Hello!!!
Happy new year! Yeah, I know it is March but I've been busy being a uni student.
Today in class @writetoempower has got us blog writing and given us prompts. I liked the idea of 10 weird (for weird I always read interesting) things about me, it fits this blog well. So here we go.
Some of these you might know and some you might not. They are all true.
1. When I was a small child I wanted to be either an opera singer or a prostitute. I loved to sing along to Tosca and thought myself a tiny Maria Callas. I wasn't sure what a prostitute was but I saw one on Kojak and I really liked the shoes.
2. I have a life long hatred of the singer Lulu. When I was six I sang 'Morning Has Broken' on stage with her and she told the audience 'Och, your voice is terrible'. Bitch.
3. I cry when I sing sometimes, especially if it is in Latin. Don't know why, I just do.
4. I have skinny dipped in the River Avon at midnight. In december. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I did it with two male friends and by the time the story got to my mum it was 'Dee in Showering With Two Men Shocker!'.
5. I have told a nun to fuck off. And I don't regret it.
6. I went to a convent school. I was not there for long. This may or may not be related to number 5.
7. I am petrified of frogs. Once, one got into my hallway, it was between me and the front door. I rang work, my ex, and the RSPCA in hysterical tears. I managed to open the front door a bit and was yelling and crying at the frog GET OUT, LEAVE ME ALONE, WHY WON'T YOU JUST LEAVE? People on the street just walked past. I now have a frog tattoo because of my niece. Still hate them though.
8. I know every single word to Mama Said Knock You Out and if I am in the mood I lip sync it pretty damn well. Being in the mood usually involves cider.
9. I'm once broke a man's finger for touching me without my permission while I was making out with his girlfriend.
10. Until I met my husband I hadn't blushed in 30 years. He can still do it at will. This was one of the reasons I knew he was The One.
So that's it for today. Going to try to post more often, I've missed talking to you all x
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Sunday, 18 March 2018
Monday, 13 November 2017
I Wrote A Book!!!
Been a long while hasn't it?
Where have I been?
I've been writing two books. One about a goddess who is trapped on earth which is still in the editing phase and one about the life of an autistic girl told through her journals and her friendship with the girl she calls Pixie.
It has been a bit full on to be honest, I have also started doing a degree in English and Creative Writing full time.
I got married in the summer to the world's sexiest anarchist and I am really happy and fulfilled.
So yeah, the book.
It is a love letter to my daughter person. They make me want to be a better human being.
It is only £2 and is available here.
Give it a go. You'll be helping out a (very) poor student and you might actually enjoy it!
Where have I been?
I've been writing two books. One about a goddess who is trapped on earth which is still in the editing phase and one about the life of an autistic girl told through her journals and her friendship with the girl she calls Pixie.
It has been a bit full on to be honest, I have also started doing a degree in English and Creative Writing full time.
I got married in the summer to the world's sexiest anarchist and I am really happy and fulfilled.
So yeah, the book.
It is a love letter to my daughter person. They make me want to be a better human being.
It is only £2 and is available here.
Give it a go. You'll be helping out a (very) poor student and you might actually enjoy it!
Saturday, 4 June 2016
On Being Woke AF
Oh I'm proper pissed off today. I don't know if it is because I am over tired or because this year has been like a fucking roller coaster but today can fuck off.
This year so far has had some brilliant bits. The Lovely has started his own business, we are closer than ever, Daughter Person is going to Uni, I got a first in a uni assignment, my job fulfils me and I became an aunty again to the fightiest little girl ever. (12 weeks early, came out shouting, you can tell we're related).
Also has had some proper shit bits. Mental health took a real knock after spending less than 2 hours with Bio Mum and I got a (not entirely undeserved) bollocking at work. I'm tired, my endo is shit and I am piling on weight so not always feeling very good about myself. I am weepy a lot of the time and I despair a lot of the time and I am starting to blame one thing.
I am woke as fuck.
I sometimes wish I wasn't. I sometimes wish I could go through the world totally oblivious to the shit that goes on. I sometimes wish that I wasn't as aware of mental health issues, or race issues, or gender or disability or sexuality issues.
I sometimes wish I was the kind of woman who was happy with her lot in life and thought that All Lives Matter because we need to be equal! I sometimes wish I had no idea about privilege or intersectionality or the fact that 2-3 women are murdered by their current or ex partners a week.
Maybe I would sleep better. Maybe I wouldn't be so fucking TENSE all the time. Maybe these things wouldn't piss me off so much.
Motivational posts: Fuck off. Just fuck off. On my FB timeline RIGHT NOW is such bullshittery as HIT LIKE AND SHARE IF YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER/SON/MUM/DAD/DOG/CAT/CROCODILE OR WHATEVER THAT YOU LOVE WITH ALL YOUR HEART!
Well fuck me, I love my cat and my daughter person, I had better share the shit out of that!
Oh and articles about THE WORST EYEBROW SINS WOMEN CAN COMMIT.
Are you fucking shitting me? Do you not think that we have enough to worry about without people judging us for our fucking eyebrows now? It's like patriarchy panicked because women had started to not give a shit about armpit hair and had to have something to have a go at us about. PSA: do what the fuck you like with your eyebrows. Couldn't actually give a shit and if you are judging women for theirs you either need to get a fucking grip and/or stop buying into a patriarchal society that wants women to shame each other for capitalism.
While I am at it, people can make you feel bad without your consent. (this is the motivational post I hate the most, fucking victim blaming piece of shit that has no idea about manipulation and coercion).
Also, if you derail a conversation about violence against women to talk about men, you can fuck off an all. You are part of The Problem.
Don't want an abortion? Don't get one. Just stay the fuck out of everyone else's wombs and decisions.
Also, reverse sexism is not A Thing. Sexism is backed up by cultural oppression and capitalism and teh menz don't get that. You're confusing sexism with Fragile Masculinity. And worse, they have women doing it.
Reverse racism: See above.
And white people. Stop thinking you can say nigger. I don't care how much fucking hip hop you listen to, you don't get to say it. Not ever. Stop.
See what I mean? All of this would be easier if I never had any political awakening. I would be able to go through my life without giving any of it a second thought. But I can't.
I can't see the bloody poster for Emilia Clarke's new film without wondering why, when she is gazing directly into the eyes of her loved one FROM THE SIDE that we can still see her entire bloody cleavage!
I can't see a 'joke' saying that (and I really wish I was making this up) 'gagging is the most romantic sound you can hear because it means someone has chosen your dick over oxygen' and not lose my shit.
I can't not call out slut shaming. PSA: women can have lots of sex and still respect themselves.
STOP FUCKING JUDGING WOMEN FOR THEIR CHOICES.
I can't not call out racism, homophobia, transphobia or ableism.
STOP JUDGING PEOPLE NON STOP.
My life would be easier but I just can't.
You can't go back to sleep once you've woken. You can't be blind when the scales have fallen from your eyes.
You can never go home again.
This year so far has had some brilliant bits. The Lovely has started his own business, we are closer than ever, Daughter Person is going to Uni, I got a first in a uni assignment, my job fulfils me and I became an aunty again to the fightiest little girl ever. (12 weeks early, came out shouting, you can tell we're related).
Also has had some proper shit bits. Mental health took a real knock after spending less than 2 hours with Bio Mum and I got a (not entirely undeserved) bollocking at work. I'm tired, my endo is shit and I am piling on weight so not always feeling very good about myself. I am weepy a lot of the time and I despair a lot of the time and I am starting to blame one thing.
I am woke as fuck.
I sometimes wish I wasn't. I sometimes wish I could go through the world totally oblivious to the shit that goes on. I sometimes wish that I wasn't as aware of mental health issues, or race issues, or gender or disability or sexuality issues.
I sometimes wish I was the kind of woman who was happy with her lot in life and thought that All Lives Matter because we need to be equal! I sometimes wish I had no idea about privilege or intersectionality or the fact that 2-3 women are murdered by their current or ex partners a week.
Maybe I would sleep better. Maybe I wouldn't be so fucking TENSE all the time. Maybe these things wouldn't piss me off so much.
Motivational posts: Fuck off. Just fuck off. On my FB timeline RIGHT NOW is such bullshittery as HIT LIKE AND SHARE IF YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER/SON/MUM/DAD/DOG/CAT/CROCODILE OR WHATEVER THAT YOU LOVE WITH ALL YOUR HEART!
Well fuck me, I love my cat and my daughter person, I had better share the shit out of that!
Oh and articles about THE WORST EYEBROW SINS WOMEN CAN COMMIT.
Are you fucking shitting me? Do you not think that we have enough to worry about without people judging us for our fucking eyebrows now? It's like patriarchy panicked because women had started to not give a shit about armpit hair and had to have something to have a go at us about. PSA: do what the fuck you like with your eyebrows. Couldn't actually give a shit and if you are judging women for theirs you either need to get a fucking grip and/or stop buying into a patriarchal society that wants women to shame each other for capitalism.
While I am at it, people can make you feel bad without your consent. (this is the motivational post I hate the most, fucking victim blaming piece of shit that has no idea about manipulation and coercion).
Also, if you derail a conversation about violence against women to talk about men, you can fuck off an all. You are part of The Problem.
Don't want an abortion? Don't get one. Just stay the fuck out of everyone else's wombs and decisions.
Also, reverse sexism is not A Thing. Sexism is backed up by cultural oppression and capitalism and teh menz don't get that. You're confusing sexism with Fragile Masculinity. And worse, they have women doing it.
Reverse racism: See above.
And white people. Stop thinking you can say nigger. I don't care how much fucking hip hop you listen to, you don't get to say it. Not ever. Stop.
See what I mean? All of this would be easier if I never had any political awakening. I would be able to go through my life without giving any of it a second thought. But I can't.
I can't see the bloody poster for Emilia Clarke's new film without wondering why, when she is gazing directly into the eyes of her loved one FROM THE SIDE that we can still see her entire bloody cleavage!
I can't see a 'joke' saying that (and I really wish I was making this up) 'gagging is the most romantic sound you can hear because it means someone has chosen your dick over oxygen' and not lose my shit.
I can't not call out slut shaming. PSA: women can have lots of sex and still respect themselves.
STOP FUCKING JUDGING WOMEN FOR THEIR CHOICES.
I can't not call out racism, homophobia, transphobia or ableism.
STOP JUDGING PEOPLE NON STOP.
My life would be easier but I just can't.
You can't go back to sleep once you've woken. You can't be blind when the scales have fallen from your eyes.
You can never go home again.
Friday, 12 June 2015
On Labels - Guest Post
Another heart stoppingly good post from the author of this awesomeness on the metal community
Content warning: transphobia
“I don’t see why we need labels, we’re all human”.
We’ve all heard it before; the whining voice that seeps out like a sad fart and lingers for too long. I’d like to laugh it off as a hollow statement, but I can’t. I can’t, because I looked closer and saw the terrifying power structures this statement supports and I’m scared and angry.
Most recently, these words were said to me in the context of gender identity, so I’ll focus on that for now.
It’s not surprising that, more often than not, these words are uttered by people who’ve never needed to use labels to talk about their gender. They don’t need labels, so they don’t see why anyone else should need them either. They don’t need labels, because their gender identity is treated as default by society. They don’t need labels, because they can go their whole lives without their gender identity ever becoming a major issue. These words are said in the context of privilege.
I don’t have the privilege of never having my gender questioned. I live on the front line of cissexism. It’s a minefield, and sometimes labels are the only protection I have.
I need labels because I am trying to navigate a world that tells me I’m not real; a world that considers my existence a threat, a nuisance, an anomaly, or a joke at best.
I need labels when strangers point and laugh at me in the street.
I need labels when I hear people whisper “is it a boy or a girl?”
Or when they don’t bother to whisper.
Or when I’m scared of going clothes shopping because of the looks of disapproval I get in either department.
When people use transphobic slurs, to my face.
When people tell me my pronouns are too difficult, and that they’re going to carry on using the wrong ones, intentionally.
When people tell me what name they want to call me, based on what they think is appropriate, rather than what my name is.
When these were people I had considered “friends”.
I need labels, because they allow me to claim back my humanity. Labels help me survive the daily onslaught of transphobia, because they give me dignity. When the world tells me I’m not real, I have a label that tells me I am. When others question the validity of my identity, humiliate me or reduce me to something I’m not, I often believe them. But my labels are still there, like a rock for me to hold onto.
I need labels, because without words to describe myself, I would disappear.
Labels allow my identity to flourish. They allow me to grow into the person I was always meant to be. They empower me with a certainty and confidence that I can use to make a future for myself. They say: I know who I am, and I have a life ahead of me.
How dare you try and take that away from me.
Content warning: transphobia
“I don’t see why we need labels, we’re all human”.
We’ve all heard it before; the whining voice that seeps out like a sad fart and lingers for too long. I’d like to laugh it off as a hollow statement, but I can’t. I can’t, because I looked closer and saw the terrifying power structures this statement supports and I’m scared and angry.
Most recently, these words were said to me in the context of gender identity, so I’ll focus on that for now.
It’s not surprising that, more often than not, these words are uttered by people who’ve never needed to use labels to talk about their gender. They don’t need labels, so they don’t see why anyone else should need them either. They don’t need labels, because their gender identity is treated as default by society. They don’t need labels, because they can go their whole lives without their gender identity ever becoming a major issue. These words are said in the context of privilege.
I don’t have the privilege of never having my gender questioned. I live on the front line of cissexism. It’s a minefield, and sometimes labels are the only protection I have.
I need labels because I am trying to navigate a world that tells me I’m not real; a world that considers my existence a threat, a nuisance, an anomaly, or a joke at best.
I need labels when strangers point and laugh at me in the street.
I need labels when I hear people whisper “is it a boy or a girl?”
Or when they don’t bother to whisper.
Or when I’m scared of going clothes shopping because of the looks of disapproval I get in either department.
When people use transphobic slurs, to my face.
When people tell me my pronouns are too difficult, and that they’re going to carry on using the wrong ones, intentionally.
When people tell me what name they want to call me, based on what they think is appropriate, rather than what my name is.
When these were people I had considered “friends”.
I need labels, because they allow me to claim back my humanity. Labels help me survive the daily onslaught of transphobia, because they give me dignity. When the world tells me I’m not real, I have a label that tells me I am. When others question the validity of my identity, humiliate me or reduce me to something I’m not, I often believe them. But my labels are still there, like a rock for me to hold onto.
I need labels, because without words to describe myself, I would disappear.
Labels allow my identity to flourish. They allow me to grow into the person I was always meant to be. They empower me with a certainty and confidence that I can use to make a future for myself. They say: I know who I am, and I have a life ahead of me.
How dare you try and take that away from me.
 |
| Erica, 19. Likes: Cats, art, cycling, toilet humour. Dislikes: Cheese, underwear, trimming my toenails. |
Friday, 29 May 2015
Return of the Pistoleros! - Gig Review
I haven't ever reviewed a gig on here or ever really so here goes!
I have mentioned before that I work at music festivals behind the bar to raise money for my old trade union, PCS.
Last year at Glastonbury, after working at Solstice bar for a shift, my wife (pair of eyes and nose at the bottom of the picture) dragged us all next door to The Glade stage to see a band that none of us had ever heard of and she said we would love.
Not only did I take my daughter person but we had a bit of a Workers Beer renunion and pre Glasto warm up.
I have mentioned before that I work at music festivals behind the bar to raise money for my old trade union, PCS.
Last year at Glastonbury, after working at Solstice bar for a shift, my wife (pair of eyes and nose at the bottom of the picture) dragged us all next door to The Glade stage to see a band that none of us had ever heard of and she said we would love.
 |
| This is us being clearly ambivalent about Dub Pistols. |
And they made the sun come out.
We were blown away. Like BOOM! Brilliant way to start our party and so easily accesible to those who haven't heard them before they even made my friend Sam (dark glasses, look totally devoid of gorm) dance and he had never before danced. Ever.
When we got home I bought their album Worshipping The Dollar and I have to say I have played that fucker TO DEATH. It is on my running playlist, my dunno what I am in the mood to listen to playlist and, well, let's be honest, every other fucking playlist I have.
I followed Jack (Cowens, drummer) and Barry (Ashworth, musical king pin) on twitter and they were really bloody nice! They will chat when they get time and Jack, you've met me now, if you find out who nicked your equipment let me know, my offer to take their legs still stands bro.
(I met them last night when I bought a tshirt and was blown away by just how friendly they were, even if Barry was left shutting himself up about what size tshirt I should get.)
And the music?
Bassy, dancy, anthemic and fucking awesome to dance to it cannot be put into one genre. I tried. I struggled. I gave up and decided that it was just music and that was what was important, not trying to stick it in a box.
Dub Pistols wouldn't like the box. They would stand on it to shout about partaying harder but much like Baby and corners, you shouldn't try to put them in one.
I would say imagine my excitement when I found out they were playing my favourite Bristol venue The Fleece (saw Random Hand there too. Fucking brilliant venue.) but you don't have to.
 |
| Excited much there Deeva? |
So how was it?
FUCKING. EPIC.
There is always a danger when you see a band you first saw at a festival that when you see them out of that context it will all be a bit flat.
Not a bit of it. If anything they were even better! They opened with Bad Card (on my running playlist) and closed with Gunshot (also on my running playlist) and took us through Peaches, Mucky Weekend, Gangsters and loads more.
 |
| Nothing flat here! |
Some I didn't know as they weren't on the album that I had and the ones from the new album Return of the Pistoleros were unfamiliar but what they all had in common was that they were all proper bangers and I danced all the way through the fucking lot.
 |
| One rub a dub, two rub a dub, liccle King Tubby in a club... |
And when they did Rub a Dub I nearly peed.
So, how would I rate the experience?
Best. Gig. Ever. And I have seen Prince and Public Enemy live.
Seanie T and Barry held the crowd in their hands, it was a party among friends, comrades, Pistoleros!
They truly love playing music and their fans and it shows. It was less a gig and more what happens when your proper mint mates turn up.
I danced all night and pre ordered the new album this morning. I suggest you do the same. Trust me on this.
 |
| YES BRUVVA |
Return of the Pistoleros???
They never fucking went away.
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
On Why I Run
I started running this week.
I signed up to run a 5k event in October too.
Those who know me in real life have been shocked, impressed and slightly suspicious as to who this body snatcher is inhabiting their friend.
I didn't do running. I wouldn't run for a bus. I wouldn't run for anything really. Not that I was lazy, though I was dreadfully unfit of course, but I just didn't do running.
Now I get up at 6am and go for a half an hour run with the aid of the Couch 2 5k programme.
Yep. You heard right. 6am. SIX. In the AM.
Those who know me in real life are again wondering if body snatchers like to get up early.
Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than me.
But I am addicted. On rest days I am restless, waiting for the next time I get to put my trainers on and go for it.
So what caused the change?
I nearly died. I had pneumonia and nearly died. I ended up on death's door at Bristol Royal Infirmary with double pneumonia and asthma so severe I nearly died.
Do you know what that's like? To feel your life draining away because you can't get a breath? To know that unless you fight, I mean LITERALLY, fight for your life that everything you love is gone forever? Do you know how it feels to actually nearly give into the temptation to just let go? To just let yourself slip away and no longer be?
It's fucking scary.
So when I got out of hospital I stopped smoking, I started eating healthily and started walking more.
Then I got the urge to run.
I heard that exercise is good for depression. I think that if you manage to get out of bed with depression that you are already winning, but I have to say that on the days when I run I am happy. Really happy.
Knackered. But happy.
When I am out there I get strange looks sometimes. I could do with a sports bra to keep my jelly belly still to be honest as it slows me down a bit. I get honked at by van drivers, I get giggled at by dog walkers, this mad, beetroot coloured, sweating, panting woman who is trying to just run for one more minute. Just one more. Come on Deeva, you can do this. You can run for another minute...
There is also that sweet moment when the woman on your running app tells you RUN just as the bass drops on Flux Pavillion's Bass Cannon in your ears and that makes you feel invincible.
I go out really early and sometimes I worry about that. I am vulnerable to attack, to fat shaming, to the perception that if anything were to happen to me that I was asking for it (I wear VERY short shorts).
But I don't even care. I run.
And this is why I run.
At 6am the world belongs to me. I don't have to look good. I don't have to smell good. I just have to run.
I don't have to be polite to people I don't like. I don't have to be anyone at all. I just have to run.
I am not in competition with anyone. I am good enough. I am the best that I can be. I don't have to worry that anyone is judging me. I just have to run.
The wind is in my hair. I can hear my blood. I can feel the road through my feet. Water tastes like nectar. My breath is ragged then smooth. It is vital. I am alive. I am me. I am alive, alone, doing something that is just for me and nature is running with me, though me.
I am exhilarated. I am addicted to that exhilaration. I am a goddess.
I run.
I signed up to run a 5k event in October too.
Those who know me in real life have been shocked, impressed and slightly suspicious as to who this body snatcher is inhabiting their friend.
I didn't do running. I wouldn't run for a bus. I wouldn't run for anything really. Not that I was lazy, though I was dreadfully unfit of course, but I just didn't do running.
Now I get up at 6am and go for a half an hour run with the aid of the Couch 2 5k programme.
Yep. You heard right. 6am. SIX. In the AM.
Those who know me in real life are again wondering if body snatchers like to get up early.
Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than me.
But I am addicted. On rest days I am restless, waiting for the next time I get to put my trainers on and go for it.
So what caused the change?
I nearly died. I had pneumonia and nearly died. I ended up on death's door at Bristol Royal Infirmary with double pneumonia and asthma so severe I nearly died.
Do you know what that's like? To feel your life draining away because you can't get a breath? To know that unless you fight, I mean LITERALLY, fight for your life that everything you love is gone forever? Do you know how it feels to actually nearly give into the temptation to just let go? To just let yourself slip away and no longer be?
It's fucking scary.
So when I got out of hospital I stopped smoking, I started eating healthily and started walking more.
Then I got the urge to run.
I heard that exercise is good for depression. I think that if you manage to get out of bed with depression that you are already winning, but I have to say that on the days when I run I am happy. Really happy.
Knackered. But happy.
When I am out there I get strange looks sometimes. I could do with a sports bra to keep my jelly belly still to be honest as it slows me down a bit. I get honked at by van drivers, I get giggled at by dog walkers, this mad, beetroot coloured, sweating, panting woman who is trying to just run for one more minute. Just one more. Come on Deeva, you can do this. You can run for another minute...
There is also that sweet moment when the woman on your running app tells you RUN just as the bass drops on Flux Pavillion's Bass Cannon in your ears and that makes you feel invincible.
I go out really early and sometimes I worry about that. I am vulnerable to attack, to fat shaming, to the perception that if anything were to happen to me that I was asking for it (I wear VERY short shorts).
But I don't even care. I run.
And this is why I run.
At 6am the world belongs to me. I don't have to look good. I don't have to smell good. I just have to run.
I don't have to be polite to people I don't like. I don't have to be anyone at all. I just have to run.
I am not in competition with anyone. I am good enough. I am the best that I can be. I don't have to worry that anyone is judging me. I just have to run.
The wind is in my hair. I can hear my blood. I can feel the road through my feet. Water tastes like nectar. My breath is ragged then smooth. It is vital. I am alive. I am me. I am alive, alone, doing something that is just for me and nature is running with me, though me.
I am exhilarated. I am addicted to that exhilaration. I am a goddess.
I run.
Sunday, 3 May 2015
Open Letter To Roifield, Cosmo and John III
Dear all,
I know you all think you are good guys and I tend to agree with you most of the time. I know you all think that you are on Helen Archer's side and most of the time you are. I know you all think you are being the voice of reason.
You aren't. What you are doing is enabling not just Rob's, but all male abuse and violence against women.
Think that is a bit strong? Not at all and here is why. Imagine that you are in a pub with some male friends, acquaintances, colleagues, it doesn't matter really who they are, just that they are men in your company, and you don't know that one or more of them is abusive to women.
One in three women experience abuse in their lifetime so this is not outside of the realms of possibility.
You make some comments about abuse and how it is a dreadful thing but really, women are a bit oversensitive about it aren't they? It isn't actually abuse if he is just 'a bit of a jerk' or if he 'is a good father to the boy' or 'he is just looking out for her'.
You see these men who abuse women are smiling at your comments because you have just validated them. You have excused their behaviour and the women in their lives are now going to suffer for it. Because you have bought into the narrative that says that women need a bit of control or they get a 'bit wild'. Or are a 'bit delicate' and need looking after.
Is that who you want to be?
Do you want to be the man who makes an abuser feel comfortable and validated? I don't think you do. I really hope I am right about that. I am right about that right?
Here is how you get past this.
When women are telling you that you are wrong about a situation, LISTEN. Don't talk over her. Don't patronise her. Don't try to be the voice of reason. Not only do you do her a disfavour by not listening to her lived experience but you are treating her as irrational and believe me, she will have had enough of that in her life.
Have you ever been in a situation where something didn't feel quite right? Where your gut was telling you to run but you were being overruled by clever words, manipulation and an eroding of self esteem? That is what women in these relationships deal with all the time and when they try to break free the abusers get worse. And the women end up saying sorry.
Also, the dog whistle that only women can hear is not a thing. My timeline was filled with men who get it as strongly as the women where it comes to Rob and Helen. You do not get to use your gender as a get out clause.
Ditto the ledger of behaviours. Not a thing. Not in an actual healthy and grown up equal relationship.
Accept that it isn't all about you being right or wrong. Accept that you don't get a pass for validating abusers by saying that they are abusers. Where the power is already unbalanced in a relationship you are not providing balance, you are making an oppression worse. Accept that not only Helen Archer but many women are in actual danger from their abusers.
I say all of this to you all in love and sisterhood and hope that you can understand what I am saying.
Goddessdeeva out.
I know you all think you are good guys and I tend to agree with you most of the time. I know you all think that you are on Helen Archer's side and most of the time you are. I know you all think you are being the voice of reason.
You aren't. What you are doing is enabling not just Rob's, but all male abuse and violence against women.
Think that is a bit strong? Not at all and here is why. Imagine that you are in a pub with some male friends, acquaintances, colleagues, it doesn't matter really who they are, just that they are men in your company, and you don't know that one or more of them is abusive to women.
One in three women experience abuse in their lifetime so this is not outside of the realms of possibility.
You make some comments about abuse and how it is a dreadful thing but really, women are a bit oversensitive about it aren't they? It isn't actually abuse if he is just 'a bit of a jerk' or if he 'is a good father to the boy' or 'he is just looking out for her'.
You see these men who abuse women are smiling at your comments because you have just validated them. You have excused their behaviour and the women in their lives are now going to suffer for it. Because you have bought into the narrative that says that women need a bit of control or they get a 'bit wild'. Or are a 'bit delicate' and need looking after.
Is that who you want to be?
Do you want to be the man who makes an abuser feel comfortable and validated? I don't think you do. I really hope I am right about that. I am right about that right?
Here is how you get past this.
When women are telling you that you are wrong about a situation, LISTEN. Don't talk over her. Don't patronise her. Don't try to be the voice of reason. Not only do you do her a disfavour by not listening to her lived experience but you are treating her as irrational and believe me, she will have had enough of that in her life.
Have you ever been in a situation where something didn't feel quite right? Where your gut was telling you to run but you were being overruled by clever words, manipulation and an eroding of self esteem? That is what women in these relationships deal with all the time and when they try to break free the abusers get worse. And the women end up saying sorry.
Also, the dog whistle that only women can hear is not a thing. My timeline was filled with men who get it as strongly as the women where it comes to Rob and Helen. You do not get to use your gender as a get out clause.
Ditto the ledger of behaviours. Not a thing. Not in an actual healthy and grown up equal relationship.
Accept that it isn't all about you being right or wrong. Accept that you don't get a pass for validating abusers by saying that they are abusers. Where the power is already unbalanced in a relationship you are not providing balance, you are making an oppression worse. Accept that not only Helen Archer but many women are in actual danger from their abusers.
I say all of this to you all in love and sisterhood and hope that you can understand what I am saying.
Goddessdeeva out.
Monday, 20 April 2015
On Living With An Invisible Disability - Guest Post
This is from the amazing Fiona Fairless who has been my very good friend for a very long time.
She is exactly the type of person that this government hates.
Register to vote then vote them out. Please.
Over the last few weeks I've been toying with writing about living with an invisible disability. I've been finding things quite hard recently, for a number of external reasons, but it's made me think hard about my attitude.
I have a condition called Fibromyalgia. It came on suddenly following a virus, there is no cure and very little in the way of treatment. It is a neurological condition and so can affect pretty much any part of the body, causing acute pain, spasms, fatigue and a host of other symptoms on a scale ranging from irritating to life changing.
I look no different now than I did the day before I acquired the condition and this in itself causes issues.
I have had the authorities, doctors, even friends and family question my situation.
Comments about how it would get better if I lost weight. Comments about whether it's just a symptom of mental health concerns. Questions about why I should be entitled to benefits - these were from a family member. Being told how nice it must be that I don't have to work now.
I can't articulate in sensible language the impact comments like that have. I want to scream in their faces that they should try being me for a day before they comment but then I realise the futility of that.
They would need to be me, all day, every day to appreciate the life sentence I have been given.
Even worse are those who tell me they understand.
NO YOU FUCKING DON'T. You don't understand because you are not in my situation and you are not me. You have no idea what it feels like to feel trapped in your own home because you are too exhausted to go out.
You have no idea how humiliating it is to have to ask for help to get dressed, to wash your hair. You have no idea how un-sexy you feel having to wash yet another set of clothes because you couldn't get to the bathroom in time. You have no idea how angry it makes you feel when you can't wash up because your hands hurt too much to grip the dishcloth.
Anger is something I am having to battle with a great deal at the moment. I feel so angry and not because I am disabled. I learnt to deal with that a long time ago. I am angry because of other peoples attitudes and ideas about MY disability. One day I hope I can find a calm place in life where I can be at peace with my condition, where I can feel guiltless about what my condition means and where I can be free from idiots who think they are thinking before they speak.
Until then I just have one wish. If you have a shred of doubt, an iota of a lack of compassion or simply have no consideration of me, then leave me the fuck alone. Don't comment, don't look, just walk on by.
 |
| Member of the Feral Underclass and all round Good Egg, Fiona can usually be found either away with the fairies or singing to power ballad. She loves a good power ballad does our Fiona. |
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
On Consent - Guest Post
This guest post is anonymous for a reason. Enjoy is the wrong word. Read and weep. Better still, learn and teach.
On Monday the 2nd of March 2015 I was raped. I wasn’t down a dark alleyway. I wasn’t attacked. I wasn’t in any of the godawful stereotypical situations that society associates with being raped. I was celebrating a friend’s birthday at a club, I met somebody, we went back to my house. I repeatedly said that the invitation did not extend to a cosy conversation between his sexual organs and mine. When my vocalisations weren’t heard I said no. I said stop. Multiple times I said these words. I still wasn’t listened to. I lay there, staring at my ceiling (there’s a crack which I noticed and put getting it fixed on my mental to do list). Giving up my protestations, realising that it wasn’t going to stop and that no wasn’t going to be taken for an answer I waited for it to be over.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t shout. I didn’t fight. I said no and I wasn’t listened to. I was used as a vessel for his sexual gratification. A means to an end. I was the one left to deal with the consequences of his actions. I paid for emergency contraception and I will have to book an appointment for an STI check. I will do all this while he continues with his day to day life, perhaps not even recognising what he did.
I decided to write about this, not only to try and figure out my own feelings about it all but to tell people that rape, that non-consensual sexual acts, don’t always happen to people in the way television, films and the media would have you think. I haven’t cried. I haven’t shouted or screamed. I don’t even really dislike him, after all he seemed like a ‘nice’ enough guy for me to invite him back in the first place.
So I’m writing this partly as a tool to sift through my own feelings but also to demand a more open and realistic dialogue about consent and about rape culture.
After a couple of day’s reflection I’m bloody angry. I’m angry that I don’t feel comfortable taking this to the police, I’m angry that I’m sat here stewing and he probably has little recognition for what he’s even done, I’m angry that had this happened to me two years ago I wouldn’t have recognised it for what it was.
There is no right or wrong way for survivors to deal with this sort of situation. I want people who read this and who can potentially recognise that they have had a similar sexual experience to me, that they have nothing to feel guilty about. That if you didn’t really realise at the time that your voice wasn’t being listened to, that your body was being violated it’s not your fault. The blame is on the perpetrator.
The blame is on the patriarchy.
We live in a society where for centuries upon centuries men have been viewed as the gender with sexual desires that need to be sated at whatever cost. That women function as tools for their pleasure. This has changed somewhat over the last 50 years. People are actually open to discussing women’s sexuality, that women have sexual desires too, and despite some men not knowing the difference between a woman’s clitoris and her nose (jabbing is not a thing gents!), society as a whole realises that no matter your gender you can have lots of sexual desires or simply none at all.
As a society we recognise this but we don’t recognise the need for comprehensive education about consent from birth. As a society we don’t recognise that consent can be rescinded at any moment. That an invitation to my room is not an invitation into my vagina. It is these thoughts and attitudes that silence survivors, that make them even doubt what actually happened to them.
We blame the survivor. We tell them to be more careful, to not drink as much in future, to learn their lesson about bringing people they don’t know back to their house. When did it become okay to say this instead of insisting that people Do. Not. Rape. Of course, in an abstract way we all know this is wrong but a sense of entitlement makes perpetrators act differently.
We need to make sure that young boys and men know that pressuring a woman into having sex with them is not okay. That if someone says no once, they mean no. They should not have to repeat themselves. We need to make sure that young boys and men do not indulge in selective hearing. If your sexual partner says no or stop, guess what? You fucking well stop. If you then get angry because you’ve been told to stop and your pissed because you didn’t get to finish, take a step, raise your hand and slap yourself across the face hard because you’re being a douche and why would you even want to have sex with someone who doesn’t want to anyway? Your male entitlement and what you perceive as your right to sexual gratification whenever and however you want does not outweigh, my feelings, my body and my right to say no at any point.
I’ve had conversations with women where they’ve had sexual experiences that they did not want to have. That they’ve felt guilty for not providing sex and so have done it anyway. This makes me sick. It makes me sick to think that my friends have done this, that our sisters, mothers and daughters may also have done this. That they’ve felt a man’s sexual desire has outweighed their right to say no. That they have felt bad for not wanting sex but have done it anyway.
Our conversations about consent in society have to change. We have to take the focus away from survivors and onto perpetrators. We need to be teaching our children consent, be talking to our teenagers about consent, be having a dialogue with our partners. We must talk about consent in our individual spheres but we must also demand that the rhetoric about consent and rape culture changes in the media and wider society. We must be demanding that our police service does not ask a survivor what they were wearing, how much they had to drink or doubting whether they gave consent or not. We must be demanding that people, our institutions and our government believe the survivor and vow to change our culture and societal attitudes towards rape and consent.
Rape doesn’t just happen to people in the dark as an attack. Rape is the result of a society which perpetuates ideas of male entitlement. It is not necessarily a pre-meditated act. It is an act where someone decides to, quite simply, not listen.
On Monday the 2nd of March 2015 I was raped. I wasn’t down a dark alleyway. I wasn’t attacked. I wasn’t in any of the godawful stereotypical situations that society associates with being raped. I was celebrating a friend’s birthday at a club, I met somebody, we went back to my house. I repeatedly said that the invitation did not extend to a cosy conversation between his sexual organs and mine. When my vocalisations weren’t heard I said no. I said stop. Multiple times I said these words. I still wasn’t listened to. I lay there, staring at my ceiling (there’s a crack which I noticed and put getting it fixed on my mental to do list). Giving up my protestations, realising that it wasn’t going to stop and that no wasn’t going to be taken for an answer I waited for it to be over.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t shout. I didn’t fight. I said no and I wasn’t listened to. I was used as a vessel for his sexual gratification. A means to an end. I was the one left to deal with the consequences of his actions. I paid for emergency contraception and I will have to book an appointment for an STI check. I will do all this while he continues with his day to day life, perhaps not even recognising what he did.
I decided to write about this, not only to try and figure out my own feelings about it all but to tell people that rape, that non-consensual sexual acts, don’t always happen to people in the way television, films and the media would have you think. I haven’t cried. I haven’t shouted or screamed. I don’t even really dislike him, after all he seemed like a ‘nice’ enough guy for me to invite him back in the first place.
So I’m writing this partly as a tool to sift through my own feelings but also to demand a more open and realistic dialogue about consent and about rape culture.
After a couple of day’s reflection I’m bloody angry. I’m angry that I don’t feel comfortable taking this to the police, I’m angry that I’m sat here stewing and he probably has little recognition for what he’s even done, I’m angry that had this happened to me two years ago I wouldn’t have recognised it for what it was.
There is no right or wrong way for survivors to deal with this sort of situation. I want people who read this and who can potentially recognise that they have had a similar sexual experience to me, that they have nothing to feel guilty about. That if you didn’t really realise at the time that your voice wasn’t being listened to, that your body was being violated it’s not your fault. The blame is on the perpetrator.
The blame is on the patriarchy.
We live in a society where for centuries upon centuries men have been viewed as the gender with sexual desires that need to be sated at whatever cost. That women function as tools for their pleasure. This has changed somewhat over the last 50 years. People are actually open to discussing women’s sexuality, that women have sexual desires too, and despite some men not knowing the difference between a woman’s clitoris and her nose (jabbing is not a thing gents!), society as a whole realises that no matter your gender you can have lots of sexual desires or simply none at all.
As a society we recognise this but we don’t recognise the need for comprehensive education about consent from birth. As a society we don’t recognise that consent can be rescinded at any moment. That an invitation to my room is not an invitation into my vagina. It is these thoughts and attitudes that silence survivors, that make them even doubt what actually happened to them.
We blame the survivor. We tell them to be more careful, to not drink as much in future, to learn their lesson about bringing people they don’t know back to their house. When did it become okay to say this instead of insisting that people Do. Not. Rape. Of course, in an abstract way we all know this is wrong but a sense of entitlement makes perpetrators act differently.
We need to make sure that young boys and men know that pressuring a woman into having sex with them is not okay. That if someone says no once, they mean no. They should not have to repeat themselves. We need to make sure that young boys and men do not indulge in selective hearing. If your sexual partner says no or stop, guess what? You fucking well stop. If you then get angry because you’ve been told to stop and your pissed because you didn’t get to finish, take a step, raise your hand and slap yourself across the face hard because you’re being a douche and why would you even want to have sex with someone who doesn’t want to anyway? Your male entitlement and what you perceive as your right to sexual gratification whenever and however you want does not outweigh, my feelings, my body and my right to say no at any point.
I’ve had conversations with women where they’ve had sexual experiences that they did not want to have. That they’ve felt guilty for not providing sex and so have done it anyway. This makes me sick. It makes me sick to think that my friends have done this, that our sisters, mothers and daughters may also have done this. That they’ve felt a man’s sexual desire has outweighed their right to say no. That they have felt bad for not wanting sex but have done it anyway.
Our conversations about consent in society have to change. We have to take the focus away from survivors and onto perpetrators. We need to be teaching our children consent, be talking to our teenagers about consent, be having a dialogue with our partners. We must talk about consent in our individual spheres but we must also demand that the rhetoric about consent and rape culture changes in the media and wider society. We must be demanding that our police service does not ask a survivor what they were wearing, how much they had to drink or doubting whether they gave consent or not. We must be demanding that people, our institutions and our government believe the survivor and vow to change our culture and societal attitudes towards rape and consent.
Rape doesn’t just happen to people in the dark as an attack. Rape is the result of a society which perpetuates ideas of male entitlement. It is not necessarily a pre-meditated act. It is an act where someone decides to, quite simply, not listen.
Tuesday, 17 February 2015
On Fat Shaming - Guest Post
This one is from a very good friend of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.
Very personal and very powerful. It is a must read.
Hi. My name's [redacted]. I'm 29. And I'm fat. And I don't mean model fat. I don't mean feeling a bit bloated today fat. I mean fat fat. I'm 5'4, I currently weigh 19st 4.5lbs (or I did on Monday) and I wear a size 24. I'm fat fat. And I refuse to apologise for the fact. Because you know what, I'm happy. Or I was until I read this article in the Daily Mail.
Admittedly, that was my first mistake. Reading the Daily Fail. But it passes time in work, and it often posts articles about cute animals that make me happy, like the one about Budi, the baby Orangutan. It started sad but it's getting good. And look at the concentration on his little face while he eats that orange. Adorable! But yeah, I read the Mail, whatever. But today I read the article about that atrocious little man and his 'constructive fat shaming'.
It enraged me. It made me furious. Allow me to explain.
Fat shaming is a subject that has pissed me off for my entire life. I could write volumes on it. On how it has personally affected me, and how I know it affects friends and family. I won't. But I could.
And yes, I'm fat. It's not a new thing. I've always been fat. And I've always been fat shamed. So have my parents, on my behalf. When I was little, the dentist couldn't figure out how I could weight as much as I do and have perfect teeth, not a single cavity. I mean, my parents were obviously filling me full of sugar right? I had to get that size somehow (FYI it was cheese, not sweets. Cheese is AWESOME!). The doctors accused my parents on more than one occasion of over feeding me, abusing me. They told them to make me exercise, eat less, everything. They didn't need to. When I was little I did ballet, tap, swimming, cycling, went to Brownies and was always doing something with my friends in the outside world, involving moving around. I was a kid for fucks sake. I was doing kid stuff.
But I remained fat. I got bullied in school. I don't mean some kid called me names and I got upset. I mean begging not to go to school, making myself ill bullied. I'm talking parents going into school to discuss the situation with teachers. It was serious. And it started when I was 5 and it finished when I was 18. And it only finished then because I left school. It was the worst kind of fat shaming. From the kids stating the obvious, to the ones discussing the food on my plate in secondary school. It was awful. But it was bullying and I had an understanding of that. I could manage my way through the little fuckwits I was forced to be around ever single day of my life for 13 years. It was a thing. It isn't now.
Now it's sneaky. It creeps up on you out of nowhere. Because we're adults now and it's not socially acceptable to walk up to someone and call them names (or, it isn't for the most part. I can't account for everyone, unfortunately). When you're an adult, it's for your own good. You need to be told. Whether it's the doctor informing you that the cold you have is due to your weight, or the sales person telling you, with inevitable disdain (imagined or real) that the item of clothing you want doesn't come in your size. It's there and it's meant to make us change our fatty little ways.
Enter 'Life Bitch' Steve Miller. What an odious little creature he is. He believes that calling a spade a spade, or in this case, a fatty fat, will make them change their ways and lose weight. Telling them that their weight will kill them will make them slim down. It'll save their life! Woo, go Steve.
Or not.
If that shit worked, I'd be a size 0, minimum! Because that's all I've heard all my life. He claims it's for health reasons that he does this. And admittedly, I am trying to lose weight for those reasons. I'd love to walk somewhere without my ankles, knees, hips and lower back giving out because they've carried almost 20 stone around for too long. I'd love that. But don't come all saintly when you're bullying and shaming people into conforming to your norms.
Remember, it's the slim and healthy people who pay for your treatment when your health fails. Why should we pay for your lack of self-control?
That SCREAMS helpful, constructive slimming aid doesn't it? I mean, I certainly feel inspired. Not inspired to lose weight mind, more inspired to see if all that time spent watching Sherlock and Dexter would make it possible for me to actually murder someone and get away with it. I think I stand a fair chance.
I actually hate the assumption that fat people have no self control. I have tried every diet known to man. Atkins, Low GI, Rosemary Conley, WeightWatchers, Slimming World, calorie counting, fasting, 5:2, Slim Fast...I could go on and on for DAYS! Following all of that shit takes control. Masses of control. Especially when all you want is something yummy, a sweet maybe, a bag of crisps, pick your poison. You get it in your head and you need it. You obsess about it. You consider fashioning a shiv out of a biro and shanking a co-worker in the kidneys just to get that bar of chocolate they have in their drawer...I mean, you obsess over it. But it falls outside of your current torture of choice and you refuse yourself it. Not giving in to the ensuing obsession takes every last bit of control in your body. Don't tell me I lack self control.
He's even written a book for fatties like me. 'Get off your arse and lose weight'. Well fuck, I never thought of that! Kindly fuck off you horrendous excuse for a human being. Take your pseudo-compassion with you.
Then there's Katie Hopkins. I won't lie, I didn't watch her show about getting fat and losing it. Isn't she wonderful though? Her high metabolic rate makes it really hard for her to gain weight, so she really stuck with the weight gain to prove a point that it's super easy to lose four stone. Yup. Now make that eight stone. Or fifteen. That 'little bit' of weight is suddently Everest and it's impossible to climb. Even with your desire to prove the world wrong fueling you, and that image of a pretty frock dancing about your head. It's Everest. And you struggle to hit base camp. But I won't dwell on her. She isn't constructive. She doesn't even pretend. She's just a twat.
Back to using health against us. Fake concern. My weight concerns me when it comes to my health. I'd like to not be punished by my ankles or other joints for walking about too much. I'd like to not be surprised by how swollen my toes can get after exercise. And by God, I would love to have less natural insulation because fuck me it is WARM up in this bitch! I've had friends tell me how badly they need me to lose weight. How worried they are. And it's sweet of them but it's not their concern. They just hang around with the fat, they don't live inside it. It's not like I love living here. But you know, there are worse places to live and I'll take it. Maybe do a bit of remodelling. Whatever.
But, of course, the horrid little man has a success story to go with his article on the correct way to mentally abuse a friend or loved one. Tracy, 34, 19st, size 24 clothes. Having read her testimonial I prefer to think that it was in spite of Steve and not because of him that she lost weight. After all, if having a nasty little man telling you how fat and awful and lazy you are was enough to make you lose weight, I honestly would never have gotten fat in the first place.
But what I'm trying to say here, in a rather rambling, largely angry way, is that hurting someone's feelings, belittling them and making them feel less of a person is not constructive. Its abuse. It's bullying. And you wouldn't allow your child to behave in that manner. So set a good example. Don't be a twat. Be helpful. Be supportive. Be nice, it takes absolutely no effort on your part.
So go forth, lovely people, and don't give side eye to that fat bird or bloke you walked past, wearing something you feel is inappropriate for them. If it makes them feel good, feel happy for them. Don't be that guy. Don't be a dick. Don't be Steve Miller.
Slap *is* a Feminist Issue - Guest Post
So the wonderful Ang is back! This time on make up.
Enjoy!
Slap *is* a Feminist Issue,
(or Just *how many* eye liners are *too many* eyeliners...?)
So, here's the upfront anti-spoiler alert. The 'Slap' in this GoddessDeeva guest blog isn't about domestic violence or violence against women, against men or any people of trans- or non-binary gender. No, no, no.
For the record, by 'Slap' I use the word here in the sense that most women I know, plus how various actors, dancers, wardrobe mistresses and several transvestites of my genuine acquaintance use it, namely make-up, beauty products, that stuff. You know - the mascara, lippy, eye liner (guy liner) bit of face-colouring goo? Yes, that. Everyone sitting comfortably? OK, let's move on...
I'll 'fess up. I have an absolutely *HUGE* collection of Slap. Monumental. Trays, boxes, bags, metric feck-tonnes of the stuff. Lots of my Slap haul has been gathered through free samples and gifts from tactical buying on posh beauty counters over the years, where samples are loyalty currency, but I confess that I have spent a small fortune on the stuff. (And yes, I know that there are several teenage daughters of my friends who are actively lobbying to inherit said Slap collection when I die. Hum.)
As an aside, I remember in the early 1980s (when I was an undergraduate university student) that The Slap was a front-line feminist issue. In the sense that, on one side, there were women living in bender camps in freezing conditions surrounding the US nuclear missile base at Greenham Common, and it was cool, right on, not to indulge. Armpit hair was A Thing, almost trendy. And yet, at the same time when I was a student, when the New Romantics were "It", and those first year uni bands like The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, The Wedding Present, Pixies, were super cool, uni students wore more Slap than I'd ever seen or knew how to deal with at that age. You can't be a proper pale-faced Goth without a trowel-load of The Slap, right? (Not as if I liked most of that music, but, hey, I duly back-combed my hair and learned how to do proper eyeliner. Ish. I was rubbish at it, and I looked crap.)
So what changed over 20+ years? I realised that The Slap has proper super-power, true purpose for most women. Let me be clear, this isn't at all about wearing makeup to look pretty for a man, for a partner, for a date, for sex. No. Can't be arsed. Sod off with that. I wear my Slap for myself alone, with no obligation towards anyone else. (And let's face it, my husband Clive has seen me more often Without than With The Slap. No probs. He used to wear more Slap professionally (and with four inch heels) than I ever have, but that's another blog story...)
However, I'll put it out here that there's a HUGE confidence boost for all women that comes from The Slap. Just ask Macmillan nurses why they take bags of lovely lipstick into hospital wards to help women recovering from cancer and chemo. It helps women who feel like shit feel as if they can face the day, face life again. It has power, in the way that gravity as the weakest force in the universe has power. Huge power.
So here it is. I'm just laying it out here in GoddessDeeva space that Slap is a deeply feminist issue. It allows, it facilitates, it strengthens so many women to go out daily into the (mostly male-dominated) workplace and (dominated by the patriarchy) world feeling just that bit more confident, that bit more Can Do, maybe a little bit more Empress of the Universe. It says soft,y, so quietly "Yes, Khaleesi, you can rule the world. I understand you may have needed a bit of Slap to stand up and claim your rightful place in the world order. That's OK. Nice shade of lippy, btw. OK, let's go rule the world."
That's all OK by me. Excellent, in fact. Why not?
So I'll reserve my right to paint my fingernails some dark, gothic colour while yelling at Newsnight or Question Time. Nail polish does not dim my intellect. Nor does it impair my dim view of selfish, bigoted, money-driven politicians on all sides. I can wear this season's most fashionable shade of Chanel nail polish and still argue the political toss.
If I have a Big Meeting to go to, one where I need to be shiny and full of win, I'll Slap Up. Skin-matched base, concealer, neutral blended eye, mascara, eyeliner, lip liner perfect. The Works. No shit. I got this. And frankly, I know it works. I'll go into that meeting feeling just that bit better prepared, better armoured. Teflon on. And I'll win.
Game on. So, get that mascara and lippy on. Let's go run the world...
Ang, known in some online places as Lady Clanger, is an atheist, Socialist republican, a keeper of parrots and humongously large felines. She's an activist in mind and at heart, who strives to Do The Right Thing, even if daily life sometimes gets in the way. Views here exclusively her own.
Enjoy!
Slap *is* a Feminist Issue,
(or Just *how many* eye liners are *too many* eyeliners...?)
So, here's the upfront anti-spoiler alert. The 'Slap' in this GoddessDeeva guest blog isn't about domestic violence or violence against women, against men or any people of trans- or non-binary gender. No, no, no.
For the record, by 'Slap' I use the word here in the sense that most women I know, plus how various actors, dancers, wardrobe mistresses and several transvestites of my genuine acquaintance use it, namely make-up, beauty products, that stuff. You know - the mascara, lippy, eye liner (guy liner) bit of face-colouring goo? Yes, that. Everyone sitting comfortably? OK, let's move on...
I'll 'fess up. I have an absolutely *HUGE* collection of Slap. Monumental. Trays, boxes, bags, metric feck-tonnes of the stuff. Lots of my Slap haul has been gathered through free samples and gifts from tactical buying on posh beauty counters over the years, where samples are loyalty currency, but I confess that I have spent a small fortune on the stuff. (And yes, I know that there are several teenage daughters of my friends who are actively lobbying to inherit said Slap collection when I die. Hum.)
As an aside, I remember in the early 1980s (when I was an undergraduate university student) that The Slap was a front-line feminist issue. In the sense that, on one side, there were women living in bender camps in freezing conditions surrounding the US nuclear missile base at Greenham Common, and it was cool, right on, not to indulge. Armpit hair was A Thing, almost trendy. And yet, at the same time when I was a student, when the New Romantics were "It", and those first year uni bands like The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, The Wedding Present, Pixies, were super cool, uni students wore more Slap than I'd ever seen or knew how to deal with at that age. You can't be a proper pale-faced Goth without a trowel-load of The Slap, right? (Not as if I liked most of that music, but, hey, I duly back-combed my hair and learned how to do proper eyeliner. Ish. I was rubbish at it, and I looked crap.)
So what changed over 20+ years? I realised that The Slap has proper super-power, true purpose for most women. Let me be clear, this isn't at all about wearing makeup to look pretty for a man, for a partner, for a date, for sex. No. Can't be arsed. Sod off with that. I wear my Slap for myself alone, with no obligation towards anyone else. (And let's face it, my husband Clive has seen me more often Without than With The Slap. No probs. He used to wear more Slap professionally (and with four inch heels) than I ever have, but that's another blog story...)
However, I'll put it out here that there's a HUGE confidence boost for all women that comes from The Slap. Just ask Macmillan nurses why they take bags of lovely lipstick into hospital wards to help women recovering from cancer and chemo. It helps women who feel like shit feel as if they can face the day, face life again. It has power, in the way that gravity as the weakest force in the universe has power. Huge power.
So here it is. I'm just laying it out here in GoddessDeeva space that Slap is a deeply feminist issue. It allows, it facilitates, it strengthens so many women to go out daily into the (mostly male-dominated) workplace and (dominated by the patriarchy) world feeling just that bit more confident, that bit more Can Do, maybe a little bit more Empress of the Universe. It says soft,y, so quietly "Yes, Khaleesi, you can rule the world. I understand you may have needed a bit of Slap to stand up and claim your rightful place in the world order. That's OK. Nice shade of lippy, btw. OK, let's go rule the world."
That's all OK by me. Excellent, in fact. Why not?
So I'll reserve my right to paint my fingernails some dark, gothic colour while yelling at Newsnight or Question Time. Nail polish does not dim my intellect. Nor does it impair my dim view of selfish, bigoted, money-driven politicians on all sides. I can wear this season's most fashionable shade of Chanel nail polish and still argue the political toss.
If I have a Big Meeting to go to, one where I need to be shiny and full of win, I'll Slap Up. Skin-matched base, concealer, neutral blended eye, mascara, eyeliner, lip liner perfect. The Works. No shit. I got this. And frankly, I know it works. I'll go into that meeting feeling just that bit better prepared, better armoured. Teflon on. And I'll win.
Game on. So, get that mascara and lippy on. Let's go run the world...
Monday, 16 February 2015
Depression Part 2 - Guest Post
When I wrote part 1 of this guest blog, I thought I had a pretty good knowledge of the subject. Having suffered my own dark time and had previous discussions with friends and acquaintances, I saw myself as some kind of all-seeing eye, I can now admit that I did not know as much as I thought!
I received many comments, it definitely split opinion. Everyone agreed about the value of talking and being supportive of your friends, but that is something that I think everybody should do as a matter of course in everyday life. The main thing that split opinion was the value of medication.
The trouble with it seems to be, that no two people are the same. What works for one person doesn’t for the next. Much like the cause of depression, the number of potential remedies seem enormous. I have since spoken with people who spend large chunks of their life switching meds trying to find one that works for them, others who have found what works for them and are much happier because of that fact. There is also the group who decided meds weren't for them and tried to wean themselves off, to varying degrees of success.
Suffice to say I opened up the proverbial can of worms. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that you have to find your own path. If something doesn’t feel right to you, change it, seek the advice of friends, family, a doctor... There are very many support groups available, be it NHS or privately run community groups. Hell, even at your local church! These are all places you can go to meet like-minded people who are going through or have been through a similar situation. Sounds easy right? I think not.
A friend of mine made a good point about their particular experience of group meetings. Whereas his experience was a positive one and he found that these groups really helped, he also felt due to his working class background, that it was hard to talk about it with work colleagues, associates etc. due the stigma attached. I'm inclined to agree with him. However, I don’t think it is confined to the working classes. It is, I feel, a general almost fear of people who suffer with depression, like it might rub off on you, which of course it won't.
He went to an NHS group and only had good things to say about it. Which of course is not always the case with said organisation. Other people's experience was that you got treated in a matter of fact way and got rushed through as if it was a case of one cure for all. It tickled my interest so I started looking in to the cost of mental health care in the UK. The first thing I came across was an article by Charlie Cooper of the Independent.
I was shocked to read that "There are 3,640 fewer nurses and 213 fewer doctors working in mental health in April this year compared to staffing levels two years ago" (the article was written august 2014) and that funding had been cut by 2.3 per cent. This equates to £253 million! So it is no wonder people's experiences have not all been good. It is, I feel, important to point out that the NHS is not at fault, they have to work within the constraints dictated to them by the government... But that’s a whole new can of worms so I'll leave it there.
Coincidentally, I'm writing this on the 5th of February, Time To Talk Day! Such things as Time To Talk Day can only be a good thing as it raises public awareness and goes some way to reducing the stigma. We should all get on board with it. Social media should also be put to positive use. I know that there is a certain cynical group who use it as a tool to inflict harm, however the more socially aware of us use it for good. Take the sad passing of Robin Williams for example. I believe he would have been proud to see the amount of people who started writing and talking about their own problems after his death. Would a more open and aware society have prevented his death? Who knows. We must strive to be open, aware and above all sympathetic to our fellow human beings.
As a final word for now on this matter, a good friend came to me after my previous piece was published to say how touched they were to read it and how good it felt to see that they where not alone, that it was good to see that there are ways to get through. To see that other people had been through this before them. They could see that there is light at the end of the tunnel and you don’t have to spend your life in the dark.
It's good to know you're not alone!
The caveat though, is that 'The black dog,' as Deeva so succinctly put it, will always be there for most of us, we just have to find a way to make it behave.
I received many comments, it definitely split opinion. Everyone agreed about the value of talking and being supportive of your friends, but that is something that I think everybody should do as a matter of course in everyday life. The main thing that split opinion was the value of medication.
The trouble with it seems to be, that no two people are the same. What works for one person doesn’t for the next. Much like the cause of depression, the number of potential remedies seem enormous. I have since spoken with people who spend large chunks of their life switching meds trying to find one that works for them, others who have found what works for them and are much happier because of that fact. There is also the group who decided meds weren't for them and tried to wean themselves off, to varying degrees of success.
Suffice to say I opened up the proverbial can of worms. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that you have to find your own path. If something doesn’t feel right to you, change it, seek the advice of friends, family, a doctor... There are very many support groups available, be it NHS or privately run community groups. Hell, even at your local church! These are all places you can go to meet like-minded people who are going through or have been through a similar situation. Sounds easy right? I think not.
A friend of mine made a good point about their particular experience of group meetings. Whereas his experience was a positive one and he found that these groups really helped, he also felt due to his working class background, that it was hard to talk about it with work colleagues, associates etc. due the stigma attached. I'm inclined to agree with him. However, I don’t think it is confined to the working classes. It is, I feel, a general almost fear of people who suffer with depression, like it might rub off on you, which of course it won't.
He went to an NHS group and only had good things to say about it. Which of course is not always the case with said organisation. Other people's experience was that you got treated in a matter of fact way and got rushed through as if it was a case of one cure for all. It tickled my interest so I started looking in to the cost of mental health care in the UK. The first thing I came across was an article by Charlie Cooper of the Independent.
I was shocked to read that "There are 3,640 fewer nurses and 213 fewer doctors working in mental health in April this year compared to staffing levels two years ago" (the article was written august 2014) and that funding had been cut by 2.3 per cent. This equates to £253 million! So it is no wonder people's experiences have not all been good. It is, I feel, important to point out that the NHS is not at fault, they have to work within the constraints dictated to them by the government... But that’s a whole new can of worms so I'll leave it there.
Coincidentally, I'm writing this on the 5th of February, Time To Talk Day! Such things as Time To Talk Day can only be a good thing as it raises public awareness and goes some way to reducing the stigma. We should all get on board with it. Social media should also be put to positive use. I know that there is a certain cynical group who use it as a tool to inflict harm, however the more socially aware of us use it for good. Take the sad passing of Robin Williams for example. I believe he would have been proud to see the amount of people who started writing and talking about their own problems after his death. Would a more open and aware society have prevented his death? Who knows. We must strive to be open, aware and above all sympathetic to our fellow human beings.
As a final word for now on this matter, a good friend came to me after my previous piece was published to say how touched they were to read it and how good it felt to see that they where not alone, that it was good to see that there are ways to get through. To see that other people had been through this before them. They could see that there is light at the end of the tunnel and you don’t have to spend your life in the dark.
It's good to know you're not alone!
The caveat though, is that 'The black dog,' as Deeva so succinctly put it, will always be there for most of us, we just have to find a way to make it behave.
Drake, formerly of another name. Green fingered life enthusiast.
Friday, 6 February 2015
On My Love For All Things The Archers
At 2 years a listener I am still a newbie to the docu drama about all things Ambridge that is The Archers.
I wasn't there when Grace and the barn went. I was not there when John met his grisly end under the tractor nor when Nigel plummeted from the roof.
Helen's turkey baster pregnancy that ended in the demon spawn that is Henry? Nope. Ditto Ruth's cancer, Brian's affair and Peggy's predilection for men named Jack.
I didn't grow up listening to The Archers at my mother's knee. It was all radio one in my house and I will be honest, I was scornful of those who worshipped at the altar of Alan's giant organ.
These days? Can't get enough. I hear the opening strains of Barwick Green and my whole body relaxes. I know it's time. That glorious hour and a quarter on a Sunday morning where I join with my #thearchers twitter family and submerge myself in the goings on of the week.
So what changed my mind? Mainly @yokelbear @allthisandless and @BLUESKY20. They are very good friends of mine of years standing and as long term listeners they all said I would love it.
Yet still I resisted. I have quite an addictive personality (totality of Breaking Bad in four sittings) and I was worried it would be something else for me to get sucked into.
And I was right.
Am I sorry about this? Hell no. My Sunday morning and Monday night (more on @Dumteedum shortly) have never been so much fun.
Here is my Sunday morning ritual. Alarm goes off at 9.30am (yes I have an alarm so I don't miss it. What?) and I get up, put the kettle on, go to the loo and have a ciggy. Make coffee. Go back to bed with said coffee. Headphones and radio on. Open Twitter. Listen to last five minutes of Broadcasting House and tweet 'Signing in. #thearchers'.
For the next hour and a quarter my fingers are a blur of tweets, RTs, favourites and replies. It is my church and this is my Sunday service.
But why? I hear you ask. Well there are a few reasons. Here are some of them.
The writing. It is sublime. Beautifully crafted. When Jack 2 died I cried at the tenderness. When Phoebe gave Kate both barrels I shouted my joy. I screamed when Tony got flattened by Otto the bull. I cried at Johnny's panicked and plaintive "grandad!".
Because it is on the radio and possibly because I listen on headphones it is close. Intimate. Personal. And all the more absorbing for it. When Otto lost it (because Henry was using his Omen powers I reckon) I couldn't see anything. It was all noise and screaming and panic and fear and noise and, and, and...
It was perfect.
Because I care about them. I care that Helen is being gaslighted by the abusive Rob. I care that Lillian is being abandoned by Matt. I even care about Shula and Alice's fight for domination over the direction of the Christmas show.
I care about who wins at the Flower and Produce Show. And I am not sorry. Not even a little bit.
It is bloody hilarious. The innuendo (taking Pavel up the polytunnel) the comedy (yes, when it suits you dear) and the ridiculous (Jolene and Harrison in the shower jumps to mind. Then won't leave. Ever.)
Lynda Snell's sniff.
I actually learn about farming. No, really. I know more about robotic milkers, herringbone parlours and anerobic digesters than you. Suck it up.
Plus there is a real community of listeners. The AmbridgeFeministCollective is a thing. We have our own nicknames for the characters, Piggy, Hellon, Titchynob and PC Harassment Carpet Burns being a few. We have our own in jokes, most of which are filthy and we have the marvellous @Dumteedum podcast that feels like a family.
Dumteedum.com is pretty much my favourite place on the internet. Run by @Roifield and @lucyvfreeman it is a raucous, irreverent and yet loving look at the goings on in our favourite village.
They are lovely. Ridiculously so. And funny. Side splittingly funny. And they genuinely care about their listeners and caller innerers.
They are family. I have met so many people through our love of Jolene and Kenton and they have been there for me through non Archers related trauma.
We even got together for an award ceremony last November where I fell a bit in love with Radio 4 goddess Susan Rae and scared the shit out of the actor who plays Rob Titchenor.
Good times.
So why not give it a go? What's the worst that can happen?
Well you could end up stuck in a conversation with Charlie Barber Spreadsheet about field rotation...
I wasn't there when Grace and the barn went. I was not there when John met his grisly end under the tractor nor when Nigel plummeted from the roof.
Helen's turkey baster pregnancy that ended in the demon spawn that is Henry? Nope. Ditto Ruth's cancer, Brian's affair and Peggy's predilection for men named Jack.
I didn't grow up listening to The Archers at my mother's knee. It was all radio one in my house and I will be honest, I was scornful of those who worshipped at the altar of Alan's giant organ.
These days? Can't get enough. I hear the opening strains of Barwick Green and my whole body relaxes. I know it's time. That glorious hour and a quarter on a Sunday morning where I join with my #thearchers twitter family and submerge myself in the goings on of the week.
So what changed my mind? Mainly @yokelbear @allthisandless and @BLUESKY20. They are very good friends of mine of years standing and as long term listeners they all said I would love it.
Yet still I resisted. I have quite an addictive personality (totality of Breaking Bad in four sittings) and I was worried it would be something else for me to get sucked into.
And I was right.
Am I sorry about this? Hell no. My Sunday morning and Monday night (more on @Dumteedum shortly) have never been so much fun.
Here is my Sunday morning ritual. Alarm goes off at 9.30am (yes I have an alarm so I don't miss it. What?) and I get up, put the kettle on, go to the loo and have a ciggy. Make coffee. Go back to bed with said coffee. Headphones and radio on. Open Twitter. Listen to last five minutes of Broadcasting House and tweet 'Signing in. #thearchers'.
For the next hour and a quarter my fingers are a blur of tweets, RTs, favourites and replies. It is my church and this is my Sunday service.
But why? I hear you ask. Well there are a few reasons. Here are some of them.
The writing. It is sublime. Beautifully crafted. When Jack 2 died I cried at the tenderness. When Phoebe gave Kate both barrels I shouted my joy. I screamed when Tony got flattened by Otto the bull. I cried at Johnny's panicked and plaintive "grandad!".
Because it is on the radio and possibly because I listen on headphones it is close. Intimate. Personal. And all the more absorbing for it. When Otto lost it (because Henry was using his Omen powers I reckon) I couldn't see anything. It was all noise and screaming and panic and fear and noise and, and, and...
It was perfect.
Because I care about them. I care that Helen is being gaslighted by the abusive Rob. I care that Lillian is being abandoned by Matt. I even care about Shula and Alice's fight for domination over the direction of the Christmas show.
I care about who wins at the Flower and Produce Show. And I am not sorry. Not even a little bit.
It is bloody hilarious. The innuendo (taking Pavel up the polytunnel) the comedy (yes, when it suits you dear) and the ridiculous (Jolene and Harrison in the shower jumps to mind. Then won't leave. Ever.)
Lynda Snell's sniff.
I actually learn about farming. No, really. I know more about robotic milkers, herringbone parlours and anerobic digesters than you. Suck it up.
Plus there is a real community of listeners. The AmbridgeFeministCollective is a thing. We have our own nicknames for the characters, Piggy, Hellon, Titchynob and PC Harassment Carpet Burns being a few. We have our own in jokes, most of which are filthy and we have the marvellous @Dumteedum podcast that feels like a family.
Dumteedum.com is pretty much my favourite place on the internet. Run by @Roifield and @lucyvfreeman it is a raucous, irreverent and yet loving look at the goings on in our favourite village.
They are lovely. Ridiculously so. And funny. Side splittingly funny. And they genuinely care about their listeners and caller innerers.
They are family. I have met so many people through our love of Jolene and Kenton and they have been there for me through non Archers related trauma.
We even got together for an award ceremony last November where I fell a bit in love with Radio 4 goddess Susan Rae and scared the shit out of the actor who plays Rob Titchenor.
Good times.
So why not give it a go? What's the worst that can happen?
Well you could end up stuck in a conversation with Charlie Barber Spreadsheet about field rotation...
Monday, 2 February 2015
On Vaccination
Lots of my friends are tweeting and facebooking their dismay at parents who are refusing to vaccinate their children.
I add my voice to theirs. It is unthinkable to me to have not had my children vaccinated even though it was right at the time when there were questions over the safety of doing so.
I did not want any of my children to either die from a preventable disease nor to cause harm to any other child through my negligence.
However, I have another layer to add to it and that is anger at the inherent ableism wrapped up in the idea that it would be better for your child to be dead than to be autistic.
Let me make this clear, there is NO LINK WHATSOEVER between autism and childhood vaccination. None. Not one iota.
But even if there was, if you think that autism is the worst thing that your child could have, worse even than mumps, measles or rubella then you need to have a word with yourself. Seriously.
Since my daughter person has had their Aspergers diagnosis I have been asked more than once if they had the MMR jab.
The answer is yes.
This has been greeted by sad looks and one idiot asking me if I felt responsible for them being mentally deficient.
The answer is no.
Firstly, they are not mentally deficient. Not in the slightest. Secondly, the MMR jab had nothing to do with their autism. Thirdly, fuck off you ignorant piece of shit and do some research.
So go vaccinate your kids and recognise that you are selfish, abusive and ableist if you don't.
I'll take autistic over that every day of the week.
UPDATE: Have spoken to someone since posting this that had VERY good reasons for not vaccinating her son and I totally respect her reason for not doing so.
I wish to make it very clear that I am talking about the selfish gits that won't do it because they don't believe in it. Or that don't care about the safety of their kids or the safety of others.
I add my voice to theirs. It is unthinkable to me to have not had my children vaccinated even though it was right at the time when there were questions over the safety of doing so.
I did not want any of my children to either die from a preventable disease nor to cause harm to any other child through my negligence.
However, I have another layer to add to it and that is anger at the inherent ableism wrapped up in the idea that it would be better for your child to be dead than to be autistic.
Let me make this clear, there is NO LINK WHATSOEVER between autism and childhood vaccination. None. Not one iota.
But even if there was, if you think that autism is the worst thing that your child could have, worse even than mumps, measles or rubella then you need to have a word with yourself. Seriously.
Since my daughter person has had their Aspergers diagnosis I have been asked more than once if they had the MMR jab.
The answer is yes.
This has been greeted by sad looks and one idiot asking me if I felt responsible for them being mentally deficient.
The answer is no.
Firstly, they are not mentally deficient. Not in the slightest. Secondly, the MMR jab had nothing to do with their autism. Thirdly, fuck off you ignorant piece of shit and do some research.
So go vaccinate your kids and recognise that you are selfish, abusive and ableist if you don't.
I'll take autistic over that every day of the week.
UPDATE: Have spoken to someone since posting this that had VERY good reasons for not vaccinating her son and I totally respect her reason for not doing so.
I wish to make it very clear that I am talking about the selfish gits that won't do it because they don't believe in it. Or that don't care about the safety of their kids or the safety of others.
Saturday, 10 January 2015
On Pride and Patriotism
Been thinking a LOT recently. This will not be news to anyone who has read my 100 odd previous posts.
Today it has been mostly about patriotism and pride.
I just don't get it.
I am British. I was born here because my parents had sex here and my bio mum gave birth to me here.
Am I proud to be British? Erm, no.
I find it very difficult to engage in patriotism or pride in my country or whatever. Chiefly because I don't believe in borders. I know them to be a thing, this isn't like not believing in God, I just don't think we need them or should have them. I honestly think they have caused more trouble than they're worth.
With patriotism comes an over inflated idea of worth and entitlement. It leads to wanting to extend your borders and we all know what that leads to.
So, no, I am not proud to be British. All that means to me is colonialism and theft and murder. Not ever gonna be proud of those things. Ick.
I am a CIS woman.
Am I proud of that? Erm, no.
This is nothing I had any control over. When I was born I was assigned female and that feels right. It was genetics what done it M'Lud and I wouldn't change it. So my gender isn't anything to be inherently proud of unless you buy into the idea that being able to bear children makes you somehow superior which I don't. If you identify as a woman then that is good enough to me and I am not about to buy into a hierarchy of who is the 'better' woman. Patriarchy does that very well all by itself thank you, it needs no help from me. Also, babies are nice (I had three of them as it happens) but the biological equivalent of having a shit after you have eaten isn't actually anything to be proud of in itself.
Actually, if you look at it objectively then being a woman is a disadvantage. Patriarchy, pro lifers, lower wages, beauty standards, violence, fear.
Total pain in the arse in fact.
I am bisexual. Am I proud of that? Erm, no.
See above. Nothing I can control. Just my sexuality. Plus going down that road leads to things like Straight Pride and fuck that noise.
So, not proud of my gender, having given birth, the country I was born in, my sexuality.
Sounds a bit shit no?
Well no.
Because there are things that I can be proud of. Lots and lots of them. For instance:
I am proud that I fight for equality. I am proud that I am a feminist. I am proud that I take no shit.
I am proud that my children are decent human beings. I am proud that they can be who they are without worry that I will ever desert them for it.
I am proud that my no borders stance means that I will never hate someone, even in a 'jokey' way because they come from a different country to me.
I am proud of my LGBT activism. I may not be able to control my sexuality but I sure as hell can fight to make sure I and others are not killed for it.
I am proud of my creativity. My crochet and knitting. This blog.
And I am proud that I survive. That I thrive. That I am alive.
I am proud that I am able to have deep relationships and casual acquaintances. I am proud that I have come far enough to know the difference.
I am proud that I fight. For equality. For safety. Against prejudice in every form.
I am proud of me.
Hope you are proud of you too.
Deeva xxx
Today it has been mostly about patriotism and pride.
I just don't get it.
I am British. I was born here because my parents had sex here and my bio mum gave birth to me here.
Am I proud to be British? Erm, no.
I find it very difficult to engage in patriotism or pride in my country or whatever. Chiefly because I don't believe in borders. I know them to be a thing, this isn't like not believing in God, I just don't think we need them or should have them. I honestly think they have caused more trouble than they're worth.
With patriotism comes an over inflated idea of worth and entitlement. It leads to wanting to extend your borders and we all know what that leads to.
So, no, I am not proud to be British. All that means to me is colonialism and theft and murder. Not ever gonna be proud of those things. Ick.
I am a CIS woman.
Am I proud of that? Erm, no.
This is nothing I had any control over. When I was born I was assigned female and that feels right. It was genetics what done it M'Lud and I wouldn't change it. So my gender isn't anything to be inherently proud of unless you buy into the idea that being able to bear children makes you somehow superior which I don't. If you identify as a woman then that is good enough to me and I am not about to buy into a hierarchy of who is the 'better' woman. Patriarchy does that very well all by itself thank you, it needs no help from me. Also, babies are nice (I had three of them as it happens) but the biological equivalent of having a shit after you have eaten isn't actually anything to be proud of in itself.
Actually, if you look at it objectively then being a woman is a disadvantage. Patriarchy, pro lifers, lower wages, beauty standards, violence, fear.
Total pain in the arse in fact.
I am bisexual. Am I proud of that? Erm, no.
See above. Nothing I can control. Just my sexuality. Plus going down that road leads to things like Straight Pride and fuck that noise.
So, not proud of my gender, having given birth, the country I was born in, my sexuality.
Sounds a bit shit no?
Well no.
Because there are things that I can be proud of. Lots and lots of them. For instance:
I am proud that I fight for equality. I am proud that I am a feminist. I am proud that I take no shit.
I am proud that my children are decent human beings. I am proud that they can be who they are without worry that I will ever desert them for it.
I am proud that my no borders stance means that I will never hate someone, even in a 'jokey' way because they come from a different country to me.
I am proud of my LGBT activism. I may not be able to control my sexuality but I sure as hell can fight to make sure I and others are not killed for it.
I am proud of my creativity. My crochet and knitting. This blog.
And I am proud that I survive. That I thrive. That I am alive.
I am proud that I am able to have deep relationships and casual acquaintances. I am proud that I have come far enough to know the difference.
I am proud that I fight. For equality. For safety. Against prejudice in every form.
I am proud of me.
Hope you are proud of you too.
Deeva xxx
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Ave Maria - December 2014 Round Up
Listening to the Stevie Wonder version of Ave Maria in bed and have decided that it is time.
Regular readers will know I always do a december post on here. I usually do it much earlier in the month than this but I was struggling to find a unifying theme. I have it now so here we go.
Been a hell of a year 2014. I started it hopeful that I would get out of my depression, that things would magically get better at work and that wouldn't feel the soul crushing dragging feeling of anxiety and loss.
In February my beloved Uncle Brian died unexpectedly. Because of the appalling way bio mum was treated I ended up falling out with 2 of my cousins at a time when we should have been leaning on each other. Amazing how they didn't really want to know him the whole time I was caring for him but as soon as they thought there was some money they were suddenly the doting bereaved children. I will never forgive them for not letting me go to his flat one last time so I could say goodbye to the man who called me the daughter he should have had, nor will I forgive them for treating his sister so callously at her time of deep loss.
I miss you every day Uncle Brian. I miss your laugh and your silly sayings and your support and passion. But you know what? When you died I had no doubt about how you felt about me and I know you knew how much I loved you and that is a gift. Also, I am back speaking to Mum. We're taking it slowly but we are getting there. And I am even closer to Ian and Kelly now. I think you would be proud of me. I love you.
In March I accepted voluntary redundancy. My health was suffering due to bullying by management and by certain members of PCS. I had truly had enough. I had low energy, I was anxious and tired all the time, I couldn't stop crying and could barely leave the flat.
It was a massive decision to make but by then the bullying in PCS had got so bad that I was actively looking forward to leaving. It saps your energy when you are being bullied. So much so that you get paranoid about where the next attack is coming from. You stop trusting people. You feel really isolated. All because I refused to be anyone's puppet and tried to make things better for my members.
In May I attended my last PCS conference. I was on the Group SOC and we were told more than once that it was the best conference for years. We worked hard to give the branches the conference they wanted and we withstood the battering and bullying from certain factions of the GEC and stuck to our guns because dammit, it was IMPORTANT to us to make sure that PCS was actually member led. My health was still quite bad but at NDC I argued and won for a policy supporting sex workers, argued and won a policy supporting abortion rights in Northern Ireland and argued and won reaffirmation of affiliation to Abortion Rights.
Then I went off sick.
And that was when it started to get better. I took my wife and daughter person to Glastonbury. I had a couple of wobbles while I was there but I got to see Dolly Parton mutha truckas! Watching the daughter person start to come out of themselves was amazing and so was seeing Skrillex, Massive Attack and my new faves Dub Pistols. I missed Metallica as I was sobbing in my tent having a panic attack but you can't win them all.
Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival was awesome. I got Owen Jones drunk, had a picture of me, him, MJ and a polar bear nicked by the dick splash Guido Fawkes and got to have a walkie talkie. Also did the martyrs walk for the first time. I love Tolpuddle, it is really hard work but it recharges the old trade union batteries like nothing else does. And I bumped into the main bully from my branch who tried to talk to me.
I told him to fuck off.
Which was nice.
I also left my job of 11 years.
I thought there would be a magical ending of the depression when I finally left. Took me months to recover properly.
Going to Reading where I finally saw the World's Sexiest Ginger (Josh Homme) helped somewhat.
September I started my new job. I love it. I am doing trade union organising full time now and I am doing it with full support of a manager and colleagues. Amazing what I can get done when I am not being bullied!
What else have I been up to? I went zombie walking, reclaiming the night, to a feminist comedy night and to the Dum Tee Dum Awards where I won caller of the year! People like to take the piss out of me for my love of The Archers but sod them, I love it and when (if) I grow up I want to be Lillian. I am already there with the love of gin and ciggies and a dirty cackle, but I do manage to do my own knitting.
December is now. And how am I coping? Much better. I am still not completely right. I still have my wobbles and I have a hole in my heart where my two sons should be (long story, another time perhaps) but for once I am really really enjoying it. I am far more comfortable in my own skin and far more confident in my abilities. And I got a fuck tonne of really great tattoos.
So what is the unifying theme?
Love and family.
There have been some truly dreadful happenings this year. Reeva Steenkamp not really getting anything that felt like justice. Boko Haram stealing women with seeming impunity. Palestinian children being murdered by Israel. Dude bros going on killing sprees because they didn't get their dicks wet.
We have more people using food banks than ever before. We have disabled people dying and the Tories not giving a shit. Peshawar.
So much darkness in the world. It threatens to drown me and then...
I have The Lovely. I have The Wife Lady. I have the daughter person. I have my cousin and his fiancee. I have me Mam. I have The Bear. I have Ada and the Mahanga.The Clangers, Lovely Tina, Comrade, Torty, Abbi. I have friends and colleagues who care about me. I have love. I have support.
As previously mentioned I have a fuck tonne of really cool tattoos!
This year has been getting better and better. I may not ever be out of the depression woods but I am learning to live with it because I have people who love me not in spite of it but because of it.
Do I miss my old job? No. I am sad that the public have nowhere to get face to face advice on tax but I don't miss being a civil servant. Those people deserve any payrise they get as they are trampled on, undervalued and discarded without a thought by an uncaring government who wants to try to convince you that they are the ones that should pay for the economy being in the shit.
Do I miss PCS? No. It is imploding and is not the union I joined all those years ago. I implore those who are left to fight hard to keep it going and to stop the fucking infighting and hubris that means it is on the brink of destruction.
You are better than this. You can be better than this.
Stop it now.
Do I hate my depression? No.
It's a part of me. I have learned to accept that.
I love you all. I am not even exaggerating when I say I could not do any of this without you. You are my strength, my heart, my passion and my all.
Thank you for my life.
Have a great rest of december and may 2015 be better for all of us.
Deeva xxx
Regular readers will know I always do a december post on here. I usually do it much earlier in the month than this but I was struggling to find a unifying theme. I have it now so here we go.
Been a hell of a year 2014. I started it hopeful that I would get out of my depression, that things would magically get better at work and that wouldn't feel the soul crushing dragging feeling of anxiety and loss.
In February my beloved Uncle Brian died unexpectedly. Because of the appalling way bio mum was treated I ended up falling out with 2 of my cousins at a time when we should have been leaning on each other. Amazing how they didn't really want to know him the whole time I was caring for him but as soon as they thought there was some money they were suddenly the doting bereaved children. I will never forgive them for not letting me go to his flat one last time so I could say goodbye to the man who called me the daughter he should have had, nor will I forgive them for treating his sister so callously at her time of deep loss.
I miss you every day Uncle Brian. I miss your laugh and your silly sayings and your support and passion. But you know what? When you died I had no doubt about how you felt about me and I know you knew how much I loved you and that is a gift. Also, I am back speaking to Mum. We're taking it slowly but we are getting there. And I am even closer to Ian and Kelly now. I think you would be proud of me. I love you.
In March I accepted voluntary redundancy. My health was suffering due to bullying by management and by certain members of PCS. I had truly had enough. I had low energy, I was anxious and tired all the time, I couldn't stop crying and could barely leave the flat.
It was a massive decision to make but by then the bullying in PCS had got so bad that I was actively looking forward to leaving. It saps your energy when you are being bullied. So much so that you get paranoid about where the next attack is coming from. You stop trusting people. You feel really isolated. All because I refused to be anyone's puppet and tried to make things better for my members.
In May I attended my last PCS conference. I was on the Group SOC and we were told more than once that it was the best conference for years. We worked hard to give the branches the conference they wanted and we withstood the battering and bullying from certain factions of the GEC and stuck to our guns because dammit, it was IMPORTANT to us to make sure that PCS was actually member led. My health was still quite bad but at NDC I argued and won for a policy supporting sex workers, argued and won a policy supporting abortion rights in Northern Ireland and argued and won reaffirmation of affiliation to Abortion Rights.
Then I went off sick.
And that was when it started to get better. I took my wife and daughter person to Glastonbury. I had a couple of wobbles while I was there but I got to see Dolly Parton mutha truckas! Watching the daughter person start to come out of themselves was amazing and so was seeing Skrillex, Massive Attack and my new faves Dub Pistols. I missed Metallica as I was sobbing in my tent having a panic attack but you can't win them all.
Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival was awesome. I got Owen Jones drunk, had a picture of me, him, MJ and a polar bear nicked by the dick splash Guido Fawkes and got to have a walkie talkie. Also did the martyrs walk for the first time. I love Tolpuddle, it is really hard work but it recharges the old trade union batteries like nothing else does. And I bumped into the main bully from my branch who tried to talk to me.
I told him to fuck off.
Which was nice.
I also left my job of 11 years.
I thought there would be a magical ending of the depression when I finally left. Took me months to recover properly.
Going to Reading where I finally saw the World's Sexiest Ginger (Josh Homme) helped somewhat.
September I started my new job. I love it. I am doing trade union organising full time now and I am doing it with full support of a manager and colleagues. Amazing what I can get done when I am not being bullied!
What else have I been up to? I went zombie walking, reclaiming the night, to a feminist comedy night and to the Dum Tee Dum Awards where I won caller of the year! People like to take the piss out of me for my love of The Archers but sod them, I love it and when (if) I grow up I want to be Lillian. I am already there with the love of gin and ciggies and a dirty cackle, but I do manage to do my own knitting.
December is now. And how am I coping? Much better. I am still not completely right. I still have my wobbles and I have a hole in my heart where my two sons should be (long story, another time perhaps) but for once I am really really enjoying it. I am far more comfortable in my own skin and far more confident in my abilities. And I got a fuck tonne of really great tattoos.
So what is the unifying theme?
Love and family.
There have been some truly dreadful happenings this year. Reeva Steenkamp not really getting anything that felt like justice. Boko Haram stealing women with seeming impunity. Palestinian children being murdered by Israel. Dude bros going on killing sprees because they didn't get their dicks wet.
We have more people using food banks than ever before. We have disabled people dying and the Tories not giving a shit. Peshawar.
So much darkness in the world. It threatens to drown me and then...
I have The Lovely. I have The Wife Lady. I have the daughter person. I have my cousin and his fiancee. I have me Mam. I have The Bear. I have Ada and the Mahanga.The Clangers, Lovely Tina, Comrade, Torty, Abbi. I have friends and colleagues who care about me. I have love. I have support.
As previously mentioned I have a fuck tonne of really cool tattoos!
This year has been getting better and better. I may not ever be out of the depression woods but I am learning to live with it because I have people who love me not in spite of it but because of it.
Do I miss my old job? No. I am sad that the public have nowhere to get face to face advice on tax but I don't miss being a civil servant. Those people deserve any payrise they get as they are trampled on, undervalued and discarded without a thought by an uncaring government who wants to try to convince you that they are the ones that should pay for the economy being in the shit.
Do I miss PCS? No. It is imploding and is not the union I joined all those years ago. I implore those who are left to fight hard to keep it going and to stop the fucking infighting and hubris that means it is on the brink of destruction.
You are better than this. You can be better than this.
Stop it now.
Do I hate my depression? No.
It's a part of me. I have learned to accept that.
I love you all. I am not even exaggerating when I say I could not do any of this without you. You are my strength, my heart, my passion and my all.
Thank you for my life.
Have a great rest of december and may 2015 be better for all of us.
Deeva xxx
Thursday, 26 December 2013
Fuck Off Or Fuck Yeah? The December Round Up
*waves* Hello lovely people and assholes alike. Goddess knows I seem to have met you in equal measure this year.
Regular readers will know that December is a weird time for me. I went from this really miserable post to this far more hopeful post and now is the time for the round up from this year.
Has it been Fuck Off or Fuck Yeah!?
Bit of both really.
Fuck Off
Depression hit me with a vengeance this year. Like my brain went 'what, wait, WHUT... she got fucking happy while I wasn't looking? What shit is this?' and tried to totally destroy me.
Fucking asshole. I'd had an amazing year with Doodlebug moving in and feeling nothing but love for the year at home. I got all my debts sorted. Not paid, but actually put stuff in place so I can. That's what a previous marriage gets you when your ex husband didn't work or claim for 7 years apparently. Fuck loads of debt.
I digress.
Things were going so well that my shitty brain forgot to remind me what a waste of space I am. It let me go to Glastonbury and Tolpuddle and Reading and have a fucking great time and though it would sometimes remember to give me a prod now and then, (you don't deserve this remember? Ah fuck it, can't be arsed) it more or less left me alone.
Which was nice :)
Then it hit. Full pelt. Mostly because of work, but that will always impact on how I feel about myself in general. Was being attacked by all sides, day job and union 'comrades' and it got too much.
Sidebar.
When you are in a trade union you are supposed to be united against attacks on your members. There, I fucking said it.
I could not give a FLYING FUCK about what faction you are in or not. Not bothered in the slightest. You should always be working to make things better for your members.
Not a difficult concept really is it?
Yet.... There are those who spend so much time trying to undermine others because they are not in the Judean Peolples Front or the People's Front of Judea or whatfuckingever that they pay lip service at best to what they are supposed to be doing for members. You know, things like organising and campaigning and recruiting activists and shit. But no, that's fine. You spend your time trying to score political points by being snarky and lying to your members about it you useless, ridiculous waste of facility time.
Here is a clue since you seem too politically broke to buy one. There is not a single faction of any kind that is exempt from this. You want to spend your time trying to score points off each other, you go ahead. There are those of us who will just laugh at you while trying to do the best for our members, even if the obstacles you put in the way make us feel like we're banging our heads against a brick wall. You keep arguing about whether the bricks are proletariat enough. Yeah, that'll help.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the Fuck Off section.
What else has pissed me off?
Abortion. Still every woman's choice. Still none of your business. Still your only job is to support a woman whatever her choice is. Women will only have true freedom when they have true autonomy over their bodies and choices. This is not a difficult concept but one that I feel I have to explain over and over again. You're welcome.
Feminists. Stop fucking arguing with each other and get on with smashing patriarchy will ya? For fucks sake. There are a LOT of online feminists I have a lot of respect for, even if their views don't match mine exactly. We are a diverse lot really and there is more to being a feminist than screeching on Twitter about why you are a better feminist than me. Yeah I said it. I covered most of this here when I talked about missing the fucking point but it bears repeating.
I would rather spend my time educating people on why equality is important than arguing about whether trigger warnings are effective (not really in my view as they assume a lot about triggers. I prefer to use 'Content Warning' and let people decide for themselves what is likely to trigger them).
People who moan about christmas leftovers while other people use foodbanks. Fuck off.
People who buy into the idea of the workers v shirkers narrative. Fuck off.
Anyone who thinks that being disabled is a burden on the state, Fuck off.
Think that there will be 27m Bulgarians flooding into the UK next week? Fuck off. And do some research. The total population is far less than that for a start.
Got something to say to me? Say it. Don't hide behind passive aggressive little comments on other people's facebook. Don't lie about me. Don't (and this one was HILARIOUS) trash my musical tastes because there is fuck all else you can say about me. Yep. Fuck off.
Prefer harassing Owen Jones than coming up with a viable strategy of your own? HINT: A one day general strike is not a viable strategy. It will not win the war against austerity. It can only be part of an overall strategy. Again, you're welcome. Now fuck off.
Victim blamers, body policers, fat shamers, rape apologists. Fuck off.
STILL in an organisation that hides rapists. You can fuck off too.
Homophobes, transphobes, racists and idiots... Guess what... fuck off.
Depression. You get the biggest fuck off of them all.
Which leads me to the FUCK YEAH! section.
I finally made it to Glastonbury. I saw Public Enemy from right at the front. I made new friends, caught up with old ones, broke my toe, raised a LOT of money for PCS and had an amazing time.
And when I got home smelling 'earthy' (apparently) I was greeted with smiles and hugs and kisses rather than the cold indifference I am used to.
I finally got to go gigging with my Wife Lady. Who paid £350 to a ticket tout just so she could spend time with me at Reading Festival. Best time ever and I am now an inductee to the Church of Dubstep. It really is all about the drop and the wub, wub, wub.
I spent the year being loved, cherished, adored and trusted.
Doodlebug started college and is thriving.
The Lovely made life better for a lot of people. I am so proud of the work he and his colleagues do. And I am proud of him.
I got through the depressive episode and actually allowed myself to be a member at work. Reps are really, REALLY bad at this, so I see it as a major victory.
I decided that the ex had enjoyed enough control over me and made the decision that he would have no more. So instead of going straight for a divorce once we had been separated 2 years which he could slow down and contest, I have decided to wait so that he can't have a say in it and control me any more.
I took up knitting again and got to see the faces of those I gifted with home made scarves and hats.
I embraced the onesie!!!! You know what, I have never worn anything as comfortable and I now have three of them.
I had a LOT of therapy and finally got a proper diagnosis of Depression, Anxiety and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I always knew I had them, and fuck anyone who says you shouldn't self diagnose, I don't need a medical degree to know when I have broken my leg, but it is always nice to have it officially validated.
I got an undercut. I had wanted one for years and I finally took the plunge and did it.
I remembered that my friends love me when I am in a good mood and that they STILL love me when I am a crying mess.
Best of all, I found myself again. I remembered that I am not this awful person and that sometimes my very presence brings joy. This was a really powerful lesson to learn. It is one I am going to have to remember through the next 12 months and I may need you to remind me now and then.
In return I will tell you this.
You are not an awful person and sometimes your very presence brings joy.
Anyone who would tell you otherwise needs to fuck off.
Much love and happy new year.
Deeva xxx
Regular readers will know that December is a weird time for me. I went from this really miserable post to this far more hopeful post and now is the time for the round up from this year.
Has it been Fuck Off or Fuck Yeah!?
Bit of both really.
Fuck Off
Depression hit me with a vengeance this year. Like my brain went 'what, wait, WHUT... she got fucking happy while I wasn't looking? What shit is this?' and tried to totally destroy me.
Fucking asshole. I'd had an amazing year with Doodlebug moving in and feeling nothing but love for the year at home. I got all my debts sorted. Not paid, but actually put stuff in place so I can. That's what a previous marriage gets you when your ex husband didn't work or claim for 7 years apparently. Fuck loads of debt.
I digress.
Things were going so well that my shitty brain forgot to remind me what a waste of space I am. It let me go to Glastonbury and Tolpuddle and Reading and have a fucking great time and though it would sometimes remember to give me a prod now and then, (you don't deserve this remember? Ah fuck it, can't be arsed) it more or less left me alone.
Which was nice :)
Then it hit. Full pelt. Mostly because of work, but that will always impact on how I feel about myself in general. Was being attacked by all sides, day job and union 'comrades' and it got too much.
Sidebar.
When you are in a trade union you are supposed to be united against attacks on your members. There, I fucking said it.
I could not give a FLYING FUCK about what faction you are in or not. Not bothered in the slightest. You should always be working to make things better for your members.
Not a difficult concept really is it?
Yet.... There are those who spend so much time trying to undermine others because they are not in the Judean Peolples Front or the People's Front of Judea or whatfuckingever that they pay lip service at best to what they are supposed to be doing for members. You know, things like organising and campaigning and recruiting activists and shit. But no, that's fine. You spend your time trying to score political points by being snarky and lying to your members about it you useless, ridiculous waste of facility time.
Here is a clue since you seem too politically broke to buy one. There is not a single faction of any kind that is exempt from this. You want to spend your time trying to score points off each other, you go ahead. There are those of us who will just laugh at you while trying to do the best for our members, even if the obstacles you put in the way make us feel like we're banging our heads against a brick wall. You keep arguing about whether the bricks are proletariat enough. Yeah, that'll help.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the Fuck Off section.
What else has pissed me off?
Abortion. Still every woman's choice. Still none of your business. Still your only job is to support a woman whatever her choice is. Women will only have true freedom when they have true autonomy over their bodies and choices. This is not a difficult concept but one that I feel I have to explain over and over again. You're welcome.
Feminists. Stop fucking arguing with each other and get on with smashing patriarchy will ya? For fucks sake. There are a LOT of online feminists I have a lot of respect for, even if their views don't match mine exactly. We are a diverse lot really and there is more to being a feminist than screeching on Twitter about why you are a better feminist than me. Yeah I said it. I covered most of this here when I talked about missing the fucking point but it bears repeating.
I would rather spend my time educating people on why equality is important than arguing about whether trigger warnings are effective (not really in my view as they assume a lot about triggers. I prefer to use 'Content Warning' and let people decide for themselves what is likely to trigger them).
People who moan about christmas leftovers while other people use foodbanks. Fuck off.
People who buy into the idea of the workers v shirkers narrative. Fuck off.
Anyone who thinks that being disabled is a burden on the state, Fuck off.
Think that there will be 27m Bulgarians flooding into the UK next week? Fuck off. And do some research. The total population is far less than that for a start.
Got something to say to me? Say it. Don't hide behind passive aggressive little comments on other people's facebook. Don't lie about me. Don't (and this one was HILARIOUS) trash my musical tastes because there is fuck all else you can say about me. Yep. Fuck off.
Prefer harassing Owen Jones than coming up with a viable strategy of your own? HINT: A one day general strike is not a viable strategy. It will not win the war against austerity. It can only be part of an overall strategy. Again, you're welcome. Now fuck off.
Victim blamers, body policers, fat shamers, rape apologists. Fuck off.
STILL in an organisation that hides rapists. You can fuck off too.
Homophobes, transphobes, racists and idiots... Guess what... fuck off.
Depression. You get the biggest fuck off of them all.
Which leads me to the FUCK YEAH! section.
I finally made it to Glastonbury. I saw Public Enemy from right at the front. I made new friends, caught up with old ones, broke my toe, raised a LOT of money for PCS and had an amazing time.
And when I got home smelling 'earthy' (apparently) I was greeted with smiles and hugs and kisses rather than the cold indifference I am used to.
I finally got to go gigging with my Wife Lady. Who paid £350 to a ticket tout just so she could spend time with me at Reading Festival. Best time ever and I am now an inductee to the Church of Dubstep. It really is all about the drop and the wub, wub, wub.
I spent the year being loved, cherished, adored and trusted.
Doodlebug started college and is thriving.
The Lovely made life better for a lot of people. I am so proud of the work he and his colleagues do. And I am proud of him.
I got through the depressive episode and actually allowed myself to be a member at work. Reps are really, REALLY bad at this, so I see it as a major victory.
I decided that the ex had enjoyed enough control over me and made the decision that he would have no more. So instead of going straight for a divorce once we had been separated 2 years which he could slow down and contest, I have decided to wait so that he can't have a say in it and control me any more.
I took up knitting again and got to see the faces of those I gifted with home made scarves and hats.
I embraced the onesie!!!! You know what, I have never worn anything as comfortable and I now have three of them.
I had a LOT of therapy and finally got a proper diagnosis of Depression, Anxiety and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I always knew I had them, and fuck anyone who says you shouldn't self diagnose, I don't need a medical degree to know when I have broken my leg, but it is always nice to have it officially validated.
I got an undercut. I had wanted one for years and I finally took the plunge and did it.
I remembered that my friends love me when I am in a good mood and that they STILL love me when I am a crying mess.
Best of all, I found myself again. I remembered that I am not this awful person and that sometimes my very presence brings joy. This was a really powerful lesson to learn. It is one I am going to have to remember through the next 12 months and I may need you to remind me now and then.
In return I will tell you this.
You are not an awful person and sometimes your very presence brings joy.
Anyone who would tell you otherwise needs to fuck off.
Much love and happy new year.
Deeva xxx
Saturday, 7 September 2013
Deeva by Gaslight
Here we go again. Another post. third in two days. You can tell that I am happy that my wrist is healed enough for me to write again and that I have had a lot on my mind.
This one is gonna be a whole heap of personal again. People who actually know me in real life will probably know who I am talking about, but fuck it. Silent no more.
Deep breath Deeva.
I read this today on gaslighting. It proper made me lose my breath. The author of the piece talked about the intentional gaslighting to highlight the unintentional. Powerful stuff. If you haven't yet, you should really read it.
It brought up all sorts of feelings in me. Memories became clearer and I recognised the full extent of what had happened to me. Was a real shock and I have been mulling this post since then.
Oh for fuck's sake Deeva, get on with it!
I have been gaslighted. By people who were supposed to love me. All my life it would seem, though to varying degrees. In what would seem an attempt to control me and keep me down. It bloody worked an all. For years and years. It clouded my image of myself. It clouded my judgement of who I was and it left me easier prey for others to do it too.
So, how to get it all out?
One bit at at time I suppose.
Mum. I know what you did and why. I know that you couldn't bear me to be me as I was, in your eyes, wild and uncontrollable. I know that this is why you would ignore me most of the time and talk about me like I wasn't there even when I was.
I know that you told everyone that they should feel sorry for me and watch out for me as I had no personality of my own and would leech theirs from them. I know you did this to keep me isolated and lonely because you were so scared I would speak up about the abusive shit I was going through.
I know that you hid money and when I found it and returned it that you managed to convince me that I had stolen it in the first place because you knew that I was bad at handling guilt and that I would be frozen and pliable.
When I had a baby to escape, I know that you told me that my son's grandparents had told you that they hated having me living with them because I was so lazy and useless so that you could make sure that I couldn't be comfortable anywhere and you could keep that control. I know you lied about that one because years later I actually asked them and their faces were more believable than your gaslighting.
For years after the first dissociative episode I had (remember that? Two weeks of rocking in the foetal position where you wouldn't call a doctor and you let my sister spit on me and kick me) I truly believed I had shingles. For me to convince the school that's why I was off, I had to be convinced myself.
No more. The 12 years in which we haven't spoken have been better because you weren't in them. And you never will be again.
First husband. What a dick you were. Sleeping with other men literally the whole time we were together and making me think it was all in my head. Just so I could continue being your beard. The thing you hid behind. How many rational explanations did you have for the gay porn? How many times did the phone ring and cut off when I answered?
And yet you made me think it was all in my head.
How many years did you allow your brother to bully me and spy on me before I finally got a moment of clarity?
And the fixing of the bathroom scales so that I would feel fatter than I was and not go looking elsewhere? Yeah, I know you did that too. You made it so that I had no identity outside of you. You were my only mirror and the image I saw of myself reflected in you made me feel worthless.
And you told the children that you weren't controlling it was that I had gone wild. Off the rails.
Well fuck you.
What I had done is broken out of your control. How I found the strength I don't know, but I'm glad I did. Even though you took everything from me, I survived and got stronger. Fuck you.
Big Ex. I escaped you too and am finally happy.
For years I thought I was, but your gaslighting was stealthy. It crept up on me and nearly destroyed me.
I know now that you were petrified of losing me, that you were terrified that with my ever increasing responsibilities with the union that I would outgrow you. But you know what? If you had just told me that instead of making me feel like shit, we might have got through it. There are moments now that I know were just designed to hold me back.
Like when I used a long word in front of our friends and was asked what it meant. 'That she is getting ideas above her station.' was your reply.
Like when you had me convinced that you were acting in my best interests when you told me that our friends only tolerated me because I was with you. That they thought I was boring and all I talked about was PCS. That they thought I was talking down to them.
None of this was true. But you had me convinced it was.
We weren't having sex because I had something to prove. We were having sex because I had something to prove.
I was going mental and I didn't know what I was talking about. Of course you told me about going to your mum's. Of course you did. I must have just forgotten. Or, and here is the ultimate one, I was trying to drive YOU mad by pretending that you hadn't.
Oh what a head fuck you were.
And when I finally got some help. Finally got someone who made me realise that I was intelligent and capable and NICE and convinced me to go and see a doctor as they recognised the symptoms of depression, when I FINALLY did that and got on the anti depressants that I dreaded having to take because YOU said they would change me.
Then. Up it ramped. You tried to convince me that I was a different person. That I was capable of horrible things. That the bullying I was getting at work was my fault. That the panic attacks were because of the dreadful person I was and how I couldn't face her.
You would scream at me for hours then deny doing so. Straight faced. I had no idea what was going on apart from the fact that I had some clarity for the first time in years.
Enough clarity that I could see you for what you were. A controlling, gaslighting piece of shit.
Fuck you.
So, what was the point of writing this post? Why do this now?
It's so I can impart this message.
It isn't you. It's them.
Never again.
Run. Be safe. Be happy.
This one is gonna be a whole heap of personal again. People who actually know me in real life will probably know who I am talking about, but fuck it. Silent no more.
Deep breath Deeva.
I read this today on gaslighting. It proper made me lose my breath. The author of the piece talked about the intentional gaslighting to highlight the unintentional. Powerful stuff. If you haven't yet, you should really read it.
It brought up all sorts of feelings in me. Memories became clearer and I recognised the full extent of what had happened to me. Was a real shock and I have been mulling this post since then.
Oh for fuck's sake Deeva, get on with it!
I have been gaslighted. By people who were supposed to love me. All my life it would seem, though to varying degrees. In what would seem an attempt to control me and keep me down. It bloody worked an all. For years and years. It clouded my image of myself. It clouded my judgement of who I was and it left me easier prey for others to do it too.
So, how to get it all out?
One bit at at time I suppose.
Mum. I know what you did and why. I know that you couldn't bear me to be me as I was, in your eyes, wild and uncontrollable. I know that this is why you would ignore me most of the time and talk about me like I wasn't there even when I was.
I know that you told everyone that they should feel sorry for me and watch out for me as I had no personality of my own and would leech theirs from them. I know you did this to keep me isolated and lonely because you were so scared I would speak up about the abusive shit I was going through.
I know that you hid money and when I found it and returned it that you managed to convince me that I had stolen it in the first place because you knew that I was bad at handling guilt and that I would be frozen and pliable.
When I had a baby to escape, I know that you told me that my son's grandparents had told you that they hated having me living with them because I was so lazy and useless so that you could make sure that I couldn't be comfortable anywhere and you could keep that control. I know you lied about that one because years later I actually asked them and their faces were more believable than your gaslighting.
For years after the first dissociative episode I had (remember that? Two weeks of rocking in the foetal position where you wouldn't call a doctor and you let my sister spit on me and kick me) I truly believed I had shingles. For me to convince the school that's why I was off, I had to be convinced myself.
No more. The 12 years in which we haven't spoken have been better because you weren't in them. And you never will be again.
First husband. What a dick you were. Sleeping with other men literally the whole time we were together and making me think it was all in my head. Just so I could continue being your beard. The thing you hid behind. How many rational explanations did you have for the gay porn? How many times did the phone ring and cut off when I answered?
And yet you made me think it was all in my head.
How many years did you allow your brother to bully me and spy on me before I finally got a moment of clarity?
And the fixing of the bathroom scales so that I would feel fatter than I was and not go looking elsewhere? Yeah, I know you did that too. You made it so that I had no identity outside of you. You were my only mirror and the image I saw of myself reflected in you made me feel worthless.
And you told the children that you weren't controlling it was that I had gone wild. Off the rails.
Well fuck you.
What I had done is broken out of your control. How I found the strength I don't know, but I'm glad I did. Even though you took everything from me, I survived and got stronger. Fuck you.
Big Ex. I escaped you too and am finally happy.
For years I thought I was, but your gaslighting was stealthy. It crept up on me and nearly destroyed me.
I know now that you were petrified of losing me, that you were terrified that with my ever increasing responsibilities with the union that I would outgrow you. But you know what? If you had just told me that instead of making me feel like shit, we might have got through it. There are moments now that I know were just designed to hold me back.
Like when I used a long word in front of our friends and was asked what it meant. 'That she is getting ideas above her station.' was your reply.
Like when you had me convinced that you were acting in my best interests when you told me that our friends only tolerated me because I was with you. That they thought I was boring and all I talked about was PCS. That they thought I was talking down to them.
None of this was true. But you had me convinced it was.
We weren't having sex because I had something to prove. We were having sex because I had something to prove.
I was going mental and I didn't know what I was talking about. Of course you told me about going to your mum's. Of course you did. I must have just forgotten. Or, and here is the ultimate one, I was trying to drive YOU mad by pretending that you hadn't.
Oh what a head fuck you were.
And when I finally got some help. Finally got someone who made me realise that I was intelligent and capable and NICE and convinced me to go and see a doctor as they recognised the symptoms of depression, when I FINALLY did that and got on the anti depressants that I dreaded having to take because YOU said they would change me.
Then. Up it ramped. You tried to convince me that I was a different person. That I was capable of horrible things. That the bullying I was getting at work was my fault. That the panic attacks were because of the dreadful person I was and how I couldn't face her.
You would scream at me for hours then deny doing so. Straight faced. I had no idea what was going on apart from the fact that I had some clarity for the first time in years.
Enough clarity that I could see you for what you were. A controlling, gaslighting piece of shit.
Fuck you.
So, what was the point of writing this post? Why do this now?
It's so I can impart this message.
It isn't you. It's them.
Never again.
Run. Be safe. Be happy.
Sunday, 14 July 2013
On Being Furious At People Missing The Fucking Point
I was a bit hot and bothered last night and it made me grumpy. The Lovely was sleeping but I was too restless. Then I saw something on Twitter that pissed me the fuck off so I went on a bit of a rant using the hashtag #missingthefuckingpoint.
I thought I'd reproduce and add to it here. Explaining the things that made me so angry. It wasn't all on the one day, this had been coming a while and it felt good to get that rage out.
Buckle up, this is going to be a bumpy ride. Here we go...
'Not all men are sexist assholes. Some of us are trying to do the right thing and get you the equality you want'
No. Equality is mine by right, not because I want it. You want to be a good feminist ally? Listen and understand that by choice or not you are part of the patriarchy that damages us all. I'm sure you are a nice guy but being all defensive about your gender is not forwarding making that gender unimportant.
If you try to tell me that not all men are sexist assholes you are #missingthefuckingpoint
The campaign to keep women on banknotes. Yes, I know there are other fish to fry but actually this is important to people. We are capable of campaigning on more than one issue at a time you know. Try actually taking five minutes to sign the bloody petition rather than snarking from the fucking sidelines and coming up with bullshit reasons why this isn't important. Besides,
Yes, I do understand that the queen is a woman and on every banknote #missingthefuckingpoint
Bloody rape culture and victim blaming gets everywhere. Despite the fact that a woman is more likely to be raped by a partner in her own home or by someone else she knows than being snatched off a dark street. I have written about this at length and I suppose I will keep doing so till it stops.
If you think that women are more in danger of rape while wearing revealing clothes #missingthefuckingpoint
Tell you who isn't though, the amazing End Victim Blaming campaign. They are making the point over and over again. Click on the link anyone who thinks any blame at all should rest with the abused. Go on, educate yourself. And keep that victim blaming shit the fuck out of my face.
Oh yes, while I'm at it, EVERY woman, regardless of gender assignment at birth is my sister. That is it. Not difficult. If you identify as a woman you are a woman. I don't fucking CARE what you have between your legs. I will defend your right to equality.
Claim to be a feminist and yet exclude trans* women? #missingthefuckingpoint
This one should be self explanatory really. Can't believe I have to say it. My body, my choice.
If you think abortion should only be available in cases of incest or rape #missingthefuckingpoint
Don't even think about telling me that women have equality. Don't even think that. Don't say that. Don't even allude to it. I will kick your fucking deluded ass while I explain how we don't.
I see my sisters all over the world being denied autonomy and being treated like chattel. Think I won't be angry? #missingthefuckingpoint
I'm also sick and tired of the division that means the Tories and Lib Dems are able to decimate a society I was once proud of. We will never defeat them if we spend our time being the People's Front of Judea or the Judean People's Front. It's pathetic and it turns people off. The very people who we need to be our army are waiting in the wings to fight while we argue about which strategy is the right one while excluding all the others. Here's an idea, how about we actually fucking unite and realise we have a common cause and merge the strategies where possible for maximum effect?
If you are a left winger spending time provoking and berating other left wingers then guess what... #missingthefuckingpoint
This one took a few to get across. Being a feminist to me is about choice. Not being part of an army with a uniform. It is about the individuals coming together for a common cause. I can't stand the idea that if I don't dress a certain way, look a certain way, have a body hair then I can't be a 'proper' feminist.
If you grow your leg/armpit hair because that's what feminists do #missingthefuckingpoint
Be hairy or smooth. Makes no odds to me but if you do either to conform to an ideal then you are #missingthefuckingpoint
One of my followers put it better than me. She has a protected account so I won't publish her name but she was bang on!
doing shit to fit an ideal is absurd to me. Doing what makes you happy is the way forward.
This last section was about my utter fucking contempt for those against Equal Marriage. What business is it of yours what people do? How the fuck does it impact on your marriage if I wed a woman? Keep the fuck out of my business and I will stay out of yours.
Think that what consenting adults do in the bedroom is any of your damn business then you are definitely #missingthefuckingpoint
This, from the amazing @midweshtener.
If you berate or disdain other folk for life choices that have absolutely no impact on you, you may well be #missingthefuckingpoint
And this from me.
If your god is more important to you than the people around you then you are #missingthefuckingpoint
Rage expelled for a while I went to sleep.
Then.
I woke up to the news that George Zimmerman has been acquitted for the murder of Trayvon Martin. Not exactly a shock to be honest to wake up to the news that Black American's sons can now be hunted down and killed with impunity.
However.
If you think that the potential for a riot after this verdict is the biggest threat then you are royally missing the fucking point.
The biggest threat is that the verdict will create more George Zimmermans.
*sigh* I lost Twitter followers after my rant last night but I refuse to apologise. When the world stops making me angry I will stop ranting. I will live in a world where race, sexuality, gender, disability, none of that shit will make a difference.
But that isn't today, and I can't see it being any time soon so I will continue to speak my truth.
If you think I won't or that I give a flying fuck of what you think of me for doing so then you are MISSING THE FUCKING POINT.
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