it has happened to me? The countless times it has happened to others?

The above picture is right. Your body is not a problem. The problem lies in our attitudes towards our, and also in other people's need to have an opinion on it. You need to love your body. I need to love my body. And other people need to stop making comments that aren't goddamn welcome because I have never met you before in my life mate and the fact that you've spotted my tits does not mean you are genius. The words that just came out of your mouth, "Look at the tits on 'er", proves otherwise. Freedom of speech doesn't mean you're allowed to make women scared to wear a sodding skirt/top/dress/bin bag/hessian sack/birthday suit. 

Sweet As Bro! (An Ode to my Kiwi Experience)

How do I remember Kiwi Experience? Let me count the ways.

I remember realising how many trees there were on the South Island compared to the North Island.
So many trees. Conifers?! Ha.

I remember the way I couldn't get my breath back when I jumped off a pully swing in River Valley. All I could think was getting out of that water, and knowing that right then, HNS was in full play.

I remember the warmth, the unbearable heat of the water at Hot Water Beach. And being tackled in the sea.

I remember learning Maori tai chi and fighting stances and having our driver use my newly shaved leg to make his piece of rope.

I remember buying my hat, but I don't remember where I bought it.

I remember the only time I slept at the back of the bus. Or more accurately, I don't.

I remember the "orgy" room in which no orgies happened, just some light spooning. And all the other bunks in other hostels that creaked and shook.

I remember the 6 bed dorms and the 10 bed unit and the time we got 9 people in a 6 person room.

I remember drinking the shit mix after failing at Fingers. Surprisingly, I also remember the rest of that night.

I remember meeting all of Fiona's family on Skype. I remember (and have a video of) Rory drinking rum out of Callie's arse crack.

I remember all the International Consumption Rules. But I can't explain them, or I would have to consume. I've never done so many press ups in my life.

I remember the taste of snow from Mount Doom. I remember the taste of a Maori hangi. I remember the taste of the green drinks in the hot tub. I remember the taste of a roast dinner. I remember the taste of cigarettes again after 2 and a half years. I remember going out for a walk to buy them, after walking for 8 and a half hours already that day. I remember feeling like I was gonna die that day. I remember the euphoria running out into that car park, 19km conquered.

I remember the pang of jealousy at watching people bungy. I remember the smiles on everyone's faces because they'd survived, and there's obviously no feeling in the world like it.

I remember learning that glow worms aren't actually worms; they're actually maggots that when they hatch they are blind carnivorous flies that shag themselves to death. I remember the cold in the dark and the comfort of holding someone's hand.

I remember feeling nervous before speeding down a track in a luge. Whatever that is.

I remember feeling nervous before getting into a raft onto a grade 5 rapid. I remember the sound of the raft piercing against a rock.

I remember the utter devastation and just awful mess Christchurch is in, 3 years after the earthquakes. The haunting memorials. The bright and cheerful transition projects.

I remember the poncho party on a lake and people making pinky promises to jump in. They did, and they were freezing. I remember playing "Roxanne" on the banks of the lake in Queenstown, stripping as we went, trying to put on an alcohol blanket before getting in the water.

I remember Windy Wellington and Marlon and his pizza.

I remember being tied to someone for 2 and a half hours, trying to figure out how to get out. And cheating in a maze in order to get the hell out.

I remember selfies and scenic shots and panoramas and group shots and Maori faces and Go Pro videos.

I remember smiles, laughter, banter. Arguments. Dancing. Lots of drinking.

I remember the territorial, school children way we guarded the back of the bus.

I remember shouting "Living the Dream" and "Sweet As" and "Jason Derulo". And I remember our theme song.

I remember meeting someone in my dorm the night before who was on my bus the next day.  I remember meeting people who became such good friends that it's broken my heart a little to leave them behind.

I will never forget New Zealand, the most beautiful place on earth I've seen so far. I'll never forget the new things I've done. I'll never forget our driver, who we changed plans to stick with. I'll never forget the back of the bus crew. I wish with all my heart I could have stayed with them longer, forever even.

I'll never forget Kiwi Experience. Because on it, with those people, I was truly living the dream.

Selfies, Self Loathing and Self Love

Of all the things I've had in life, I've always lacked something I would consider quite important: self love.

And this makes selfies kind of hard to do.

Don't get me wrong, I get why people take them. Sometimes I like taking them. But I have such a problem with how I look most of the time that I find it hard to even be in group photos.

I've abused my body physically. And I continue to abuse myself mentally. I'm ugly. Maybe I'm not ugly but I'm definitely not that pretty. And I'm sure as hell not sexy, not in these jeans and T-shirts that I can't seem to escape because all sophisticated and feminine clothing look awful on me. Actually, I always put it "I look awful in this" because I am at fault, not the clothing. It's my fault I don't suit patterns. Or prints. Or harem pants. Or anything really with a logo on the front because my boobs stretch it to hell (I tried on a Cookie Monster singlet - Cookie Monster's eyes bulged out because boobs).

I don't love the fact that I'm a size 8-10, because I'm not a size 6. I don't love the fact in only 5ft 3.5 because I don't have legs like an Amazonian and therefore cannot ever wear maxi dresses. I don't love the fact that my hair is thick and wavy, because it's not sleek and straight.

When considering my lack of self-love, I list things that supposedly justify why I don't love myself, like all the above things. I could just turn it around, and say simply "I love myself because of my thick, wavy hair." What's the reason I don't love my hair? Is it because it's impossible to manage (or have I just not learned the best ways to maintain it?) Is it because all the women in the magazines I used to read didn't have thick wavy hair? Or the women in my favourite TV shows? When the nearest representation to my natural hair would be Monica in that episode with all the humidity?

Whatever the reason for my dislike of my thick wavy hair, my petite stature, my inability to look good in prints or oversized dresses, it has to stop. I have to stop comparing myself to other people, and start to love myself.

Because there is no one like me.

If you judge someone for how they look, what they wear, how they act, that says more about you than it does them. That reveals your moral code and standard, not theirs. You can bitch about someone's body, but it more than likely only reveals the insecurities you have about yours. Because anyone happy with their body, happy with themselves won't feel the need to go about bitching about other people. If you're body shaming, it is you that needs to sort your shit out, not whoever owns the body that you're dissing.

I'm not innocent of these charges. I've said "oh god she should not be wearing that". But it stops now. If someone is comfortable wearing a hessian sack then LET THEM BE. You do not need to add your voice, your opinion, to their world. It only matters to you, it should not have to matter to them also.

Words cannot describe how unbelievably sad it makes me that some people are positively gleeful at being able to rip into someone's appearance. We have SO MANY OTHER PROBLEMS to be dealing with. Why do you focus on pulling people down, not pushing them up? And why do I focus so much on pulling myself down while I'm at it?

Usually with guys I think "he's so out of my league", "he'd never go for me, I'm so x/y/z"
Instead, wouldn't it be far better if I thought "Wow he is attractive, if he is attracted to me that is a bonus, but if he is not, that is not because I am unattractive, or that the girl over there also trying to get his attention is more attractive than me, it is just not meant to happen. Such is life."
How much happier would I be if I did not spend my life comparing myself to other women? Perhaps this kind of thinking would be ignorant; perhaps that girl over there really is more attractive me. But who says so? And why should it matter to me?
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And actually, the only beholder that should matter is ourselves.

I found this the other day with feeling jealous at a friend's description of how much fun they had been having and essentially how great their life is right now. And I felt like saying something snarky, and letting my jealous feelings take over. But instead I just said "that's great, you really deserve to be having fun"
Because they do. Everyone does. And when I stopped entertaining those jealous feelings, they disappeared.
If I keep practicing that, it can only get better. And I can put it into practice for the lies I tell myself about my appearance.

So stop abusing yourself because you don't look a certain way, because your hair isn't this or your face isn't that or your legs are not her legs.
Emma, stop abusing yourself because you are not a certain way. Yes you can exercise, but do it because you want to be fit and healthy, not because you want Jennifer Aniston's arms. You will never get Jen's arms; they are her arms, and you will only get a toned version of your arms. If you work at it, that is.

So let's stop this nonsense. Stop bashing ourselves and bashing each other. Stop body-shaming because there is no shame in our bodies.

Because they are the only ones we'll ever have. Whatever you believe, this is the only time you will be you.

Isn't that amazing enough for you?