A year can make all the difference. What are 12 things that are new and different in my life from September 2014?
1. New career: a year ago, I quit TV, and started volunteering at the Sutton Women's Centre. By December 2014 I'd organised a fundraising event and I was a committee member, running the social media. In May we had our 30th Anniversary which I largely organised, and soon we'll have a 30k walk, plus a new marketing plan and our annual Christmas fundraiser that I will have contributed to. My contribution to the Women's Centre fills me with enormous pride and I look forward to seeing it continue to help and support local women for another 30 years (even though one would hope it wouldn't be needed in another 30 years...). I also started volunteering for the Tanzania Development Trust, a role that teaches me new things about the world all the time. After a brief return to TV earlier this year, I got myself a job as Marketing and PR Executive for a charity. Exactly where I wanted to be.
2. Losing my Granddad: words couldn't begin to describe the grief I felt when my granddad died. I have never seen a person die, but I am glad I was there and that he was surrounded by family. Of course the pain of his loss has diminished but I still miss him everyday. I just wish I could hear his voice again, even if it was to grumble.
3. My mum's engagement and impending move: neither of which I am impressed with.She knows this. I've spent hours talking to my counsellor about it. I don't like him, she could do much better, and Lincolnshire is even more the arse-end of nowhere than Burwell. But it's her life. I'm not saying I'm ok with it, but I accept her decision. It's taken me months to get to that.
4. Getting myself back to therapy: following the loss of my granddad, growing resentment over my mum's plans and building frustration at my life, I referred myself to counselling, marking a return after 5 years out. My weekly therapy sessions are a lifeline for my mental health and there are times when I need it and times when I don't, and times when I can't get out of there quick enough, and times when I could do with several hours not just one. I have struggled with my mental health for most of my life, but referring myself to counselling could only ever be a positive step in safeguarding it.
5. New Zealand Take 2- jumping off a suspended gondola and free falling 134m: when I went to New Zealand the first time, I made the mistake of telling the bungee jump company that I have a chronic pain condition. I didn't make that mistake when I booked it, and I was totally fine. In fact I was better than fine because it was an absolutely incredible experience and I desperately want to do it again! My second trip to New Zealand also heralded my first football match - Wellington Phoenix vs Brisbane Roar. We've got the wind, the rain and the phoenix...
6. The gym- my second home: I first went to a gym when I was 15, and my mate persuaded me to go because we both desperately wanted to be thin. I wasn't even fat to begin with but vulnerable to suggestion that I needed to lose weight, like many young women and older women, and teenagers, and even now pre-pubescent girls. And men too. I only went a few times, and mostly stuck to the treadmill. The second time I joined the gym was as a birthday present to myself in 2013 (I also had just split up with the guy I was seeing...). I joined the BBC Club and that gave me the gym at the bottom of my building for cheap. This time I explored more machines, and even weights. I went a few times a week, usually late after work, until I got the craving to playthrough Mass Effect again and I stopped going...
So it is third time lucky. A new gym opened up at the top of my road and they had a pre-opening offer. Spur of the moment, having started running and training for a 10k (running had fallen by the wayside by January 2015 because I was so upset and exhausted over my Granddad, and losing my uncle too in December) I decided to sign up. And it has changed my life. Before when exercise and dieting was a path to beauty, working out and healthy eating is now my path to strength and fitness. The way my body has changed and developed in the last 7 months is something I could never have anticipated at the beginning. I miss the gym when I'm not there. Running is my relaxation, and one more rep is always my ambition.
7. Studying again: I decided to take up a Chartered Institute of Marketing qualification through the Oxford College of Marketing. I knew I wanted to make the move, and I knew that volunteering would only get me so far.It was the right decision, though it is hard. I've done one module so far, and due to holidays and timing, I now have two modules to complete by the end of January, for assessment by the March boards. But I know I want this, and I will do it and do it well.
8. Network, network, network: Networking used to fill me with fear. I started attending the I Am Networking charity drinks in January and the first time I went, I had a panic attack and almost didn't go in. I stood in Covent Garden in floods of tears on the phone to my nana. Then I went in, talked to someone in the lift, and then kept talking to people. The awkward moment where you sidle up to some people having a conversation - just swallow your fear and get on and do it. I've now been to 7 out of 8 monthly I Am Networking drinks, and I'm going to another Charity networking event next week. It's the researcher in me - I like asking people questions and being nosey.
9. 10K: Linked to the gym (no. 6), I ran my first 10k in June, and finished in 1 hour and 12 minutes. There's nothing like the feeling of crossing that finish line, and knowing I'd raised money for Cancer Research UK made it even better. On holiday in Croatia I ran 10k in 1 hour, and I'm due to run the Oxford Half Marathon in October, this time for the Samaritans. I bloody love running.
10. Losing the person I thought was my best friend: pretty self explanatory. For reasons I don't fully comprehend, the person that I thought was my best friend was apparently lying about being my best friend for the last two and a half years. What a waste of our time. Now I know what kind of person she is, and she's not the kind of person I want in my life, and doubtless I'm not the kind of person she wants in hers. I was devastated, heart-broken. Then I was angry, betrayed. Now I am grieving, but calm. It is what it is, I don't wish her any ill-will, but a weight is off my shoulders and a breath of fresh air flows through my life. To adapt an old, much-used phrase, you don't know what you've got weighing you down til it's gone.
11. Topdeck: despite the aforementioned schism with my tent buddy, I had a fantastic time on Topdeck. Yes my last night was kind of ruined by the bull, but actually I had a nice night that night, and many other nights. In fact all the other nights, and days. The lack of sleep, the boiling heat, and the cold and damp and the flooded tents. The walking, the running, the dancing. The setting up and packing down camp, the food Gemma cooked, the food everywhere especially chimney cake and borscht and spinach dumplings. The News, the quiet time, the Wake Up song, the fight over the electricity points. The sweet relief of hostels and cabins.
The new and amazing places I've been. Venice on a gondola, Croatia to party, Budapest to steam out my pores. Krakow to hear the trumpet, and to feel the history at Auschwitz. Prague's 5 story club, Berlin's history, and Copenhagen's Little Mermaid. Hamburg gave me white wine spritzers, but Amsterdam gave me so much more. Already made a list of those to go back to. A haul of 9 new snowglobes for the collection too.
12. Me: The previous 11 points are all things that I've done, or have happened in my life. But the biggest change in the last 12 months is of course me. I've grown, and I've shrunk. I've taken steps forward, and steps backward, and then a few shuffles sideways and sometimes diagonally. I've aimed for one place and ended up another. At the end of it all, I am still me, but changed. Same same but different. I have learned so much, done so much, seen even more and all it's done is whet my appetite for life more. At the beginning of the year, it didn't seem like 2015 was going to go this way. A brief recurrence of self-harm and traits of eating disorders. But I've been there before, and I wasn't intending to get stuck there again. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and carried on fighting. Like so many people do every damn day.
So with a new tattoo on my right foot, I step into the next school year. I'm ready. Bring it on.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, 1 September 2015
Thursday, 27 November 2014
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.
Friday, 10 October 2014
#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.
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.
Thursday, 6 February 2014
Looking for Inspiration, Still Searching for Illumination
Today is the 37th day of 2014. Today I finished yet another book on my 'List of Books to read' which is one of my New Yera's Resolutions.
The original list was:
- Better than Fiction (collection of short stories, already started on iPhone)
- Heart of Darkness (on iPhone)
- Villette (on iPhone)
- On the Origin of the Species (on iPhone)
- Around the World in Eighty Days (on iPhone)
- White Men'll Never Do It (already started, paperback)
- Bewitched & Bedevilled (on iPhone)
I added to that list Kangaroo and Lady Chatterley's Lover, both by DH Lawrence, and have now read all of these books except one - On the Origin of the Species. I started it today, and I freely tell you now - I am going to struggle with this one.
I have added to this resolution the following books that I already have downloaded onto my iPhone:
- Grimms Fairy Stories
- Treasure Island
- Robinson Crusoe
I also have a book of Aboriginal Dreaming stories to read, and I'm really looking forward to it!
Today I also went some way to achieving another of my New Year's Resolutions. I went for a run, and in going for a run, I ran for 5k. I walked the first half-k, but after that, full on running. Well, yknow, jogging-running. and resolution no.5 is "5. Improve my health by exercising and healthy eating so that by the year's conclusion I am able to: -Run 5k..."
Well the healthy eating isn't really happening (I've just spooned the last drops from a jar of Nutella into my mouth), but the exercising is. It's hard to practice sit ups and push ups in a cramped dorm, but I plan to get over my self-consciousness and start doing them in the park. The same goes for Yoga. I was surprisingly flexible when I practised last night. Still not at the floor though. The resolution says by the end of the year. So I just need to keep practising!
Just one more thing to note: I came to Australia to fall in love with the country, to work, and to maybe start a new life. I quite like the country, I've had a bit of work, but there's no life for me here.
I am not ashamed to say that I misjudged this, that I miss home, that I miss the life I had. That I miss my mum, my dad, my sister, my nan, my grandad, my cat, my friends. That I miss my bed, and my things. That I don't miss the cold but I do miss cuddling up in my slanket in front of the Xbox. That I don't miss my bath and not having a shower but I do miss putting my shower gel and shampoo on the side of the tub and being able to leave it there. And I miss my mahusive bath towels.
I am not ashamed that I thought I could come out here and work. I might not have tried my hardest, but when you sign up to a freelance database and all the runner jobs are going to Location Assistants and APs, you realise that maybe there just isn't the work for the inbetweener. I'm not far enough up the ladder. For a woman so focused on her career, having had nothing and no one else that truly mattered, this was really hard to come to terms with. But the blow was softened by enjoying the travels. Falling in love with new places, meeting new people, learning new ways of doing things, a new language (schooner! pot! doona! dunny! G'day! Arvo! How you going?!)
And for a woman who doesn't want to get married or have kids, I sure have realised how important my family is to me.
The original list was:
- Better than Fiction (collection of short stories, already started on iPhone)
- Heart of Darkness (on iPhone)
- Villette (on iPhone)
- On the Origin of the Species (on iPhone)
- Around the World in Eighty Days (on iPhone)
- White Men'll Never Do It (already started, paperback)
- Bewitched & Bedevilled (on iPhone)
I added to that list Kangaroo and Lady Chatterley's Lover, both by DH Lawrence, and have now read all of these books except one - On the Origin of the Species. I started it today, and I freely tell you now - I am going to struggle with this one.
I have added to this resolution the following books that I already have downloaded onto my iPhone:
- Grimms Fairy Stories
- Treasure Island
- Robinson Crusoe
I also have a book of Aboriginal Dreaming stories to read, and I'm really looking forward to it!
Today I also went some way to achieving another of my New Year's Resolutions. I went for a run, and in going for a run, I ran for 5k. I walked the first half-k, but after that, full on running. Well, yknow, jogging-running. and resolution no.5 is "5. Improve my health by exercising and healthy eating so that by the year's conclusion I am able to: -Run 5k..."
Well the healthy eating isn't really happening (I've just spooned the last drops from a jar of Nutella into my mouth), but the exercising is. It's hard to practice sit ups and push ups in a cramped dorm, but I plan to get over my self-consciousness and start doing them in the park. The same goes for Yoga. I was surprisingly flexible when I practised last night. Still not at the floor though. The resolution says by the end of the year. So I just need to keep practising!
Just one more thing to note: I came to Australia to fall in love with the country, to work, and to maybe start a new life. I quite like the country, I've had a bit of work, but there's no life for me here.
I am not ashamed to say that I misjudged this, that I miss home, that I miss the life I had. That I miss my mum, my dad, my sister, my nan, my grandad, my cat, my friends. That I miss my bed, and my things. That I don't miss the cold but I do miss cuddling up in my slanket in front of the Xbox. That I don't miss my bath and not having a shower but I do miss putting my shower gel and shampoo on the side of the tub and being able to leave it there. And I miss my mahusive bath towels.
I am not ashamed that I thought I could come out here and work. I might not have tried my hardest, but when you sign up to a freelance database and all the runner jobs are going to Location Assistants and APs, you realise that maybe there just isn't the work for the inbetweener. I'm not far enough up the ladder. For a woman so focused on her career, having had nothing and no one else that truly mattered, this was really hard to come to terms with. But the blow was softened by enjoying the travels. Falling in love with new places, meeting new people, learning new ways of doing things, a new language (schooner! pot! doona! dunny! G'day! Arvo! How you going?!)
And for a woman who doesn't want to get married or have kids, I sure have realised how important my family is to me.
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
We Need To Talk
A reminder popped up on my dad's Outlook last night saying "wedding anniversary". It was 23 hours overdue, and nearly 2 years redundant.
What I've found in the past 2 years since my parents separated, is that on occasion we feel the need to abbreviate the truth, or at least only relate parts of the truth because we feel it is important to protect others. And that actually we should talk more honestly and openly.
My mother hid the truth about her trips to Cambridge for months. She wasn't escaping our house to see a friend. She was escaping our house to see her new boyfriend.
When my sister and I learned the truth, we then had to keep this from our father. We'd say mum was gone away for the weekend but we weren't sure where.
It turns out my father knew before we did. A bit more honesty could have saved us all a bit of aggravation and guilt.
The way my sister talks about her depression and ongoing struggle on her blog is very inspirational to me. Talking about mental health is hard enough, even in general terms. Talking about overdoses is something I never would have thought possible in our family. My mental health issues when I was younger were only really talked about inside therapy sessions. I don't remember sitting down with my family and talking to them about it, about what had happened.
But the day after my sister's overdose was Mother's Day, and though my mother was out of the country, we went to my grandparents house and had lunch with them and my uncle. And throughout the day we all discussed my sister's action, with her, without her, and I learnt a great deal more about my family's mental health history. We were more honest and open with each other. We communicated.
Sometimes we find it very hard to communicate. Sometimes we can't find the words, sometimes we hold back in fear of the reaction our words will invoke. I read in this week's Big Issue that a vendor who had been featured in an issue had seen sales decrease, and a potential reason was that readers (and therefore buyers) had learned he had a criminal record. This man deserves to be praised for his honesty, not punished for it.
Sometimes we just think our communication will be futile. And no one wants to do something that's futile.
Perhaps we should all be a bit more honest, a bit more open, perhaps if we communicated more like this then we would learn so much.
Though sometimes the best way to communicate something is by saying nothing.
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Boots the family cat (or: Loving myself, and loving others)
"I'm going to make banana bread!"
If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.
And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).
**
There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.
(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)
It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.
And I don't mean doubting herself about a decision at work, or whether she should run to try and get the next train or whether she should just stroll and get the one after that, because she might actually miss the next one and have run for no reason.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.
I don't put a whole lot of effort into my appearance. Not tons anyway. Lately, I've stopped straightening my hair and you're more likely to see me looking like I'm trying to blend with the pride than hanging out with the emo's.
But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.
I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.
When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.
So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?
And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.
It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!
Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.
The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?
Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.
So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.
I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!
But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".
**
The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"
But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.
And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(
**
Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:
If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.
And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).
**
There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.
(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)
It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.
 |
| Me in the morning. |
 |
| I don't iron my hair so much now. |
But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.
I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.
When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.
So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?
And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.
It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!
Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.
The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?
Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.
So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.
I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!
But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".
**
The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"
But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.
And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(
**
Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:
"Didn’t this man getting off the bus that night realize that I was a woman alone on the street, in the dark? Why would he feel that situation was the time to try to approach me, a complete stranger? How many rape scenes resemble that scenario?"
Thursday, 13 September 2012
On Divorce and Drinking
On BBC Breakfast this morning was an item about "alternative parenting". Today's society is made up of families that are very different from the "nuclear" family of mum, dad and kids that we were all taught about. This is not necessarily to do with "broken Britain", but in the rise of acceptance of unconventional families such gay families adopting or using surrogates. BBC Breakfast used the example of a gay actor and his single, straight, female friend having kids by IVF.
Families are often complex units, regardless of whether or not it consist of two straight people of opposite genders. Families can be fantastic and amazing, and sometimes terrible and destructive.
I am very lucky to have the family that I have. I knew all my grandparents growing up, and even some great-grandparents, as well as great-aunts and -uncles. For ease of distinguishing between them, they would be named after things that we were familiar with when visiting them. Great-Nanny Lift used to live in a block of flats - and we'd have to take the lift to see her. Great-Nanny Collar wore a foam collar for as long as I can remember.
Granny and Grandad Ponds had a pond in the garden (which I fell into one time when they were looking after me - I had to return home in Granny's bloomers....) And Nana and Grandad Cats, well, they had cats.
I am lucky that I have never really fallen out with any of my family. I had a dislike for one of my relatives because he took me hostage in a wheelbarrow and went whizzng round his garden with me unable to get out. I wasn't impressed, and disliked him for many years. I was even rude to him on the day of his mother's funeral. But I was young, and I hadn't actually realised she was his mother too, she was just my Nan's mum, my great-nan. When you are young, it can be hard to work out who belongs to what side of the family, and why they are your aunt or uncle. I don't really have a massive family, but it's big enough that I still don't know who cousin Wendy really is. I think I went to her wedding though.
With the divorce, one of the things I've been trying to get my head round is that my family will no long be "a family". I'll no longer belong to a nuclear unit where the mum and dad love each other and love their kids and we have a nice house together with a garden and maybe a pet.
I'm reminded of driving to and from Derby and hearing several times a radio advertisement for a relationship counselling organisation. "If your relationship is breaking down, talk to a professional about what to do next." or something like that. I'd never heard one of these adverts before, and I wondered whether it was just because Derby had a higher rate of relationship breakdown (I can't find anything indicating that this is true), or it was just a sign of the changing times and "broken Britain". Or maybe just because the company had some money for advertising.
But even when we live in different houses I will still have a family, for which I should be very grateful. We will still be us, just in different locations.
My sister said to me on holiday that if we weren't sisters, we wouldn't be friends, because we are so different. This was evident when I started singing Taylor Swift's new song and my sister said how stupid and bad a song it was. But we are sisters. We are family. And I love my family.
On Monday night I watched a Panorama about the drinking epidemic facing the over-65s. Their varying stories were sad and troubling.
My parents drink. My mum has recently quit drinking, and whilst I feel, well, slighty displeased about her reasons, I am still glad for her sake that she has quit.
My dad on the other hand, has not quit. He is 58 this December, so well on his way to retirement and that over-65 age group. I don't think my dad will ever quit drinking. His lips and gums are constantly stained purple, his teeth are yellow and black. I worry all the time about his health. When I asked him if he ever worried, he said "sometimes". Sometimes I think about something happening that will wake him up to the damage he's done and doing to himself.
What are his reasons for drinking? He started drinking wine because he was told his high cholesterol meant he could no longer drink beer. And red wine is meant to be good for you. Maybe a glass every now and again is good for your heart, but my dad regularly drinks a bottle or two a day.
I hope that when he retires he doesn't start drinking more. I think that he drinks because work stresses him out and he wants to relax when he gets home and at the weekends. So in theory he'll drink less when if he has less stress. But then, when he retires, he has no hobbies except Sudoku and Freecell. Does that mean that he'll drink more as boredom sets in?
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