International Day of the Girl: #FreedomForGirls

(To get the full cheesy effect of this post, please open this YouTube link in another tab)

 So I've been away for a bit, mental health playing up, other crap, blah blah and so on. Life gets in the way of my ramblings, sad as it is. But today is a happy day, a brilliant day in fact. It's a day to celebrate the young women of the future and making a better world for them. Now I know it's a little past midnight (sue me, I never claimed to be punctual) but the message is still the same: the reason I do the shit I do is for the future of today's girls.

 This is kind of a full-circle story. When I was little I was a rather socially awkward child. Big surprise, neurotic blogger who is open about mental health issues and crappy things from childhood - what a surprise! But sit down and shut up. I met Devon when I was in nursery school, so somewhere between being two and three. We didn't exactly hit it off, we each knew who the other was but I was more into playing pretend by myself. It wasn't until we got to primary school that we started playing together, more because the teachers were so fed up with us tormenting each other - stealing pencils, throwing rubbers at each other - that they forced us to play together. Twenty one years later and it's far from a being 'forced together' relationship but more of a 'I don't know what I'd do without you' one. Though I'd still happily play worm rescue with her. We grew up together sharing some of our best memories and our most traumatic ones, examaple being I remember her Mam taking us to the circus and on the way back seeing a car on fire, crashed into a fence and thinking 'shit...I don't know how I'd cope with this if I wasn't with her'. 

 New Years Eve 2002, it's hilarious to look back on now. My family were round at her's, I got my first taste of alcohol (fizzy peach Archers, I can't remember the exact name of the drink but it was very much diluted with lemonade), and a fun countdown to the new year, surrounded by friends and family. Then as soon as it hit midnight we let of party poppers, went outside to light fireworks, came back inside to watch the rest of the festivities on the telly... and soon as Basil Brush said 'boom boom!' the power goes out. The adults try to be rational while ridiculously drunk, we panic like all kids would because it's dark and scary. Adults think 'it's fine, we'll light some candles and they'll just think it's part of the new years fun'. As the clumsy-as-ever lass that I am, I knock one of the candles over and almost set fire to her Mam's settee. My brother gets scared and throws up all over the glitter from the party poppers (as pretty as you can imagine). Mothers go into Super Mam mode and sort us all out, get us to bed and calm us down, clean up and get settled. The next morning me and Devon are watching reruns of friends in her bed (she had a bunkbed, it was so cool!) and we hear shouting from downstairs. We go down to investigate and it turns out that, even though the power had went out, the telly switched on as soon as it came back - so my parents were woken up by another appearance from Basil Brush. It's one of my most enduring New Years memories and it makes me laugh just thinking about it.

 Being a chubby queer goth as a teenager, it wasn't exactly fun doing things like... going outside, talking to people, laughing at things. But this lady was my rock, to this day she still is. We both grew up with brothers so it was nice having somebody who was just like a sister but without all of the clothes stealing, hair pulling and fighting over who's turn it was to pick the TV channel. I still miss her mother every day, when I heard the news it hit me as hard as if it had been one of my own parents. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went on to get a top -level linguistics degree, while also raising her first daughter. This lady is a fucking Viking. She has supported me through breakups, my parents arguing, all sorts of family and relationship troubles and I wouldn't swap her for love nor money. Hell, if we were a person they would be old enough to drink in the US.

 In the past few years the feminist movement has made amazing progress. Yes, we're far from total equality, far from it. But for now I'm hopeful. We saw the SlutWalk movement beginning in 2011, the resurgence of student feminist groups, Nasty Women* in 2016 and now! The reason I'm so passionate about the feminist movement today isn't for the changes it can make for me. The way I see it, I'm happy to carry on fighting, shouting, marching, and screaming is to make sure that my nieces don't have to. Seeing them grow into a society where they don't have to worry about being told they're not pretty enough, they're pretty so they can't be clever, policing of their style of dress and relationships; I've been there and am still going through it, I just pray to Sylvia Pankhurst (or the atheist alternative of praying) every day that I'll make enough change in my lifetime so that they won't have to experience that shittiness. 

 Devon has two wonderful,, wonderful daughters and my brother and sister-out-law have one too. These three little girls are why I do what I do, so much because of what their mothers have done for me. So this is a slightly belated #WonderfulWomenWednesday and celebration of #InternationalDayOfTheGirl. This lady is one of the most amazing ones I know and has given birth to two more of them - how lucky am I!?

 *For those of you who have liking for Nasty Women, did you know that Newcastle will be playing host to the first ever international Nasty Women conference!! If you would like to attend and/or take part then please purchase tickets here, or for other questions please email us at northeastnastywomen@gmail.com. <3

We Need to Talk About... How we talk about Feminism

 I'm normally reluctant to say it but I'm quite intelligent, more than I give myself credit for. I've been to university, I can discuss political and gender theory in-depth, and I could very probably argue my way out of a locked room. Or into one, depending who I'm arguing with. But I'm not always perceived that way. Something to do with the bright hair, tattoos and face full of piercings I think, but more likely to do with the way I talk. As a teenager I had a bad stutter and it still likes to make itself known now and then, so I had to adapt the way I speak in order to actually communicate - often in short, precise sentences. And you know what? I don't regret the way I speak, it's efficient, it gets the point across, and I feel it makes me more approachable. At the same time though I do get nervous when it comes to longer words and more complex sentences, because it's so hard to stop stuttering once you've been tripped up by something you're unfamiliar with.

When I first talk to somebody new about feminism I both love it and hate it. I love it because, well, why wouldn't I? I've just met an awesome new person. But at the same time I dread how they'll talk about it sometimes; they'll begin talking and I won't know if we're talking about the latest legislation affecting women's rights or the menu of a funky new fusion restaurant they've been to. Luckily this isn't always the case and I've met some utterly amazing feminist folks who are comfortable enough with their own views that they don't feel the need to describe something in ten ‘academic' terms when they can use six regular ones to make the same point. I was talking about it with a lovely feminist friend of this type a few weeks ago. Her first language isn't English and we recalled how we'd both be sat there in meetings and be thinking “...what?”. Yes, most of the time we'd understand the point that was made, but when it came to replying there were some times I was being looked at as though I'd just opened my mouth and dribbled down my shirt. I'd hear whispers and giggles, on one occasion having my point repeated back to the rest of the group using academic language, as if making my interpretation sound better and more understandable to them. It was embarrassing as hell and I don't think I went to another meeting for a long time after that. I felt shown up in a space that I had thought was meant to be safe and accepting.

And what infuriates me the most is when I see articles or hear talks about Intersectional Feminism using such jumped-up, alienating terms. This is by no means me having a go at academics and people who use this type of language, but I've got a lot of pent up frustration here. I believe that it has its uses and its place, but that place - for me - shouldn't be in a group that is meant to be accessible to everyone. Newly elected Labour MP Laura Pidcock made this point very well in her Maiden speech in parliament, somebody had to say it and I'm glad she was the one who did, she's bloody brilliant. By alienating people through use of language, we basically say to those who can't ‘keep up’ that their views don't matter, that they don't have a place in these discussions - when often they're the ones with the most to say and the most need to be heard. We shouldn't be laughed at or berated for not sounding ‘clever enough’. During my time at uni I had the ironic joy of being told that my draft of an essay on class, language, and access to education didn't sound academic enough. I was struggling to meet the word count because while I'd made my points precisely and clearly, they didn't sound ‘right' in an academic piece. I'm sorry, but bollocks to that.

Feminism has existed long before the term ever did. Every time women working in factories fought for equal pay, women in communities fought for their safety and bodily autonomy, and for our access to education. In deeds rather than words. Don't patronise us, just be considerate, and don't bloody giggle at us! That's just rude.

Doctor Who's Jodie Whittaker: Nude Photos, The Sun and Mail Online (throw them in the sea)

 This is by no means the first time the Fail and the Scum have been misogynistic shits, objectifying and demonising women. And this is by no means the first time, nor will it be the last, that celebrity women have been shamed for nude photographs or scenes in their work, as I've covered before with the 'scandal' around Emma Watson's beautiful pictures in Vanity Fair. They try to portray women's bodies as something dirty, something shameful, but at the same time something that men are entitled to objectify, ogle, and get gratification from.

 I was utterly speechless when Jodie Whittaker was announced as the thirteenth Doctor. I was sitting in the bedroom on my DS, running through Pokemon X again and trying to complete my Pokedex when Paul called me into the living room. I'd lost track of the time and didn't realise the announcement was coming up, so when I saw the video... I couldn't even make words, I just couldn't. I was so, so happy. I can't wait for Whittaker's first episode. And how do these publications mark such a landmark announcement? Well of course by making it all about her body, her appearance, and her value as a sexual object. They same way they mark any achievement by a woman.

 Needless to say I'm absolutely foaming about this. What the genuine fuck? For all the supposed 'paedo hunting' the S*n like to think they do, they are now sexualising not only the idea of nudity to children through this, but an iconic children's television character. And what message does this send to the young women who watch Doctor Who? It tells them to be ashamed of their bodies, ashamed of nudity, and that they only exist for men's gratification - if they meet the unrealistic standards that these media outlets set for them to be measured against.

But think of it this way: during his time as the Doctor, Matt Smith appeared in the BBC adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's autobiography Goodbye to Berlin called 'Christopher and His Kind'. If you haven't seen or read it then I implore you to do so; you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll beg for more. It chronicle's Isherwood's time (played by Matt Smith) in the heydey of Weimar Berlin's underground gay scene, amidst the rise of the Nazi Party. It's both heartbreaking and heartwarming. During the filming of the sex scenes, the BBC implored director Geoffrey Sax that they had to be careful not to show shots of Smith's bare behind, as they couldn't show the Doctor's arse on telly. Sad, yes, but fair enough. They managed perfectly without doing so, despite the fact Smith has a glorious arse. Starring in not only nude scenes, but gay sex scenes. The tabloids could've had a field day with it but didn't, just a small article here or there. And I'm glad they didn't, it would've been a total violation of Smith's role, trying to slander and scapegoat him for playing an such an iconic role. It would be a betrayal of Isherwood's literary legacy, reducing his life and work to nothing more than a sex scene. So why are they doing the same to Whittaker? 

 Oh yeah, because they're misogynistic pieces of shit who don't believe women exist for any reason other than to be sexualised and objectified. By men. There's is absolutely nothing wrong with nudity, but the way they portray it in the press is sickening. So the next time you see a copy of the Daily Hate Mail or the Scum, do the world a favour and chuck them in the bloody sea along with anybody who reads it.

Grief

 So it's three in the morning. I'm sat here with a glass of wine, a ciggie*, and the Blue Belles Back Catalogue playlist. And I think about all of the people I've been fortunate enough to meet; and the ones I've been more fortunate to forget about. And today I've lost somebody I've lost somebody that has been there for me since year dot. Somebody I didn't think I'd be without for many, many years to come; somebody I never thought I'd actually not have in my life - for whatever reason.

 My Dad met Russ 43 years ago when they were still in primary school. That's quite impressive; I remember meeting my bestie about twenty years ago and I think we're pretty much two halves of the same person about now. Russ has been there throughout the entirety of my (almost) twenty three years of existence. He's been there at an age where I got the stand from a goldfish bowl stuck round my neck; when I looked like a screaming beetroot; when I found out I'd gotten into university; when I lost my first tooth; when I got engaged; when he met my partner; when I was a scared little kid. Always there with a cuddle and a wheezy laugh.

 We'd talk about politics, the environment, history, gender equality, and - most importantly - making fun of my Dad. After all: what are best friends for? I truly aspire to be this similar influence in my friends' children's' lives. In fact I remember her daughter being less than a week old, going to see her for the first time and seeing a UKIP broadcast , and holding the baby close, covering her eyes and ears and whispering 'shhh, don't worry, the nasty frog man will `gone soon. Then - almost a year later - waking up on her Mam's settee to the same kid chewing on my bag strap and belt, while her Mam made coffee. There I was, lying hungover on a settee, snowing outside, my best friend making me coffee and breakfast, while her daughter sat on the floor chewing and drooling on my clothes for the day. We were basically sharing nappy cream at the time, seeing as I'd just gotten a new tattoo and she's still wearing nappies.Now she's two. And I remember being that age and playing with Uncle Russ. It can be such a critical age in a kid's life, I'm still not at a conclusion. I don't know how to conclude somebody like Russ. He's my very strange; bipolar buddy; fellow conspiracy theorist; fantasy war-gamer; raging leftie; constant presence in my life; helping me develop and become confident in my own style.

 Basically... I'm a fucking wreck. But Paul, and some good tunes, are keeping me nice and grounded. I might seem "out of control" to others - I am slightly -, but to me and Paul arne managing perfectly. The only time our routine goes tits up is when shit like this happens. Anyway, my plan for the...next day is to write a letter to Uncle Russ's daughter. She is basically my sister from another mister. I was about 11, 12ish when we first met, and you were about...18 months? And if Russ spoke to you the same way my Dad spoke to me about Russ... Then we could easily flip the scenario and you would most likely be the one wondering how I'm doing. Having,  in that case, me losing a father and you losing a father figure. Babe, I remember when I was...12, and you were tiny, picking you up under the arms and spinning you round - with all of my small child strength, going "whee!" and you squealing with delight. And I remember having the most amazing week with you and your Dad that week, finally meeting you after your Dad telling me I was getting a little cousin. I know I've been absent for a lot of your life Tills, but I'd really like to change that. Mostly so that you know you have three very willing and able candidates for a spare Dad: my Dad, my Brother, and my Partner. I know that they will never make up for you losing your own Dad, and they won't make up for me losing him either, but they're my only other male role models and I can't bare the thought of you going through life without a somewhat cynical but overall positive male role model. I write this to you as a feminist, and somebody who will always love you no matter what, and will offer you somewhere to stay for however long you need whatever the circumstance. Love you Tills.

So yeah, I'm a wreck of a human. What am I going to do?
Lizi


*Anybody who read this far had to know it was a spiff. Otherwise the rest wouldn't have made sense.

Mental Health Trends and Mindfulness: Just Give Me My Damn Pills

 Current mood: wine, bitter, pissed off. Improving.

 This is going to get a bit heavy and rambly in places, as I'm not in the best one at the minute.

 I've been going through some part of the mental health service or another since I was sixteen. I'm not embarrassed about it and I shouldn't be. The majority has been one-on-one counselling, though I had some brief flirtation with group therapy; that was a fucking barrel of laughs and it's just kept getting funnier. It's been wonderful in the past few years to see more people opening up and finally talking about the matter. Yet I've noticed as more people come forward there has been more and more marketisation of services and self-help. One night, at an extremely low point, I rang the Crisis Team and was asked by the guy on the phone if I had tried a colouring book, or a mindfulness app? Of course! Because when somebody is feeling at absolute rock-bottom all the need is to do some pretty pictures or piss about on their phone. Not to mention that sleep deprivation is a key factor in many people hitting crisis point, and the light from electronic devices being proven to negatively impact those sleepy hormones, so hunching over your smart phone is obviously the best thing to do. Anyway, I'm getting off topic. 

 Mindfulness has been lauded as some sort of mental health buzzword in the past few years and honestly? My mind is totally full. I know when I'm being a dick. I know when I'm being irrational. I know why I want to behave like this, even when I know it's not healthy. There's honestly so much crap in there I've reached the brim, and I know I'm nearing boiling point. Tell me one more time to colour in and I might take that pencil to your eye. The mental health system itself has a history of taking the sticky plaster approach: treating the symptoms rather than the root cause. I firmly believe that if service users had more one-on-one work to establish the cause earlier on rather than throwing them into whatever therapy type is trendy at the time then it'd save a lot of time, money, and suffering all round. 

 Historically, if you go back one hundred years or so then the popular thing to do was stick anybody with a mental illness in an asylum. It required two doctors' signatures for admittance, but eight for a release. Fifty years ago they were handing out lobotomies like they were "i didn't bite the dentist" stickers. Twenty years ago it was all about popping pills and self-help books. Now we're in somewhat of a limbo phase of what could be a brilliant mental health service, or the lunatics taking over the asylum, so to speak.

 I get that arts, crafts, and writing can be helpful for mental health. Fuck sake, I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't! Half of the posts on here are the result of some crazed manic or depressive moment. I've been through CBT, DBT, talking therapy, psychiatric evaluation, waitings lists, medication, medication changes, medication withdrawal. And what has been most consistent through all of that is my medication. Other than the brief month I had my meds changed and I believed I was the She-Kraken from the depths of Hell. That was... Not fun. For anybody. At all. Anyway. I had my last psychiatric evaluation over a year ago now and, while I have a Community Psychiatric Nurse (CPN) to work with and she's absolutely wonderful, I have yet to have an updated diagnosis from that evaluation. And the funny part? My original referral was for eating disorder treatment. Have I had any targeted help for that? Have I fuck! 

 But after countless rounds of CBT and Talking Therapy I was finally referred for DBT with my CPN (I'm busting out all the acronyms here!) I've had a look through what DBT is and to be honest? I get it. I get what Dialectical Behavioural Therapy is, I get what it's used for, and I get how it can be helpful. However I also believe that the whole premise of how it's presented is utter bollocks. In my last appointment I was asked if I'd been remembering my something-or-others, I'll call it my 'Here Man!s' for the sake of this post. And I truly couldn't remember what it was! Because it was, like, six simple points that had been over complicated in order to sound scientific and medical. It was something to do with physical health, eating, exercise and other bollocks. But having it called a 'Here Man!' when I'm trying to finish my final year of uni, at a time when what I should be focused on learning Sociology and key feminist theory, finishing my dissertation, I'm stuck in a counselling room trying to remember what 'Here Man!' stands for. And it isn't even that word, it's some other twisted acrostic poem to make the whole practice of therapy sound more scientific and weighted. Almost like those stupid songs or rhymes you learn in maths and science classes to calculate average speed and other bollocks. I can understand to others that it might make the therapy type seem more 'real' and 'provable', but to me it just makes me want to punch whatever bastard came up with them in the face. I get the principles, I get the helpful methodology, but asking me to remember what 'Here Man!' means makes me feel tested. It puts performance pressure on me in a space where I've come for treatment and I can't do it. It's like asking for help and then being reminded that you're under exam conditions and that you're the failure for not remembering it. 

 My CPN said to me this week that I seemed unusually distracted. She's used to me spacing out sometimes but this session was rife with periods of me staring off into space, partially listening and not really taking anything in. And I wholly agree. I felt that I'd failed, not remembering what 'Here Man!' stood for, as it was something I should have been practicing in order to get better. But again, when you're at such a low point that you don't even want to get out of bed or open your eyes, do you really want to waste your time trying to remember what the H, the E, the R, the other E, etc, all stand for? 

 One of the suggestions from this session was that I check out something called the Recover College Collective. It offers BTECs and stuff and helps with mental health apparently, it's like peer-mentoring for crazy people. I had a look at the 'prospectus' with my CPN and, while it sounds interesting, I completely zoned out. Emotional regulation through interpretive dance? Art classes? Writing? This is the shit that turns me off therapy. I'm sick of sticking fancy labels on simple concepts to make them sound more credible. I'm sick of colouring books being the cure-all solution for anxiety. Because when people hit a bad patch, try these things, and they don't work, we feel like failures. We feel like we're failing at getting better. And it's not fun. It's really not fun.

 I'm not writing this as something against these therapy types or anything else, I'm writing it from my experience. Giving something a stupid name and label doesn't make it a cure, and it doesn't make it helpful. It might make it sound more credible to those who try to measure it as a biological experiment, but for me it just means frustration. It means headaches I don't need, reading I don't want to do, and interacting with new people that I don't want to meet. All I want is a therapy type where somebody will tell it how it is, without making it sound either sciency-fancy or arty-farty. Is that too much to ask?


 Note: this isn't me condemning these therapy types, I can't stress that enough. But shoving them down somebody's throat when they're already sick to fucking death of saying 'help, I don't understand' isn't helpful.

Street Harassment: A Short But Sweet Insight

So in the past twelve days I have been catcalled or otherwise harassed on the street I live on. Given that it's the main street of Heaton, you can account for more footfall, more people passing through etc, therefore more wankers passing through but in less than a fortnight I'm starting to feel less safe in my own community. I have called Heaton my home for almost five years now and I'm not going to let dickheads make me feel unsafe on my own streets.

The first, believe it or not, was a bloke pushing a pram telling me to get my tits out. Given that his kid was of toddling and talking age I can just imagine their child going back to nursery next week, the staff asking if he enjoyed the holidays and him going "yes...get your tits out!". Some top-notch parenting there.

 The second was last Friday, the day after I'd truly earned my Darwin Award by stabbing myself in the leg while loading the dishwasher. So limping, full of stitches and painkillers, and generally feeling sorry for myself, I had a wander up to Boots for some more dressings and ibuprofen. I stopped in at a few charity shops on the way - notably the Newcastle Dog and Cat Shelter shop on Chillingham Road, awesome prices, nice stuff and they do wonderful work - and I found some lovely bits and pieces, three dresses and a top for a tenner! So feeling nice and perky, I was walking home and I'm stopped by three knobheads in a shitty corsa. The guy in the passenger seat goes with the ever original "oi oi sexy!", and when I tell him to go fuck himself him and his mates thought they'd be big and clever and go "oooOOOoooOohh!" in that patronising way, you know the one I mean. And because these geniuses are stuck at the traffic lights, what's a girl to do? So I went and kicked the bastards car. It was just sat there being all shiny and provocative with three idiots inside! Who could resist!?

 Today was a double-whammy. I was walking home from the shop and some prick thinks he's big and clever and makes kissy noises at me; and when I turn to do a double take he grabs his crotch. Mate, given that your hands looked smaller than Trump's, I wouldn't go comparing them to your dick as a scale, they'll just make you think it's big.

 Then tonight I was out doing some Pokémon hunting, there was a Bayleef at the corner shop! And some bloke going into the chippy asks me "how much?" with one of those sickening eyebrow-wriggles and a smirk you just want to remove from his face with sandpaper.  I was wearing my pimp coat (big, fluffy leopard print one that I love), polka-dot playsuit, over-the-knee-socks, and Docs. But why should it matter what I was wearing? So, unable to think of a witty comeback on the spot and having finished my cigarette, I throw the end at him. Consider it up-cycling - of him, not the tab end. He went from being human garbage to an ash tray with a pulse.

 It might seem like an overreaction but... I don't give a shit. I'm sick of the men who think this behavior is okay. When I told Paul when I got home he said "if I ever thought speaking to lasses like that was okay then my Mam would knock my block off." And so she should! In fact I would love to see a reality TV programme where men have to read out the shitty things they say to women they don't know to their mothers. Then the mothers are given a score out of ten for how well they kick the shit out of their sons. Hey, it's more educational than Keeping up with the Kardashians.

 And for any whiny "ugh, stop complaining and get a life" folk out there, this is my life. And the lived experience of almost every other woman I've ever met ever. And they need to learn to not be shitty.

 So when I was discussing this with my lovely friend Becky at the weekend we came up with a brilliant idea: stickers. Industrial strength stickers. To put on the vehicles or general person of men who think it's big and clever to catcall. Stickers so sticky that they'll have to pay for it to be removed professionally or wreck whatever it was stuck to by peeling it off. It can be their penance and punishment for being so shitty to women. Big, fuck-off sticky stickers that say "I'm a misogynist, do not approach!". Yeah...

So yes, this ended up a little longer than intended but I can't think of another title. And I'm sick of shitty men.

TL,DR: men, stop being shitty.

Not a Bitch to be messed with 😘

No, I Don't Want To Be Your Friend

Every now and then, as I'm sure you all do, I get a friend request from somebody from my past. Old friends I've lost touch with, acquaintances, and - most bizarre of all - from old bullies. In the years I've been on social media I have yet to fathom why somebody who has made my life hell at some point would think I'd like to get back in touch with them; maybe they think I've forgotten about it and moved on, maybe they think what they did wasn't too bad, or maybe they didn't even realise they were a bully. It puzzles me.

This is normally the part where I'm told "oh, you're oversensitive, move on", but when something that you have indeed moved on from comes back and shakes itself in your face it's hard not to let it gnaw at you. And I'm entitled to that anger. It may not be healthy, maybe it is, I don't know but it works for me. And I also dislike people who aren't my psychiatrist telling me how to manage my emotions, so opinions to yourselves on this one please.

But what I cannot stand is, after receiving a few requests from somebody and ignoring them several time, thinking they'd get that I don't want anything to do with them, I received a message from them. If anything it was an intrusion. Part of me said I should just delete it, but another told me to read it and really let them have it. It would be a wonderful outlet for all of the rage they brought up for me each time they tried to get back in touch.

I won't post screenshots as I didn't grab any, I didn't want a digital reminder of them every time I went back through old posts. It was a partial apology, albeit insincere, though I found the rest rather troubling. It went into how they would really like to meet up and talk feminism and old times. Yes, after having stated that "old times" meant physical and mental violence and intimidation.

 That really bugged me, trying to play on my interests to make me think maybe they aren't so bad, maybe I should give them a chance. Maybe fucking maybe. Maybe fuck off? A half-hearted admission of guilt and now calling yourself a feminist doesn't absolve you of past sins. Sure, you may be into equal pay and abortion rights now, but to me you will always be the person who tripped me, pushed me, called me fat, and advised me rather nicely to kill myself. Which at the time you made seem like a rather appealing option, but I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction.

 Trying to use something I'm so passionate about, something which had given me back my self-worth and self-esteem, to try and make yourself feel less shitty is a dick move. In fact it's beyond that. It makes me want to sink to your old levels and scrub your face into a wall, just because I can and I would if I got the chance.

I've done it before though, attempted to reconcile with a person who did a shitty thing to me. In fact she's up there in the top three of people who have done the most damage to me. A toxic mutual friend, who I cut from my life afterwards, pushed me into meeting with her. I resisted but when I ran into them by coincidence I caved. And I felt helpless. I still seize up and get tense when I think about her hugging me and telling me how good it was to see me, how happy she was I was giving her another chance. There was no apology. This person had spread rumours and tried to turn friends against me. Not in a petty "she said this about this person" way, but something very damaging which stopped me from getting help, internalising the issue, and becoming self-destructive.

After I got home that day I made sure I would have no contact with her or the friend who had forced the meeting again. I felt dirty just thinking about her, and the slimy way she had tried to pander to me. I made a promise to myself that day that I'd never let anybody make me feel that way again.

So the other day while reading that message, reading how that person was all good and sorry now, and wanted to make amends for telling me I needed to get raped and that he hoped I died etc, I could only think of one response:

Soz dude, Doctor's orders ╮(╯▽╰)╭

 Short, simple, and says what I need to say. I wasn't going to dignify that person with a calm, collected, and sharp response. I was going to let them stew, realising that he won't be able to mentally wank over what a good person he is for apologising to me and being forgiven. I don't owe anybody forgiveness. It might sound unhealthy but in all honesty I never intended to be liked my everybody, so I'm going to keep on having my ranty bipolar rambles and reserving my time and energy for people I actually give a shit about. 

 In short, I've written this for future reference, to pass on to anybody so up themselves to try this in the future. So if you received a link to this in response to a message you sent me then no, I don't want to reconnect with you, kindly crawl back under your rock and let me carry on thinking you don't exist. This is my way of coping and moving on. I suggest you do the same.

How I Celebrated International Women's Day: a Day of Body Positivity

 International Women's Day is by and large my favourite international day of all. Screw Christmas, New Year's, even Halloween, IWD is my favourite day of the year. I have thankfully, as of yet, not heard a single "what about International Men's Day?" or "Women are equal now, we don't need it anymore" this year (follow the link for more info on this shocking injustice). I firmly believe that anybody who tries to make these arguments should be fired. Not from their jobs but from a canon. In the wake of my last post about the folk trying to cause a shitstorm that never happened over Emma Watson's supposedly scandalous topless photoshoot, I've been thinking about ways in which I celebrate my own body. It's not exactly a secret that my body and I have a rocky relationship at best. I berate it, pump it full of chemicals, push it to the extremes without nourishing it properly; and it rewards me by getting ill and breaking down at the worst possible times. Sort of a mutually assured destruction thing.

 But I'm slowly learning to treat myself better and focus more on my body's accomplishments than the perceived shortcomings. And one way I've been doing this? A wonderful way, which has given me so much confidence, and enabled me to do things I never thought myself capable of doing...?

 I'm talking about Burlesque of course!! Now let me tell you the story of a wonderful lady called Pandora Foxx... (also, be prepared for some weird third person shit).


 Pandora wasn't always her name, for a while she used to go by Millie. Before that she never had a name, she was biding her time, waiting for her time to shine. Her alter ego, Lizi, had always been quite shy and for a long time wouldn't say boo to a goose. For any of you who know Lizi this must be hard to imagine; the Lizi you know now is gobby, seems self-assured, and will happily kick the arse of any man who dares to catcall her. But until she became political, started speaking in front of people and organising marches she wouldn't say anything. Maybe it was all about having something to say, who knows?

 Five years ago, Lizi's Mam took her to a birthday party for the wonderful Freelance Dance studio where she had been taking bellydance classes. Surrounded by cupcakes, lovely ladies, and watching some wonderful performances, it was a great night. One of those performances happened to be a pole dance demonstration. She was transfixed. The longstanding stereotype of pole dancing was one of sleazy men throwing money at women grinding on poles. Not anymore. Seeing such a confident and capable woman, demonstrating her strength and grace to an awesome Def Leppard soundtrack had Lizi captivated. She wanted to be such a confident and capable woman. And so she did.

 Admittedly, being only 17 at the time, she needed a letter of permission from her Mammy so she could take part in classes. Had she been two years or more younger, you can imagine the sensation the likes of the Daily HateMail would have made out of a "woman writes permission letter for daughter to learn stripping" type story. But that's so far from the truth. While it did make her feel incredibly confident and sexy, learning pole under the keen eye of the amazing Ellouise Hempstead gave her such a boost in self-confidence. Not in a "oh, I look so sexy" sort of way, but "I have friction burn on my wrists, my shoulders hurt, and I'm sweating like a bitch and need sugar... What a Goddess I am!!" way.


 It was during this time of learning pole classes where Lizi met Kristi.

 Ellouise ran a drop-in pole class on Sundays for women of all levels of pole ability, an hour dedicated to refining our techniques, strengthening our moves, and generally having a fantastic time. During her time at college Lizi would live for these Sunday pole sessions, something to break up the week-to-week stress, where she could chat with funny, confident, and outgoing women in a wonderful space where they could refine their skills. During one of these sessions Lizi met a wonderful woman by the name of Kristi. With piercings; tattoos; flowing, gorgeous red hair; and a cheeky smile that could bring anybody to their knees. She and Ellouise had chatted a little about burlesque during the class and Lizi, being the curious bear she is, couldn't help but overhear that Kristi was running classes. As they were sharing a pole during the lesson Lizi tried to make some small talk about burlesque but couldn't quite muster the courage to make a coherent with such an awe-inspiring woman. Weeks later, when she saw in the Freelance Dance Facebook group that Kristi was running burlesque 101 classes, Lizi jumped at the chance!! And hasn't looked back since.

 After thirteen shows, several solo routines, and thousands of laughs since... She couldn't be happier. And during this time the wonderful persona that we know as Pandora was born. With Lizi having a passion for Greek mythology, and a whole host of crappy mental health, Lizi couldn't think of a better name: something to describe the depth of her psychosis, how far it spirals down and how closely this affliction is guarded, leading to the whole "Pandora's Box" allegory. As for the Foxx... It rhymes with Box and she is one Foxxy lady!

 Pandora's onstage antics have given Lizi an unrivaled amount of confidence. Being eased from doing a bra peel (taking off your bra) in a dance studio with four other women as part of a dance course, to eventually having the nerve to take off that bra on a stage, in front of strangers, to a song you have chosen... It's really fucking scary!! Given the fact that during her first solo routine, Pandora (known as Millie at the time) realised that the belt that was part of her costume had gotten stuck on the chair she was using in her routine. In the first 30 seconds of the compare's introduction she would have been more than happy to run off stage, with that chair attached to her by the belt like some sort of weird metal tortoise shell. But if Kristi had taught her anything about burlesque, and in fact life, it was this:

 "If you don't feel like a tit when you're doing it, then you're not doing it right."

Back to first person here, I honestly don't know if I'd be the plucky and strong woman that I am without Kristi's teaching, Ellouise's discipline, or the strength of the many incredible women I've shared a stage within the past four years. Honestly, every woman I've met through burlesque have given me something inspirational to add to my life: body positivity (Whatsername the Rocket Queen), being brave in the face of trauma (Bunny Boudoir), if you aren't enjoying yourself then what's the point? (Felicia Flutterby), and take care of yourself and go at your own pace (Hannah Hendrix).

 It's a very powerful feeling, just standing in front of a mirror after coming off stage and knowing that you've done something incredible. Something that's gotten a crowd to cheer and yearn for more. On days when you wake up and feel like (for lack of a better word) utter, utter shite. Those days when you don't want to get out of bed. The days you don't want to take your meds. The days you don't want to see *people* or have anything to do with another human being. The days that all you want to do is lie in bed, watch a crappy film, and drink wine. These days can be both crappy and beautiful at the same time. Or even if you don't have the strength to reach for the laptop and a DVD, or your phone to call a friend, you're still surviving.

 IWD has become somewhat bittersweet for me. The past three years I have went to my friend's memorial tree, sat there and written her a letter, leaving it in a little hole at the base of the tree. This year I couldn't manage a visit and while I was so determined to hate myself for failing to keep our appointment I knew for a fact that it's something she would totally understand. She wouldn't have held it against it that I spent the time that I would have spent visiting her in my bed, crying my eyes out, wondering why I can't get my shit together. It was something she was very familiar with. And I know that she knows I spent the day thinking of her, gazing at my tattoo and wishing she were still here. Anyway, I digress...

 These are just some of the innumerable women who have inspired me and given me strength, I honestly don't know who I would be without The Blue Belles and House of Trixie Blue. They've given me so much and my life wouldn't be the same without them. I know that that's a phrase that gets thrown about a lot but these women are often the difference between me spending a day not leaving the house, or one leaving and coming home in a better mood than I could imagine. So I want to use March 9th as an International Women's Day "Boxing Day" where I spend the time thinking of all the women that made me the person I am today. And I can't love you all enough.

Strength and Solidarity, Sisters <3

Emma Watson Topless Picture Scandal!?! ...Calm the Fuck Down

 So I read on the Independent today that people are kicking off about Emma Watson's allegedly topless pictures in Vanity Fair. Apparently this is sparking feminist debate. Surely as a Harry Potter fan and a feminist I should be drawing up an angry placard and protesting outside of her house about now, right!? But really... What's the big deal? Let me break this down:

 Firstly, countless female celebrities have posed topless for some publication or another, and when has the media ever prompted us as feminists to take up our pitchforks (or broomsticks, your choice)  to go and be annoyed at them? None that I can recall. 

 It is precisely the tabloid type newspapers now that are telling us we should be angry at Watson - read: The S*n and the Daily HateMail - that when she was still a teenage posted news stories about alleged topless pictures that turned out to be photoshopped. I really hope that they can see their own hypocrisy in this. Then again, right-wing tabloids admitting they're wrong... I don't think they have a font size small enough for that yet. The Scum for example ran a piece many years ago which was a countdown to her 16th birthday and therefore legal, so their editorial team could perv over her in print without public outcry. At the same time however, it is the same publications which are crying "child star turned harlot!!". So... In other words you're quite happy to sexualise her as a child, but when it comes to her trying to express her sexuality as an adult woman you're outraged? Am I right? Yeah... Just a little fucked up. 

 Secondly it's that whole rhetoric that because she was a child star for one generation she should therefore find one thing and stick to it, for news purposes. In this case she has chosen to be a feminist, so she can't appear in any sort of 'sexual' way in the media. Who are they to say that the two are mutually exclusive? Hell, I'm a fierce-as-fuck-feminist who does burlesque on a weekly basis (a post on this is to come!), and who is the Daily Fail to say I can't shake my tits on stage and still be a feminist? While they were so excited for the countdown for her to be legal, they are the same ones now chastising her for being "too adult". Sooo... They were happy to sexualise her when she was a child, but are outraged and try to infantilise her as an adult? I'm not the only one who thinks that's a little fucked up, am I?

 And finally, yes, out of curiosity I looked up the pictures. What can I say? BUT! If you look at the rest of the photos from the shoot then you'll realise that it's a transitional piece; mimicking basically what I said above: her transition from child star to leading woman. A child to a woman. Celebrating it not in the way that scummy tabloids chose to but in her own way, using her body as a canvas in the process. Plus! Once again in that photo shoot I spotted a topless man twice! Where is the outrage over this dude who was probably a kid once, posing for a picture without a vest on? Disgraceful!! If MRAs want something to complain about then here it is: why is nobody protesting about that poor man being photographed topless, the objectification of men, showing more nipple, won't somebody think of the children!? 

 Yes, this is exactly how the tabloids complaining about these pictures sound to me, and hopefully you. So to sum up: nice tits, Granger, you look lush*; and please find another scapegoat tabloids. Maybe research into everybody who has ever voiced a role in a Disney film to see what they have ever done to maybe corrupt the kiddies.

*I hope all of you will realise that I mean this in an entirely Geordie and friendships of women way mean. I do not mean 'nice tits' in an objectifying way, bit in a "lady, I love you so much and you look like a Goddess" way. As she played the role of somebody so significant to my formative years I feel a rather close bond with Emma, and like to think that in some way - as a fellow badass woman she may be some sort of friend**.

** Yes, yes, okay; I sound like a creepy stalker. What I mean is that I didn't have many friends as child so I made friends with my books. Happy now!? Jeez, you guys are dickeads.

Smashing the Patriarchy... But I want to keep this bit

 Yo readers, it's been a while. To follow up from my last post, where I was lying in my bath at 3 in the morning convinced I was dying because of medication withdrawal... As you probably guessed I didn't die - hooray! - yes, I'm glad too. But it was a pretty horrible experience. Tonight I'm starting a similar medication instead of that one, so understandably I'm a little anxious. So I thought I'd wrack my brains for something I'd wanted to write about ages ago to take my mind off of the anxiety. Anyway, here goes.

 Long-time readers will know that this started out as a wedding blog, My Big Fat Feminist Wedding. As a throwback to this blog's roots then, I thought I'd share a ridiculous, sappy piece because - fuck everything else - it's something to keep me distracted.

 While I was younger I didn't always picture myself getting married, I was pretty torn on the issue. Long story short, I am getting married, and I couldn't be happier. But after I got engaged I started thinking what in the 21st century could be considered 'classic' traditions; not always observed but still mentioned and/or joked about. Like the groom throwing the bride's garter etc. Three years ago I posted about the petition to get the mother's name on marriage certificates. And while it's yet to come into action it's another detail which shows us that marriage is an innately patriarchal institution. But we can always change this. My plan is for my mother to walk me down the aisle along with my father, not because they own me or I'm 'their property' to give away but because hell, they did a damn good job bringing me up and they should be allowed to show off what a good job they did to friends and family (if I do say so myself). Plus I'm a little iffy in front of lots of people so it'll be nice to have some buffers. 

 Getting to the point, one thing I've been asked a fair bit about. Several people have said "oh, you're a raging feminist type, you'll never do this". Then they've always been surprised when I've said it's something I've wanted to keep. 

 I want to have a dance with my Daddybear at my wedding.

 Yep, it doesn't sound totally ridiculous written down. But some people have questioned me for it. It's it prioritising him over your Mam? Patriarchy, blah blah? He's too short for you to dance with! 

 Let me answer those in reverse: I'll bring shoes especially for it, his height is however an endless source of amusement. Patriarchy... Not exactly, not if I'm choosing to do it. And as I know my mother so well I know that she can be quite shy, and me dragging her up in front of hundreds of people, all looking at her, could be pretty nightmarish for her. Dad on the other hand... Well, he's the one that I got the "I don't give a fuck" gene from. Plus, given the fact that I'm the one who proposed to my husband-to-be, he's having two best women, and I have a bridesbee, we're not exactly sticking to the gender norms.

 I've always had a good relationship with my Dad. Sure, we had the typical teenageer-parent troubles, lots of shouting and screaming, "you're a dick, you're a dick" "you're grounded" etc. But at the same time he nurtured my love of good music, good books, and history. Without him doing this, as well as not hiding politics from me, I doubt I'd be as tuned-in as I am; or at least I probably would be doing a Sociology degree. And given how gregarious and outgoing he is I don't think he's pass up an opportunity to show me up in front of friends and family!! And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Three Little Pills: Adventures in Antidepressants

 I've been debating whether or not to post something about this but hey, as I'm still awake I might as well. About three weeks ago I had an appointment with my psychiatrist, in the run-up to this my anxiety had been in check, the horrible migraines it used to bring on were no longer part of my daily routine thanks to the increased dose of my meds. However for whatever reason my depression had been rearing its ugly head, and while I didn't know if it was because of Christmas having just gone and the stress that comes with it hanging over me, the back-to-university panic setting in, or just my brain deciding to be mean to me for shits and giggles.

10am yesterday, calling it bedtime in Monday's clothes

 We discussed my sleeping patterns, and how little sleep I tend to get, and even long sleep tends to be poor quality (you try having reoccurring dreams about having Vladimir Putin as your Year 9 English teacher). In the end she decided to prescribe me some new medication to work alongside my current ones. They would hopefully calm me down and overall help me sleep. By this point I was willing to try damn near anything, I could barely remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep. The new tablets were green and purple, and combined with my current prescription of course my first thought was "yay! Suffragette-coloured meds!". My first night on them came with the typical new substance anxiety, I felt like a teenager trying out drinking again. But within an hour or so I was flat out, it was hands-down the best sleep I've had all year. Remember though, it's not February yet.

 I even managed to get up early, by my standards, the next morning and already couldn't wait to go back to bed. Not in my usual "ugh, I'm always so exhausted" sort of way, but because I was so excited to experience a decent sleep again after so long. But like they say you can have too much of a good thing. By the time I got into bed that night I wasn't feeling tired, despite having worn myself out looking after my niece that afternoon, and instead I climbed into bed with a head full of swirling thoughts and anxieties, going deeper than they had previously. I didn't sleep until 5 the next morning and even then only managed a few hours. The rest of my time on this medication led to a recurring pattern: one night of blissful, uninterrupted sleep, the next plagued by a new level of anxiety. Through the day I would feel flat, no energy and no drive. I felt the worst I had in months. The house was neglected, I wasn't feeding myself properly, and I was no longer looking after myself mentally. No matter how good the possibility of sleeping on a normal schedule sounded I knew that they weren't the right meds for me. I've made the decision not to name them because I don't want to influence anybody else's decision to take them.

 A few weeks later and here I am, 3am on my third night without them. 3 days into sweats, shakes, and the 6 hours of sleep I've had overall, when I'd gotten to the point where I was too exhausted to shake and sweat anymore. I'm currently lying in the empty bath, wrapped in a blanket with the window open. It's the only place in the house where I'm perfectly between being warm and cool, and there's room for me to lie down. Plus I won't wake Paul up in here. I'm sure that some of you might roll your eyes and think "drama queen"; I've barely gave them a try, if I keep at them they'll settle down, I shouldn't feel as ill so soon without them. I'll address the last one first and tell you why that's bollocks. Before I started taking them the psychiatrist went through all of the possible side effects of both taking them and finishing them, my blood pressure is ridiculously low - despite being a 'salted is better than sweet' type of popcorn gal - and blood pressure was mentioned in all of the side effects. Plus I'm allowed to be a wuss sometimes. Secondly, I know my own body, and know what it feels like when my body doesn't accept something; this was definitely one of these times. Because of this, and past experiences, I knew that it would be better for me in the long-run to to quit now rather than wait and see how it goes. 

 And, one person to shut you all up, my psychiatrist at yesterday's group therapy (which I can't say anything else about due to confidentiality, other than I think it's a pile of wank) said that I had made the ultimately right decision. She says she's seen people who thought they should come off of a certain medication wait it out just that little bit longer, and ultimately end up worse for it. I'm tired of putting my body through unnecessary amounts of meds in order to see what happens. I'm not a guinea pig, having no say over what the effects on me are as opposed to what they could be (totally against vivisection btw), and not being able to say no. While this may not be helpful advice for others it helped me get these past few days off of my chest. Several of my burly sisters said I looked like I should have probably been in bed but honestly I just feel much better knowing how I'll feel once they're totally out of my system, but thank you for being lovely ladies! Keep an eye out soon for more burlesque-related posts coming soon, despite how weak the link was here...

 I've honestly never been a fan of self-care or mindfulness, I think they're both a load of bollocks. No, I'm not asking for a fight here; no, I don't care if you disagree with me; no, I am not willing to discuss why I feel this way about it with you; no, I don't give a shit. I was once on the phone to the district mental health Crisis Team when I was told by one of their advisers to try a mindfulness app or an adult colouring book while I had been screaming down the phone to him at breaking point. He rang back after I hung up on him, not to check how I was, but to tell me I was rude for swearing at him when I suggested where he could stick said colouring book. I digress. But this situation is one of the first where I can truly say that I was mindful of my own body and its needs, and took care of myself by stopping these tablets.

 Ugh. No. That was beyond cheesy. I hate myself for that line. Ew.

 Anyway, I think I'm starting to get sleepy. Sweet dreams and sweet potatoes; guys, gals, and NB pals x

New Year, Same Angry Bitch

 So it's January 3rd: the day many poor bastards have gone back to work after not knowing what day it is for the past week, only knowing that - whatever day it is - drinking before midday is still acceptable and 'festive' rather than bordering on alcohol dependency. As many are now sat at their desks hoping for a lottery win, or slyly browsing cheap flights while they're meant to be doing work. And what am I doing today?

 Well I was woken up at 9 by the postie, went back to bed, and got up again at 12 after a series of strange and bizarre dreams. Now I'm flipping through this season's H&M catalogue, window shopping on the Ikea website, and wondering what the hell is in that box from Superdrug (thanks postie!). Now this might sound like the perfect "yay, I'm not at work!" day to many but in my own little way I'm sort of feeling productive and proud of myself. I didn't manage to sleep until at least 6 in the morning, so I could've potentially slept in much, much later; given that this time last year I was in the midst of a full-blown manic episode I ended up buying a new sofa, tables and chairs, more bras than I have boobs for, and other shit that I really didn't have room for I'm doing quite well just browsing - other than a set of baking trays I got last night, though I consider them to be a bargain practical purchase; I've made two phone calls and answered two (which is a huge achievement for me) - one of those being a dental appointment.

 So yes, I may still be in bed but I've been productive. And considering how else I could have spent my day - sleeping until 3, buying things I don't need and can't afford - I'm pretty proud of myself. Now some of you may ask why should I be proud of myself for doing things that others do and manage to fit into a day of work? Well my mental health has been shaky at best over the holiday season.

 Christmas is always a time of huge stress for me, I love my family more than anything but I'm starting to wonder if my DNA is at least 10% cat - I can only be social and surrounded by people, overnight no less, for at least a day. And while I had a lovely time seeing everybody it took quite a toll on me. I did what I knew was best for me at some points though, taking a breather and sitting in another room by myself for a while, it was a huge sense of relief getting back to my own home. It didn't help having the beginnings of a chest infection at the time, plus wisdom teeth coming through, and I felt like an anti-social twat in my efforts to not give it to anybody as a bonus Christmas present, but taking care of myself definitely made a difference. 

 But yes, I'm not going to be jumping on the annual "New Year, New Me" bullshit bandwagon in 2017. Though what I am going to be doing this year is celebrating my daily little victories, rather than berating myself for what I could have done instead. And I'm doing pretty well so far. I'm taking care of myself and for once not feeling selfish for doing so. I'm doing work at my own pace, rather than ruminating over not having done enough - which inevitably leads to none getting done. Anyway, this year may finally be the year that I get my shit together, who knows?