Enough Is Too Much

It's International End Violence Against Women And Girls day today. I knew it was coming and I had been dreading it. Not because I think it unnecessary, but because it is STILL necessary.

We hear the statistics and yet it feels distant, disconnected from us somehow. Even, especially if we know someone who has been through it. Especially if that someone is us.

When I talk about things that have happened to me, I am calm and unemotional. I may as well be describing making a cup of tea. This is because I have dealt with the events and moved on. It feels like it happened to someone else, and I think that is self preservation, a coping mechanism. If I were to actually immerse myself in what it was like, how that fear took over me then I might not escape. And that would be bad.

So, if, when I describe what happened to me, I sound distant, that is the reason.

I'm going to take a deep breath and list it here though. Part catharsis, part real hopes that it connects and helps someone either leave, or not go there.

In my life I have:

Been beaten with a bamboo cane. That one was because I went back to smoking.

Had my face held over a chip pan with a knife held to my throat because dinner wasn't ready.

Been punched in the mouth just to see by way of experiment how much I would bleed.

Had crockery, cutlery and a bookcase thrown at me.

Been beaten with a nail studded bit of wood while pregnant because someone asked AS A JOKE if the baby was his.

Been locked in my flat and a fire set outside the front door so I couldn't catch him up before he spent my money at the pub.

Beaten with a chair for buying cheap dog food after he took my money.

Hospitalised twice while pregnant because he thought it funny to repeatedly kidney punch me to see how long it would take to make them fail.

Raped repeatedly.

Made to sleep on the floor without a blanket.

Kicked and punched from one end of the road to the other after a night out for smiling at a guy I used to be at school with.

Was told I was fat (8 stone 11) and ugly and no one would ever want me with a baby.

Threatened with death if I told or tried to leave.

Constantly told I was lucky to have him.

Constantly controlled emotionally, physically, financially.

I got strong when he went for the baby. That was when I said enough.

It wasn't over even then.

He stalked me, turned my family against me. Convinced my friends I was making it up.

He was so plausible.

It ended eventually when I turned the violence back against him. When I had nothing left to lose I found the strength to say enough.
I still bear the scars both physically and emotionally. But I won't let it become who I am. Because if I do, I'm lost. And he wins.

So if anything I have said resonates for you or anyone you know then please. Get out. However you can. Whatever it takes.

Be safe.

Enough isn't just enough.

It's too much.

What Feminism Looks Like To Me

I called this blog Deeva's Corner for a reason. It was always intended to be how I viewed the world from my little corner of it.

From my love of the Lannisters to my battle with anorexia, I have never claimed to speak for anyone else and I don't intend to start now.

This blog is all me, for better or worse.

Right, now I've got that out of the way, on to the reason for this post.

Feminazis. Or, more accurately, being accused of being a Feminazi. Or too feminist. Or not feminist enough. Or having my feminism defined for me. I'm tired of it. Tired of it all. So I thought I'd lay out on the line what feminism means. To me. Because believe it or not folks, I am more than capable of defining myself.

(of course this is subject to change as I learn more about myself and the world around me)

So, first question is why am I a feminist? Simple answer that one. Because I live as a woman in a world that views me as second class. Because there are still things that affect me that don't affect the men. Because no matter how far we have come, equality, true equality, hasn't yet happened.

Don't believe me?

Try living in a world where you have to risk assess going to pick up bread and milk in case you get raped.

Try living in a world where male on male sexual abuse is seen as somehow worse (gay) than male on female (more normal).

Where men think equality is a gift for them to give. (hint, check your privilege guys).

Where on prime time telly on a Saturday night, women are referred to as 'pieces of scenery' and no one gets called out on it.

Where bodily autonomy is being attacked.

Where choice is being attacked.

Where you can get cat called and harrassed and 'it only happens to good looking women, it's a compliment' is seen as a reasonable excuse.

Where women are still expected to be the main caregivers for children.

Am I boring you yet? Tough. Welcome to my world.

Where we still don't have equal pay. Even though it's been law for ages.

Where anti choice groups are given free reign to terrorize women outside abortion clinics.

Where governments get to decide what I do with my body and when.

Where not every company has a domestic abuse policy.

Where we're either too fat or too thin or too young or too old. Too loud or too quiet or too butch or too feminine. Or too frigid. Or too slutty. Because, and this is the important bit, patriarchy has been allowed for too long to define us.

Getting the idea? This is the world I live in. Yet I wouldn't change my gender. It forms part of what and who I am.

So that, for me, is why feminism. As to what it looks like to me...

Choice. Always choice. Wanna be hairy be hairy. Wanna be smooth, be smooth. Want an abortion, have one. Against abortion, don't have one. Wanna wear a habit, do it. Wanna walk round naked, your choice. Children? Only of you want. Ditto marriage. And career.

And for me it means speaking up and educating.

Recognize and call out sexism when you see it. Educate those around you. Bring up your kids with values that promote equality and personal bodily autonomy.

Stand up. Say no. Fight.

*sigh* sure there will be those who think you boring or aggressive. Fuck them. You do what you have to do to make YOUR little corner of the world a better place for you.

I had a new tattoo last week. "Were you born to resist or be abused?" on my forearm. A question, a note to myself and a mission statement all rolled into one.

I was born to resist. To stand up and speak out.

And that's what feminism means to me.

Interview With A Menz #prochoice

Last night I had a conversation with someone who is not just a colleague but a friend of mine. A male friend of mine.

He is a good person, does lots of good work for the community, and is a regular Mr Nice Guy.

But he had been reading about girls as young as 13 getting contraceptive jabs at school And he had questions.

What follows is a transcript of our conversation. I reproduce it to show two things. One, there is still a LOT of misinformation out there and two, everyone can be taught if they ask and are prepared to listen.

Oh and that feminism isn't about treating men as if they were stupid.

I know that's 3 things. Shut up. It's been a long day.

What to call him? Don't want to say 'him'....

Dave, we'll call him Dave.

Dave:
6.5% of 15 year old girls in Bristol are given a contraceptive jab in school.... hmmmm

Me:
Should be all of them who request it. Teenagers will have sex. If we educate them there will be less teenage pregnancy and fewer abortions.

Dave:
and more STDs as they will be using the jab instead of condoms

Me:
Nope. The evidence suggests the opposite. Young women who are given the jab along with education about contraception in general are MORE likely to insist on condoms.

Dave:
so why have the jab then? am I just thick?

Me:
The jab makes things double safe. No contraception is 100% Condoms do split. It's like wearing a jumper and coat.
Also the bigger picture is that there will be some of these young women who will be crying with relief because they now can't get pregnant by abusive family members.
Of course the biggest picture is that of a woman chooses to have the jab it is her choice alone and whatever the reason we have no right to interfere.

Dave:
Fair enough, just seems to be encouraging them to break the law
(obviously there are some, as you have said, who have no choice... but I'm not on about them)

Me:
It's also protection from pregnancy through rape.
It's not encouraging them to break the law. It is encouraging them to take ownership of their own reproduction.
Another interesting fact is that most under 16 year olds who have it will still wait till they're legally old enough.
It is a back up plan.
Sometimes it is used to regulate periods.
Having the jab isn't about license to shag.

Dave:
ok, its just the article suggests that the jab has led to a drop in teenage pregnancy
so presumably before a lot of them were having un-protected (or failed-protected) sex

Me:
Yep. But they don't just hand out the jab. It comes with education and counseling.
They're also tested for chlamydia and the like.
It's a real program of prevention being better than cure.

Dave:
cool

Me:
I think so!

So there you have it. Questions asked, answered and understanding reached.

If only some other Menz were like 'Dave'.

On Savile And Victim Blaming

Things have been bothering me ever since the Savile story broke.

It would seem that everything about it, the coverage and the commentariat, has been specifically designed to piss me the fuck off.

So I'm gonna list what has me so wound up that I can't sleep despite the industrial strength Horlicks and why below.

JUST THE WOMEN

Apparently that's *all* the BBC had to go on. *Just* the women. This boils my piss like you wouldn't believe. 'The women' would have been the correct answer to the question 'what evidence do you have?' It would have been an answer that was accurate, honest and didn't have a dismissive, apologetic tone to it. The women was answer enough. To put *just* in front of it is an insult. To all of us.

SOMEONE'S DAUGHTER

Biologically I am someone's daughter. My mum and dad's actually. But is that how I am named? 'daughter of Pat and Lloyd'? Fuck no. I am someone in my own right. I have my own worth, my own name and my own identity beyond being the product of my dad's loins. It is the same for the women. When we amplify this wrong by reducing her to being someone's daughter rather than a person in her own right we do a disservice to us all.

BUT HE'S DEAD, THERE CAN BE NO JUSTICE NOW

Yes, Savile is dead. He died at 84 having abused what is now thought to be upward of 300 children. Yes he is dead. But two things here. One, HE SHOULD HAVE DIED IN FUCKING PRISON, and two, justice comes in many forms. It isn't always about prosecuting the offender. Oft times it is about people just knowing what scum they were. Sometimes the justice comes from being believed. So if you can't see what good it does anyone to talk about it now he's dead, do me a favour and fuck off.
WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?

Ah the plaintive cry of the celebrity who was either witness, victim or had suspicions at the time. You were supposed to report it to the police you scum fucks.

NOBODY ASKED FOR BIRTH CERTIFICATES BACK THEN

Hey, guess what? We don't ask for them now. A simple 'how old are you?' suffices now, and would have back then too.

THINGS WERE DIFFERENT BACK THEN

Fuck off were they. A nonce was still a nonce. They still got the shit kicked out of them if they were caught.

All of this shows an attitude of 'yes, we're dreadfully sorry about what the girls went through, but this is getting massive now, fuck, we thought it was just some dead guy and Glitter. Fuck, there's gonna be some big names coming up aren't there? Shit, maybe we should just start posting articles saying, leave it now he's dead, it was a different time, these poor men weren't to know they were fucking CHILDREN as they didn't have birth certificates with them.'

No.

Not on my watch. To my mind this is victim blaming. I won't have it.

We need to make sure that how ever big this shit hill of abusers is that we track them all down. And that all of them are held to account, living or dead.

To *just* the women, #webelieveyou

Loathing And Loathing In Liverpool

I am not a happy bunny.

As many of you will know, I travel a LOT in my work. I visit branches and attend meetings up and down the country, visiting towns, cities and sometimes villages.

It's true that I get lost every time I go to Southampton and there is a faint (and sometimes not so faint) aroma of wee and cabbage on the buses.

Yes it is true that I have never seen the sun (big yellow thing int sky for my Yorkshire readers) in Leeds and the toilets at the station are horrendously expensive (for 30p you can be damn sure that I'm going to have a poo).

It is true that it took me a soul crushing TEN HOURS to get to St Austell. On a Sunday.

But I have traveled from Dundee to Southend and without exception I have come away with a fondness for the place I have been.

Until Liverpool.

I am aware that this blog is likely to upset Scousers. I'm hoping that they won't hate me by the end of this, but if they do, I will shrug it off as I couldn't be more miserable anyway.

I also have to say that I have been looking forward to this trip FOREVER. Liverpool has a great reputation and everyone enthuses about how great, how friendly, how BOSS it is.

When I started to put my experiences on Twitter last night, Scousers (none of whom actually still live in Liverpool) told me that it was the greatest city in the world and that it was because I was in the wrong hotel! (The Adelphi. More on that later). In fairness I have to say that most were horrified that I was having a horrible time but one told me I was 'bang out of order'. Was I? I'll let you decide.

Apparently what happened to me could have happened anywhere.

But it didn't. It happened in Liverpool.

In the spirit of believing in second chances I was even prepared to let yesterday go, but I'm not convinced I will ever love Liverpool.

Here's why.

The Rain

It was pissing it down when I arrived. Yes, I have been rained on before and I am aware that it also rained in other parts of the country. But I wasn't in other parts of the country, I was in Liverpool. And it was incessant. Soul destroyingly incessant. No wonder so many comedians come from Liverpool. I firmly believe that they do a public service in keeping the suicide rates down. This rain was so pernicious it leached the colour out of my hair. So, not a great start, but not the end of the world.

The Hotel

I was genuinely excited about staying at The Adelphi. For a soft southern bastard (something else I was called) it's an iconic building. That and the Liver Building were the images conjoured up when I thought of the city.

It was horrible.

I went to check in and for the first time ever I was asked to state my nationality. This was in the 'overseas visitors' bit of the check in form. I pointed out that it didn't apply to me as I wasn't an overseas visitor and was quietly hissed at that it was a legal requirement (it isn't) and that if I didn't like it then I could always stay elsewhere (I couldn't due to lack of funds and their cancellation policy as it happens). I was livid. But as I was soaking wet and running late to meet the lovely @littlebroad84 I let it go. Britannia Hotels will be getting an email though, oh hell yes they will!

My room was a dirty cupboard with a bed. I can only assume I was in the Overseas Visitors section of the hotel. But there was a radiator to put my wet things on. It was even warm. 6th floor, but 2 of the 3 lifts worked. I consoled myself with the delusion that I was in the penthouse and got ready. In a tiny, filthy bathroom.

So I went out to meet my mate and introduced her to some more mates and we laughed and drank and a thoroughly good time was had by all.

As an aside, there was an incident in the newsagents which was nice which I feel I should include for balance.

I only had a ten pound note to pay for my filters, so nice Yorkshireman gave me 40p so the woman behind the till didn't have to empty it of change.

Oh, and the kebab on the way back was made of OSSUM. But that was it.

Got back to the hotel and as I was having a ciggy outside a man walks past (not, I hasten to add, one of the multitude who had asked me for 40p. Pan handlers in Liverpool have a very specific need which costs 40p it would seem. Six of them asked me for it. Maybe it is for filter purchase rescue. But I digress.) and belches.

I'm not disgusted by burps. I have the skill of doing them at will which The Lovely is totally jealous of and I was having a competition with my mate walking down the road.

But the first thought that went through my head was 'that sounded a bit wet'.

When I got back to my room I discovered that I had been puked on.

I'll let you take that in.

I. Had. Been. Puked. On.

But we'll come back to that as I had an incident on the way back to my room that I must tell you about.

When I exited the lift there was an imperious looking scouser woman. Probably mid sixties. This is the conversation we had.

Her: (imperiously) You.
Me: Hello.
Her: Do you work here?
Me: No, I'm a guest here.
Her: (pointing imperiously at her bag) Only I need that carrying.
Me: I. Don't. Work. Here.
Her: Tut.

Now, let us remember that I have been puked on. She's lucky I  walked away without telling her to fuck off. But just because she was being an old wanker it didn't mean I had to be a young one. So I walked to my room.

Which was freezing and full of slightly miffed ghosts.

It was actually the wind blowing around the top of the hotel but the bloody Woooooooooooo kept me awake half the night. And I couldn't wash my puke covered jumper as I couldn't dry it now the radiator was off so I had to just wipe it down and hope for the best.

It was so cold that I wore a (second, clean) jumper and socks to bed. I could have complained but I was so miserable by then that I just tried to sleep in what I was now thinking of as the garret rather than the penthouse.

Then the heating came on. At about 3am. So I ended up stripping off. This angered the ghosts and the Woooooooooooo got louder.

The breakfast was shit and I threw it up while cleaning my bag which I hadn't noticed the night before had also been puked on.

And when I checked out, it was the same woman who had checked me in.

And her demeanor hadn't improved overnight.

She barely looked at me as she hissed her thanks for staying. Maybe that is in the training manual for Overseas Visitors.

So is there some truth to the hypothesis that it was just because I was in the wrong hotel?

I'd say yes if it wasn't for the following.

Lunch in The Crown took 35 mins to arrive, with nary an apology for having to wait. It was burned.

People who bumped into me expecting me to apologise then screeching 'RUDE!' at me when I didn't. This happened twice.

Being ignored in shops. This happened three times.

The totally unlovely Lime St station.

And in case I didn't make it clear, I got puked on.

So with half an hour to go before my train there is now a thunderstorm. I bloody love thunderstorms, but this one feels wrong. It feels like it hates me. But then it is a Scouser thunderstorm.

Bang out of order?

You decide.

Slut Shaming - My High Dudgeon Explained

Woke up in a very good mood this morning. Read an excellent blog on the slut shaming of Sarah Catt by the fantastic @magiczebras (Link should now be active, have a look, it rocks) and settled into a 4 hour train journey.

Then I got into a discussion with someone on Facebook about her.

It wasn't a flame war, it was, and continues to be a calm, rational debate, but the more I replied, the more annoyed I got.

Here is why.

Sarah Catt has been sentenced to 8 years for inducing labour with poison. Not gonna condone or even comment on that. That is a whole other discussion and very likely a whole other blog. What has induced the rage is the way teh meeja has painted her past actions as abhorrent and 'proof' that she is evil, and really, her past actions made this act, for which she has been sentenced for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS an inevitability.

Let's break it down.

She had an affair with a co worker. *shrugs* So what? Oh, I see this makes her a slut doesn't it? Silly me for not remembering that the co worker was to be absolved of all responsibility for contraception and shizz because she is a bad woman. Beware, anyone who is having an affair, you might end up in prison because obviously you are an evil woman who teh menz can't resist with your evil, wiley ways because they are, like, men.

She put a child up for adoption. Legally.

She had an abortion. Legally.

Listen carefully, because this is important. Women do this all the time. It does not lead to inducing labour with poison, nor does it equate to it. There, that was easy wasn't it? You're welcome.
Why I am so fucking angry is because, regardless of what she did, the meeja are painting a picture of Sarah Catt as without remorse, using the affair, the abortion and the adoption as 'evidence'.
Patriarchal bullshit. Women make legal choices about their bodies and lives every fucking day. Some of them are sad about them, some are nonchalant. None of them should ever have to be sorry for them.

Expecting women who make these choices to forever wander the streets heads shaved, wearing sack cloth, wringing their hands while crying mea culpa is misogynist, smug and undermines everything I stand for as a woman.

Shove your slut shaming. And fuck off while doing so.

Sometimes

Earlier this evening I wrote a blog on the kick ass summer I have had and how happy I am. And I am you know. A whole 99% of the time.

But sometimes I'm not. Even when I should be. Weirdly enough, it's when I'm at my happiest when I get my saddest. Tonight for instance, The Lovely said something in his sleep. It was innocent and MORE IMPORTANTLY it was his subconscious that said it but it still stopped me from getting to sleep till I'd woken him for reassurance and cuddles.

In the spirit of always being honest on this blog, I thought I'd tell you how I feel. Sometimes.

Sometimes I feel like I'm on the outside of my life looking in. Like the happy, smiling kickass woman isn't me. I feel detatched and numb and undeserving.

Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve the love I have in my life, like at some point they will all laugh and tell me they we're only joking. Haha!

Sometimes I feel like it's all going to come crashing down around me, that I'm not a good person and that I will be revealed as the awful, toxic person my psyche is sometimes sure I am.

Sometimes I just cry coz I feel so numb.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would miss me.

Sometimes I feel so ugly and worthless.

Sometimes I wonder why anyone bothers with me. I'm so insecure. So needy. Such a pain in the arse.

But that is depression and a shit childhood for you.

My life is good.

I don't feel like this all the time or even most of the time.

Just sometimes.