Not Skinny Enough... For Eating Disorder Treatment

 It's been a while. I'll get into why in a later post, but for now I need to get this off my chest. I will be talking about Eating Disorders and Mental Health. It will be very angry, very sweary and very raw; so if you don't feel up to reading about these topics then that's totally okay, I understand 💙 

 I had a phone call from my CPN today, I've not seen her in a while because I've barely left Heaton in the past six weeks. Other than Download Festival - a break I desperately needed - the furthest I've been from home is to see my parents. My CPN is based in Gateshead and is in the process of switching me over to the Newcastle team for the rest of my treatment; Gateshead are frantically trying to reduce their case and patient loads, my guess being because of budget cuts and staff shortages, and Newcastle have better resources for helping patients with Eating Disorders. It sounded like a sweet deal, closer to home and more specialised treatment than just DBT, and they had no waiting lists so I could be transferred straight over. However that phone call shattered any illusions I had about finally getting back into recovery.

 I don't blame my CPN, she was trying to get me more specialised treatment closer to home - exactly what NICE guidelines specify as key criteria for successful recovery - and even now she's writing letters and making more calls to try and change their minds, I'm very grateful for her. I have lived with an Eating Disorder in some form or another since I was 14, beginning after I was sexually assaulted; at some point over the years the bulimia developed into anorexia, though the binging and purging still like to rear their ugly heads from time to time. I consume on average 700-800 calories per day. I have a BMI of 15.8 (though BMI is bullshit criteria anyway). I've lost over 10kg since the beginning of 2018. I have collapsed in public due to sheer exhaustion. My thoughts are clouded, my brain is foggy and my periods have virtually stopped. But according to Newcastle's Mental Health team? I'm "not underweight enough" to receive treatment.

 They always say that asking for help is the hardest step to make when you're trying to recover. I asked for help in 2015, I saw my GP in Gateshead, got onto the waiting list for a psychiatric evaluation and four months later was diagnosed with a personality disorder - because nothing makes you feel more fucked up than being told it's your personality that's the problem. They never explored this, never worked on giving me anything more specific, just sort of went from there and offered me different types of treatment, from one-to-one talking therapy, mindfulness exercises, more DBT - including group therapy. Apparently this was part of the problem for Newcastle, as it wasn't until later into my treatment with Gateshead that I was recognised as having an Eating Disorder, they didn't see it as a long-term problem because of the late diagnosis. 

 They also said I seem "unwilling to accept treatment" too, based on the fact that I dropped out of the DBT group therapy after a few sessions, and refused an appointment with a dietitian. There are glaring issues with this. Firstly, the DBT group was ran by the most patronising woman I have met in my life; she would show me up for asking questions if I didn't understand something - in one session taking the time to say "and for Lizi's benefit, this means..." every time she explained a new topic. How fucking unprofessional is that? Of course I wouldn't want to keep going back if that's what they're offering me as 'treatment'. I didn't realise public humiliation was part of DBT! Also, what fucking genius thought that putting somebody with crippling social anxiety into group therapy with a bunch of strangers would work out? I don't care how many times you claim it's a Safe bastarding Space, I was treated better by drunken perverts when I was doing bar work.

 Secondly, and this is the kicker, what the fuck is a fucking Dietitian going to do for me*? I refused the appointment because believe it or not I know what sort of things I need to be eating to keep my weight up, I know exactly how many meals, how much, what macro and micronutrients I need to be putting in my face to maintain a healthy body. The issue is that I can't. I just fucking can't. The last time I checked, having a piece of paper that says "I'm a food doctor, I know what you need to be eating" doesn't also come with a bonus Magic fucking Wand that will suddenly make me able to eat without wanting to a) throw it all up again or b) tear off my skin because I feel so fucking afraid and disgusting every time I put food in my mouth. I didn't take that appointment because I know exactly what sort of strain the NHS and Mental Health services are under and there are thousands of other people who need that appointment more desperately than I do. 

*note - no offence to any dietitians out there, and you probably do a lot more than tell people what to eat but that's how your job was explained to me and (as you've probably gathered) I'm a stubborn cunt. Just let me be angry for now - or lend me that Magic Wand.

 So that puts me in an awkward position. Either I go back to the start of the queue, wait however long it takes to be seen for an assessment by the Newcastle team, probably involving going through all the bullshit of talking therapies and CBT again - where I was at five years ago - and hope and pray to whatever deity I don't believe in that I'll be able to get help not only for my Eating Disorder but for other aspects of my mental health. Oh yeah, according to Newcastle I seem to be "doing okay/managing" in other aspects of my mental health so I'm not considered at risk or in need of treatment. They totally ignored my CPN telling them about me being sexually assaulted the other month, and that she also believes that my specific personality disorder is BPD. In the words of my friend Annie (total babe) you wouldn't treat any other illness like this, you wouldn't say to a diabetic "okay so we know you're diabetic, but you haven't slipped into a coma recently so we should just wait and see how it goes!". And Eating Disorders aren't just Mental Health conditions, they affect your physical health too. Gateshead services made sure that I had regular physical health checks, everything from my weight, blood pressure, blood tests, ECGs (heart monitory things), how my ED has affected my asthma. I'm not a doctor and I don't have X-ray vision so I can't see the physical harm I'm doing to myself without their help; and as the saying goes it's "out of sight, out of mind" for me. If I'm not monitored then I can easily go straight back to indulging the voices in my head and continue losing weight without knowing what harm I'm doing. 

 That brings me to option number two. As above, I can continue losing weight in a bid to pull myself out of this miserable 10 year slog in an attempt to actually get treatment - or die trying. I'm far from the only person living with an ED who will have considered this as a viable option, in fact I know I'm not - you can read the reality of this trend for yourself. I say trend, it's more of our last resort in some ways.

 I fucking love the NHS. I wouldn't be alive without the bloody thing, for more reasons than I can list without making this longer than it already is. But it makes me sick to my stomach knowing that we have a government that has made so many funding cuts, putting so many lives at risk, that we now have a system only able to treat ailments when they become life-threatening. Treating the symptoms rather than the cause. 

Current Self:
Slightly sunburned, back from holiday,
trying to hold myself together.

 I'm feeling a lot of different things right now and hopeful isn't one of them. Current ED treatment plans seem more like they're treating the symptoms rather than the cause. It vaguely reminds me of the Cat and Mouse system used when the Suffragettes were imprisoned: let them starve, recuperate at home, then haul them back inside once they start being a problem again and force-feed them as the eventual solution; kicking them out again and starting the cycle over again. Without front line services in place, free at the point of use from the NHS, then how can we expect people to recover as well as they can from disordered eating? We can't, plain and simple. So in the spirit of 2018, if we really want to mark the centenary of the Women's Suffrage Movement, then we need to stop using the same methods to treat people living with and suffering with Eating Disorders.



To sort this whole shit-storm out in a productive way, I'm going to my GP in the morning, and hoping this is all a ridiculous miscommunication. I won't be wallowing in this and doing nothing about it. Either way I'll be making something of this anger, even if it's just sharing my experience to add to the list of reasons we need to improve the NHS and stop cutting its fucking budget. Seriously, how can you class anything as overspending if it's being put into a service that literally can stop people from dying?

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.

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? 

The Holy Grail? Birth Control for Men

When my mind is racing, to the point where I can feel nothing else but the tension and the buzzing across my forehead, I know that one of three things will calm me down; a drink, a chat or a blog post. Preferably all three in one. Sometimes, like tonight, that chat is with myself but I find that chats between Lizi, myself and I always lead to some interesting thoughts. And where else to start but where every girl's mind should be on Halloween - birth control pills/injections for men, yikes!

Now this is something I've seen news and 'news' articles floating around the web about since...oof, at least since I started using social media. So say 8 years ago, or at least this was the first time I'd heard of the idea. And as a slightly overweight, spotty and angsty fourteen-year-old you see such things and think "Yes!! There is justice in the world!", then you suddenly forget about it as you're distracted by somebody who sits behind you in your Physics class sending you a chicken on Farmville (admit it, you've had similar moments). Yet years later, in your twenties - older and a little wiser at least -, your braces finally off and you've wrecked your teeth from too many drunken attempts at drinking from a glass without a straw instead of sucking your thumb... You see it again. Almost at the point of completion... And it's still "a long way off" in case men get sad.

 Yes, after one too many: cat-calls, unsolicited dick pics, gropes, sexual assaults, threats of violence, unwanted opinions, put-downs, manipulations; something which could potentially delayed and forgotten about in case it could be bad for men.

 Story. Of. Every. Woman's. Fucking. Life.

 As the possibility of birth control for men has grown closer and closer - the risks and side effects sensationalised, a potential release date, it makes me wonder: given the excessive side effects given to birth control for those of us with a uterus, if it were to be developed today, would something with so many detrimental side effects would they be approved for use? Or like in the case of the pill would the side effects be listed but the extent of them be swept under the rug? When women taking progesterone-based birth control are 34% more likely to be prescribed antidepressants, and these statistics only recently having been published, it beggars belief that they would be approved today. That's not even starting on the excessive physical side effects.

  This has led to a lot of angry women, understandably. Many women have shouted back, saying that it's now time for men to bare the brunt of these side effects that we have for decades too. And I agree with them too, I really do. Given the state of my mental health it's gotten me thinking, for the past seven years I've been pumped full of synthetic hormones in some way or another (both pills, the injection, mirena coil). What are they actually doing to my mind and body? I've gotten an appointment booked with my GP and will be running it past my CPN (psychiatric nurse) to see whether switching to something non-hormonal, such as a copper coil, could potentially do me some good. It's not fair that women should be more or less expected to fill themselves full of synthetic hormones to avoid the 'punishment' of getting pregnant if they should dare want to have sex. 

 I was put on these hormones at a time when my body was still developing, when I was still trying to figure out who I was. The pill was meant to be a solution to try and calm me down, help me handle my periods better at a time when everything was still settling down and finding its feet. And it terrifies me that after years of trial and error that I may not know myself without synthetic hormones, it really fucking scares me. But it's gotten me thinking, and anybody who knows me knows that it physically pains me to write this, what about the men? Sorry, excuse me while I vomit and berate myself for even typing that but hear me out. While suicide rates for women have increased in the past few years, they are still three times higher for men. Do we really want to see this increase? And keep in mind the horrific state of mental health services at the minute. 

 I'm looking at a solution to this in the same way I explain socialism to people. It's not about fighting to all be on the same, shitty minimum wage that nobody can survive on; it's about fighting for a decent living wage for everybody. In this case I don't want more men to be put at risk of mental and physical health issues, I want to see a fuck-off-massive improvement in current hormonal contraception for women. Make sure that the pill, the coil, implants, what have you, all come with the lowest risk possible for women's mental and physical health before we start saying everyone should suffer the same.

 Now, shock-horror, as you've probably guessed by now I'm not a doctor. But I'm somebody with a uterus who is pretty scared of the idea of more side effects from my birth control. And somebody who enjoys having sex and not having children. And I would really like to be able to continue having sex and not getting pregnant while not being at risk of uterus perforation, hair loss and all kinds of cysts. Is this really too much to ask?

National Coming Out Day 2016: Family-phobia, mental health, and breaking the cycle

 So the other week I posted a piece about Bi Visibility Week which included my own coming out story. As those of you on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum and good allies know, 'coming out' isn't a one-off experience; it's a staggered constant experience. Coming out to friends and family, then there's more to come when it comes to co-workers, peers, and new acquaintances. And in some cases other family members, beyond those who you initially knew would understand. You take that chance, thinking you've come this far and this person loves you enough to not give two shits about it. Well, that's what you think.

 I decided to get this off of my chest in a post, in order to get it out of my head so I can move on and stop stewing on it. It's difficult though. I'd spent the day with a relative last Friday; we had lunch, shopped, and talked about all sorts. It got to the point that we were talking about current TV programmes and talked about Poldark, it's a show I never managed to get into the storyline but happily watched a few episodes of because *swoon* Aiden Turner! Such a gorgeous man, I watched it just to look at him. The conversation moved to the new Victoria series on ITV and, being a fan of Jenna Coleman from her portrayal as Clara in Doctor Who, I expressed to this relative that I found her very good-looking. It was an innocent comment, yet this relative managed to read my undertones: that I found her attractive rather than just expressing an admiration for her looks.

 That's when shit hit the fan and it all spiralled down. While it showed progress for somebody of their generation that they accepted that they know some people are gay and accept that, they refused to accept that a person can be bisexual. Apparently "you can't ride two horses with one arse", and that's what confused me. Confused me in terms of my mental health and has done me damage; dating women is what has caused me to become mentally ill according to this relative. It's funny when I think about it because it wasn't a woman who sexually assaulted me, it wasn't a woman who made me feel it was my fault, it wasn't a woman who made me feel utterly worthless and broken when I thought I could trust them. Relationships with women tend to have been the healthiest I've had (other than my relationship with Paul, he is the exception to the rule!) and have always left me with a better understanding of myself. For somebody to try and throw that in my face as something that has done me damage makes me feel sick. In fact being told this made me cry in front of this relative for the first time in years.

 In fact I think that is what made me most angry, that they made me cry. A good rule I try to follow is that a relative shouldn't make you cry out of sadness unless they're dying/have died. To try and make me feel so ashamed about my sexuality and my mental health in one fell swoop, trying to blame one on the other, makes me feel physically sick. This was probably the most recent point lately that I've felt utterly helpless, and almost embarrassed to by myself. Though it wasn't shame about myself I felt, but more ashamed of myself for being stupid enough to open up to this relative, thinking they would react kindly.


 I have told my parents about this experience and, when opening up to them about how this relative has treated me about my mental health, they have grown concerned about my relationship with them and offered to talk to them about it. It has done me a lot of damage. I've gone through about two years of being told by this relative that my mental health doesn't matter, that I've made it all up. But this has been my breaking point, going from downright dismissing my mental health to blaming it on my sexuality, something that I cannot and would not change for the world.

 We've always been told since we were children to respect our elders, or the more condescending that they're old and don't know any better, and should do so regardless. But after this experience I'm not sure that I can unquestioningly follow this rule. I still love this family member dearly, and do not at all regret my decision to come out to them, but it will take me a while to forgive them.

Bitch in the Kitch: Cooking Therapy and Self-Love

 Welcome back! After another (though slightly shorter than last time) hiatus I'm back to the bloggersphere, I did warn you folks! As has been mentioned in previous posts my mental health hasn't been great but it's certainly on the up at the minute. It's a bit like a seesaw, normally with the kid on one end having rocks in their pockets. At the minute though I think both kids have stopped and are just chilling, chatting and eating cake on there - with the odd wobble up or down. Anyway, glad to be back.

 Some of you probably already know that I'm quite a big foodie, I love everything from cooking it to eating it. And this might come as quite a surprise, but it's actually a common thing for those of us with/in recovery from eating disorders/distress to enjoy making food for various reasons; be it feeling we have control over food, control over our bodies through that, and/or loving ourselves and nourishing ourselves in the recovery process. I find that there's something therapeutic about following a recipe and making something delicious. I love the structure of recipes, almost in a way of being given instructions, otherwise I can get a bit panicky and edgy; recovery is a long (again) seesaw-y process and I'm still at the stage of needing to know EXACTLY how much and of what I'm putting into food. The kitchen has always felt like a safe haven for me. It's where I first learned the joy of making things with my hands, making play doh with my Mam, and baking and cooking as a child, the feeling of eaten something I'd created (yes, I may have had a few nibbles on the play doh...). It's where I'd first drink with my friend and her Mam in their kitchen, enjoying Saturday nights as a teenager giggling over wine and discussing the world ahead of us. It's where I feel I do my best for my partner; I may have my shortcomings but I'll always say I'm a damn good cook and being able to feed people I love brings me a lot of happiness, leaving me feeling whole and refreshed.

 While looking for something yummy to cook for myself and Paulobear I found myself on Cooking On A Bootstrap, the website of the incredible Mx. Jack Monroe featuring delicious recipes interspersed with political and social justice activism, I'm such a huge fan of them!!  Their writing is so poetic and relatable, and at the same time so accessible and non-threatening. Admission time: I've grown up always being told what a clever girl I am, yet at the same time I feel like a total, total fraud because I struggle with a lot of words; not the spellings or pronunciations of them but the meanings. I often end up feeling embarrassed in conversations when unknown words come up, so I'll either keep my head down and keep quiet, or feel like a muppet and ask what it means while thinking they must think I'm ridiculous. Or secret option number three: slyly Google a word, worry I look ignorant for looking at my phone instead of paying attention, then continue to berate and shame myself for not knowing the word. Getting back to the topic at hand though!

 I came across a delicious looking recipe today that I will be making for tea tonight, and not only do I have all the ingredients to hand (including fresh kale from my Grandma and Granddad's garden!!) it was so beautifully written that I just had to share it with you folks. Very aptly titled Self-Love Stew one part particularly stood out to me:

"The stirring is key. It is soothing. It is mindless, not mindful. Sod mindful. My mind is full enough. It is a minefield. Tonight I want to stir some stuff and stare at my hands or into nothing."

 It isn't written as a traditional recipe but it's more or less a much better alternative (for me personally, and most likely others of you out there) to guided meditation. I'm so fed up with being told I need to be more mindful, I find the whole concept difficult to grasp and apply to myself, so such advice on mindfulness and exercises to become 'mindful' etc stress me beyond what I already had been. It creates a feeling that I'm failing at mental health recovery, that I'm even rubbish at trying to get better. 

 Looking at cooking and eating as a way of showing care to myself and others has also been an incredibly helpful tool in my mental health and more specifically eating distress recovery, rather than food being a way to control and punish myself. And while I now and then get the odd stupid comment along the lines of "hahaha, you're a rubbish feminist! Being in a kitchen and looking after a man hahaha *tips fedora*" I find it to be the exact opposite. Using it as a tool to look after myself and making myself a better person to be around, I've never felt like a better feminist.

 A huge thank you to Jack Monroe for their wonderful recipe and their general being wonderful-ness, you are an incredible human being!!

 Much love, this Bitch is off to the Kitch! xx

A Belated Happy 2016...and smashin' those Gender Norms (TL,DR: getting a bloke flowers)

 Happy New Year dear readers! We're only what, two weeks into it so this is quite good timing for me. I've been trying my best to keep busy around the house so for once it's in a fantastic state, I'm rather proud of myself. Depressions and anxiety can really get in the way of keeping your living space tidy, you don't want to get out of bed let alone do anything productive yet at the same time you panic about getting everything done, what people will think of the state of your home, how miserable it's making you being in such an untidy environment...it's a vicious cycle. But since New Year I've felt fantastic, staying on an up-spell for a whole fortnight does come with the panic of "when will I be back to being miserable? oh dear, oh dear", but I'm doing my best not to think that way and just enjoy the positivity. It's the happiest I've felt in about six months.

Clear house, clear head!

 Now, down to business...

 My relationship seems to be the best it's been for a while too, probably to do with me feeling better about myself; I love Paul unbelievably but I'm sure many of you with similar conditions also find it hard to appreciate your partner when you feel awful about yourself, and generally feeling not much fun to be around. So since I've been feeling better about myself I've started putting more work into my relationship. It got me thinking too: What little romantic gestures would really make me smile? Then it hit me.

 I've only gotten flowers twice in my life, once from my Dad and once from Paul after he scared me; we'd just gotten the landline installed and he rang up after he finished work, putting on a creepy Gollum voice. It really freaked me out and I may have cried a little bit, so I rang his mobile in hysterics to tell him about the creepy guy that'd just been on the phone. Bad Paulo! But these were totally unprompted, no scaring involved, and I made a cute little card later in the week which I slipped into his jacket pocket before he left for work the next morning. 

 It can be hard to keep a relationship fresh after nearly five years. You can both get a bit lazy, it's something Paul and I are both guilty of but we're both working to turn that around. We're working on having at least one night a week just for the two of us, sort of a date night. Simplicity is a good starting point too, a hug and a 'how was your day?' to a coffee and a cuddle and small acts that build towards bigger things and keep that bond strong.

 Now, going back to the flowers. Out of interest I thought I'd google "getting a guy flowers", just to see what the current status-quo consensus on it is. Two of the top results were 'What gifts for men are equivalent to flowers for women?' on Reddit and 'Help! What's The Man-Friendly Equivalent of Sending Flowers?' from Glamour.com, containing the quote "Of course you can send guys flowers, but I just feel like they don’t appreciate them the way the ladies do." and a link to a delightful sounding article titled "Want to Know What Blow Jobs and Flowers Have in Common?. To save your poor face from the palming it would get I've read the second article for you: apparently you're not allowed to ask for either. *pause here to make a cuppa and calm down/shout to your partner/housemate/pet about how stupid this is*. 

 Just NO! No on all of those fronts. The look on Paul's face when I gave him the flowers was one of gratitude. Other articles I've looked at seem to say that the only acceptable time to send a man flowers is as a Get Well Soon or other non-romantic gesture, why?? They look nice, they smell nice, they really brighten up a room and draw the eye away from any clutter lying around. If a guy likes flowers why not send them? There's nothing 'feminine' about things that look or smell nice, and even if there was then what's wrong with feminine things!? It doesn't make them weak or soppy, in my eyes if you dismiss and dislike something on the grounds that it's feminine then you really don't have much respect for women.

 And as for asking I don't see what's wrong with that either, I asked Paul if he'd maybe get me flowers sometime and he asked the same from me - reciprocation is necessary in relationships! How else will you know what your partner likes?

 And yes, please apply the above advice to blow jobs too.


UPDATE:

 Just thought I'd include this as proof that I'm not putting words in Paul's mouth ;)

 And I'm very angry at this God bloke at the minute too, he really needs to work on his aim. He can't keep going after every 69 year old until he gets Trump. He better stay the hell away from Tim Curry! RIP Alan Rickman <3