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

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? 

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

Busy Day Tomorrow... Radio et al.

 Evening all, it's a late one tonight. I have a very good excuse for my recent inactivity:

 The worst has happened, after six years of loyal service my laptop has finally given up. Well, the screen has fallen off and it's a pain in the arse to use; I have to hold it up with one hand and type with the other. I can't decide whether it's more or less of a pain in the arse posting from my phone - so far I'm going to go with more, it's shit!

 Anyway I'm going to keep this post quite short, I've got my neurology appointment tomorrow afternoon. FINALLY!! It's been such a long wait, being ill for months on end without having a clue what's doing it is pretty scary. My appointment isn't going to be a magic cure but hopefully it'll be the beginning of the end, fingers crossed.

 Busier still, I've got an interview on BBC radio Five Live Breakfast tomorrow morning!! Ten past seven IN THE MORNING though!! (Y'know, as breakfast suggests) it'll be a miracle if I don't end up at the studio still in my pajamas. The interview is to coincide with the beginning of university for some tomorrow on Lad Culture and my experiences of sexism on campus. I had to waive my anonymity because of one of the incidents I'll be talking about, for those of you who won't be awake to catch it I'll post the link to it tomorrow. It's an issue I'm really passionate about addressing in my role as Women's Rep this year so any ideas and feedback from you lovely readers would be wonderful :)

 I'm trying to get an early night tonight but just wanted to say a big thanks to those of you who've sent me lovely supportive messages via Facebook and Twitter in response to my last few posts. I've been feeling really isolated lately and it's just wonderful to get such nice messages, it's helped me to feel less disconnected and out of the loop. I'll be posting again tomorrow to let you all know how the interview and the appointment go, lots of love!!

Update: I've just had a call from the BBC and they've pushed my interview back to its original time of ten past eight, so I've got another hour in bed! ;)

The Importance of Self-Care: Theory and Practice

Afternoon all!

 Now it's been quite a while since my last post, it's seeming to be one thing after another lately. A mixture of tendinitis in my shoulder when trying to finish university work, preparing for a few short breaks, work, and now when that all seems to have settled down my health seems to have taken a rather bad turn. Over the past month I've been having (as of yet) unexplained seizures, mostly as it's been described to me afterwards as tonic-clonic seizures, and partial seizures in other cases. Having been back and forth to my GP and to the hospital in this time I'm having to wait until September for a referral to a neurologist; while I've made necessary adjustments to my own lifestyle in the meantime it's frustrating and honestly quite scary having to wait such a long time for a diagnosis and even then the guarantee that I'll get a diagnosis straight off. At first it seemed the most terrifying part of them was waking up, unable to speak and feeling weak all over, but now the worst seem to be those while I remain conscious but don't have control over my own body and motions. But as scared as I am I'm determined not to let it rule my life.

 In the past few years self-care has been very big on the feminist agenda it seems. Far from being a new concept it's great to see it making a comeback, but while it's often discussed as a wonderful notion it is one of those things that I know I'm not alone in finding very hard to apply to myself. I'm extremely guilty of, well, feeling guilty when caring for myself, I often feel as if I'm abusing the idea or using it as an excuse to be lazy. The right answer here should be 'even if I am, so fucking what??' but I tend to find myself panicking and the guilt piling up for doing so and even more for thinking in that way; I've found it to be a vicious cycle. Since I've been feeling the toll of these fits on my general health and well-being though I thought it was about time that I really made an effort with it.

 I feel as though it has had an impact on my relationship too. Paul has always had a very caring nature and for as long as we've been together he's really looked after me but because neither of us know what's causing it, when it will happen or what to do about it it's scary and very frustrating for us both. He's learning well how to cope with me though, going to doctors appointments with me, researching bits that he can and helping me with keeping a note of what happens during and after seizures. His workplace have been accommodating too,  letting him take the time off for the appointments or if we've spent the night at the hospital, and allowing him to keep his phone on hand to get in touch and see how I am through the day. One drawback though is that Paul says it makes him feel quite possessive doing this, especially when I was on a weekend away with friends and he just wanted to be sure I was okay; I've been doing my best reassuring him that I don't mind and I really understand both why he feels like that but also why he wants to be sure I'm okay. It can be horrible thing seeing someone you love ill in this this way and not knowing how to fix it - and unfortunately for us it seems to be me who does most of the being ill!

 I'm currently easing myself into a routine of self care and really hope to carry on with it even after I've gotten a diagnosis and hopefully something to control the symptoms, so here are a few tips that I would like to pass on as somebody who has struggled to get into it, I know I'm not the only one!

• Don't feel like a burden - you most certainly aren't!

 This is something I really had trouble with, possibly fall-out from past mental health issues, but to begin with I found it hard to accept help and allow myself to be looked after by Paul and other friends and family. I hated the fact that there were things I had to rely on others for, like making sure I'm safe during a seizure and caring for me afterwards; I suppose I felt guilty more than anything else that people around me were on edge because of it. What finally convinced me to change this thinking was the wonderful women I went with to Horton Women's Centre and those that I met there too. Being in such a safe, supportive environment with people I was so close to got me to thinking that they have no obligation to look after me but do it because they care for me and about my well-being. I've always verbalised my concerns and still tend to apologise after seizures but even with that compromise it's had a very positive impact on my own dealing with them as it takes at least one element away from my anxiety around them by not worrying so much.

• Know and respect your limitations

 Another big hurdle with my past experience of self care, not knowing or just flat out ignoring my limits. I often convinced myself that I was able to do more than I was doing and I could always do "just that little bit more" than I was and I'd be fine; not just physically but mentally too. When I had tendinitis I would still go into work with my arm in a sling, serving food on day shifts, cleaning the top shelves, serving as quickly as I could on busy Friday nights. At the time I thought I could give Wonder Woman a run for her money but looking back it really slowed down my recovery time. This time round it's taken getting injured at work during a fit to stop me, after the incident Head Office requested a note from my GP to say whether or not they thought I would be safe to continue working; when I went my GP said she didn't feel she was able to guarantee this, which I took as a bit of a blow because I really do enjoy my job and now I'm having to take sick leave. To their credit though, when it first began they were very supportive and accommodating of me, making sure that I wouldn't be working alone and would be only doing duties they felt I would be safe doing. Sadly in the end with the environment I work in it just wasn't safe for me, bars can be dangerous places, but I really did appreciate the lengths they went to to support me and eventually the message it sent me about having to accept that it was in my best interest.

• Treat yourself and eat well

 Treating yourself can take on many forms and I find it's a very important part of looking after yourself, whether it's a nice glass of wine, taking a long bath, having a weekend away, a small indulgence when you feel you need one can do you the world of good. However in the past I've had a lot of issues with my weight and body image and I've found I tend to get really, really hungry after seizures, craving carby, sugary foods. At first I'd be reaching for crisps or chocolate and it was very helpful, having that little indulgence to make me feel better after a fright. Now that I've adjusted a little more to the situation it has become easier to plan around this, get in foods that I know will do me best, giving me the energy boost that I need rather than just something to fill the void. However I have been determined to treat myself at least once a day, something "bad" for me (often a nice glass of wine!) so that I'm staying as healthy as I can but still allowing myself that bit of enjoyment.

 Another thing I've found very useful around food is to prepare meals in advance. As it gets later in the day I tend to feel worse so I'm trying to get into the habit of cooking when I feel up to it, or even daring enough to make a trip to the shops, and pop it in the fridge/freezer for I want it through the week. It's a good way to ensure that when you're at a low point then you'll be eating food that's good for you rather than reaching for whatever is easiest, but at the same time there's absolutely nothing wrong with the easy option if that is the type of food you get the best feeling from. Paul and I always have the deal that if I cook then he does the washing up, it's a system that works for us but lately it's not working as well; luckily he's very handy in the kitchen, not just at the sink, and has been cooking for us when I don't feel up to it. I try and do the same through the day and keep on top of the dishes, just to return the favour, but it always reminds me why we struck up that deal in the first place - I bloody hate doing dishes!!

Well looked-after!

• Keep yourself busy

Unfortunately the post-fit cravings have led to me putting on a little weight, along with the exercise I'm used to doing no longer being safe (if I can't have a bath by myself because of them then swimming is definitely out of the question). So I've been looking for other types of gentle exercise that I can do at home, finding something that works for me that I can enjoy safely. It can be quite stressful and at the minute I'm finding it hard just keeping busy. Daytime television can be easy entertainment as a one-off but after a few days it really starts getting to you. It's the best time of any to start reading all those books you haven't got round to, do those craft projects you got all the supplies for but haven't found the time for, take a walk, explore bits of your town you've never been to before. Finding a routine can be useful if you're that sort of person, I'm struggling to find one at the moment but I'm sure I'll get there.

 With Paul working, me being off on the sick and being off uni at the moment I'm finding it difficult even to keep busy. But it's giving me a bit of time now to get ahead on wedding planning, and if it's done now then it'll be one less stress later on! Doing it in my free time now gives me time to have all the details thought out, but I can guarantee that many future posts on wedding planning will include the phrase "If it's not done now then it will never get done!"


 While this is no means a definitive list and may not work for everybody it's what I'm finding the most useful at the moment. You may well see some updates to this list but for now I'm off to play Pokémon for a bit, my DS and I have become reacquainted over the past few weeks.

 Until next time xx