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? 

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