In 2010, I was diagnosed with stress-induced psychosis. I’d been experiencing a range of symptoms for several months, including hearing voices, large gaps in my memory and passing out so I went to my doctor expecting confirmation that I had epilepsy. After a number of scans, blood tests and a couple short GP consults, I was advised that I was anaemic, depressed and had experienced a psychotic break. I was sent home with some iron pills and Citalopram and told to avoid stressful situations.

Easier said than done. I’ve had several breaks since that time, but have thankfully learnt to recognise the triggers. It’s only very recently though that I’ve made the decision to actively avoid certain situations to stave off episodes. The battle is real.

I’ve been sick for a couple weeks now. Not depressed. Or psychotic. More phlegmy, achy and flat. I love my job, my family, my life but I’m surrounded by stressful situations. Most of my work is project based, and I am constantly navigating deadlines, raising funds, appealing for grants, chasing payments, networking, attending meetings, advocating for those in need and when I’m at home, caring for my family who have a variety of needs. I am not complaining – I have so much privilege and have chosen this busy life. But I am aware that in seasons like this – the end of the year, the lack of light, the cold, other people’s loneliness, the loss of friends and icons, the residue of Covid, the cost of living, the wars in Ukraine, Gaza and other humanitarian crises, wanting to do the right thing, assignments to write and my retched menopausal body that seems to hate me at the moment – I feel a little bit beat up and worry that I am edging nearer to that version of me 13 years ago.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the kind of workplaces that people like me need – spaces that are inclusive, welcoming, understanding, spaces that allow for different ways of working and communicating. My own vulnerabilities mean that I lead in a way that is trauma-informed and takes into account the totality of experiences that we go through as a team – as family members, carers, artists, people in recovery…we are people who thrive with flexibility and whose creativity is stimulated by our empathy, our stories, our past and current struggles. We are not just observers and recorders – we are co-travellers, experts by experience. We give care but we need care too. Annualised hours, working from home (or bed), comfortable seats, large (personal) desks, ventilated offices, suitable bathrooms and kitchens, and check-ins – starting the day with ‘How are you arriving?’ and ending with ‘What has gone well?’ can be a game-changer.

And what else? Well, I’m doing it now. Sitting in my bed, writing. This is my third day and I may have to stay here for a couple more. Today, I cancelled four meetings. It was really hard – the unhealthy workoholic in me finds it hard to say no to anything, but I pushed through and let the negative voice within me weep. I made a vow last week to say no more often, to admit when I am struggling, to put myself and my wellbeing first – that whole ‘oxygen mask on yourself before the baby’ analogy – so I can be present and fit for purpose.

I’ve had honey and lemon, soup and fresh bread. And chocolate, and vitamins, blankets, soft music, romantic films, essential oils, tumeric in milk and kind words from my husband and son. I’ve deleted apps from my phone and blocked a few numbers. I might do some crochet this evening. I haven’t checked any spreadsheets or replied to emails, and I haven’t done any food shopping for Christmas – it might have to have a minimalist one.

I am hoping that next week will be a better one. I am looking forward to long sleep-ins, oranges and cinnamon candles, Christmas carols and card games. I am looking forward to the new year. Ambitious projects, new friendships, fulfilling partnerships. May it be fruitful, transformative, brave and healthy.

As understatements go, saying that this has been a bad year rates pretty high. I’ve almost run out of metaphors to describe the sheer awfulness of it all. I’ve spent months now eating my feelings, resisting the urge to turn to the giant glasses of Malbec that used to temper my nerves on a nightly basis after another shit day at work. I’ve mostly cried, sometimes silently, sometimes in the shower, sometimes in the car after a particularly stressful shopping trip where I’ve been overcome with anxiety about distances and suspicion, panting and sweating after being gagged for an hour. PTSD is a mofo, and so is hand sanitizer…my fingers look like sausages and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve burnt my eyeballs simply by wiping away tears.

But with it being the season of goodwill, I’ve been speaking to myself about hope. I believe in hope. I’m actually a positive person, despite the reality checker that’s permanently switched on in my brain. And I love Christmas. Always have done, even back in the days when I was a poverty stricken child with little to nothing in the way of gifts. Christmas was still magic to me. I loved thinking about Santa – I didn’t believe in him but I loved the idea of this kindly Saint reaching out to bless kids all over the world. I loved the nativity story too, with shepherds freezing their butts off in a field getting good news that would turn their lives around….and Wise Men following a star and visiting a baby with gifts he’d have no immediate use for…the whole thing filled me with wonder. 

My reality checker reminds me that for so many, Christmas is an amplifier…of the good and the bad. For those who are lonely, they feel ever more isolated. For those suffering loss, the grief cuts that much sharper. As I’ve got older, I’ve felt these losses all the more, but have tried to stand against the wave of emotion it can bring and just be grateful for the seasonal respite.  But with 2020 being what its been, I’ve been asking myself, how can we celebrate in the midst of so much sadness? How can we rejoice when so many are mourning? How can we sing in a storm?

When my son was around 2 years old, I went through a severe mental health crisis,one of several I’ve had since childhood. My head was a mess…I like to think of it now as a beautiful but tangled ball of wool. I struggled at times to have a single coherent thought, and yet I was working, teaching, parenting and creating new work all while wrestling physical and mental health problems. I remember walking through an allotment one afternoon, desperate to calm my nerves and hoping the plants would do the trick. I was holding my son’s tiny hand and wondering what  this poor little fella had done to deserve such a wacky mum. I squeezed his hand, fear and panic rising in my chest, and he suddenly started to sing, really loud. I can’t remember the exact song as he had a tendency back then to just make words up. He was a toddler, with limited vocab, a lisp and couldn’t yet hold a tune. It was painful to hear his sweet innocent voice crying out…because that’s what it felt like, that he was in his own way attempting to sooth me in my distress. I joined in with him, and felt transported to his world, where for a few moments rhyme and rhythm replaced fear and the unknown.

Singing is, in my opinion, a tool for riding the storm. Sailors used to do it at sea as they scrubbed slimy decks, men and women on plantations would share songs in the midst of their oppression, even soldiers chant choruses when their training almost has them beat. There’s something about raising our voices that brings healing, brings courage. It’s cleansing, it reminds us that we have creative power – and boy, do we need to be creative right now! Jesus went a step further and fell asleep in a storm, while his disciples were pooing themselves around him. Maybe if they’d started up a sea shanty, the storm would have calmed itself without them having to wake up their saviour, who knows?

And what to sing? Anything. Songs of hope are good but singing out your sadness can be cathartic too – we need to lament. Sing out your frustration…I’m not usually a fan, but I’ve got several thrash metal songs that I scream along to when I have to face certain situations. Better still, sing out your vision for 2021, and march, stomp, dance while your making your voice heard. Don’t be shy. The storm is real. We don’t know when it will end. It’s heavy, dark and scary. But the stars are still shining. Like the one that settled over that stable.

Someone once said (I forget who) ‘Don’t let the tragic steal all the magic’. Don’t let the storm drown out your voice. It matters.

Merry Christmas friends❤

Image by Anastasiya Yilmaz

…but I will try. I woke up this morning feeling particularly lacklustre. I checked my phone and read some more disheartening crap about the Corona virus and the new raft of lockdown confusions. Swipe. Trump is still setting fire to the States but has emerged from the flames as some born again messiah (read: fascist). Swipe. Meghan has destroyed Harry’s life and deserves locking up for exercising her right to vote. WHAT THE ACTUAL F – …I put the phone down. I couldn’t bear reading anything else, and as I got off the loo and peered in the mirror, the Liz looking back at me looked…tired. But hey, it’s been a helluva couple of months, even years. Not just politically and socially, but personally – I’ve been juggling so many balls, hopscotching through multiple traumas, trying not step on the lines and hoping I will somehow miraculously just wake up one day having survived. That is how I see myself in the main. A survivor. The list is long and the wounds are many and deep. But I have become a master at rising, though perhaps not so good at allowing myself to admit how exhausting is. This is a long and not very uplifting read, but it’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth *crosses heart*

I called a friend, Sonia. She’d make a great surgeon – one of those who work with tiny instruments and a magnifying glass without damaging nerves and blood vessels. In our interactions, she’s always brilliant at cutting through bullshit and pinpointing unhealthy patterns, but always moves with gentleness and humility and the generosity to share her own journey. I told her I’d been feeling flat, that I’d felt a wave of depression approaching since moving north.  Truth is, I’d been teetering while in Bristol, but when you’re juggling a couple balls in each hand and few more on both your feet, all your focus is on crisis management and not on the deeper stuff waiting at the door marked ‘later’. 

But now I’ve arrived in ‘later’. I’ve relocated from the place I’ve called home for 9 years to a northern town that feels alien and unpolished.  All the theatre work I had planned for this year has finished. I say finished…it came to an end because of Covid. My other temporary work during lockdown has ended, and the MA I’ve been doing for 2 years finished last week. My diary is the emptiest it’s been for 11 years and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m generally positive about change and often see it as a chance to try something new, to reimagine part of my life, to build new relationships and explore. Only now, with local lockdowns, an unfamiliar and restricted landscape and atmosphere of anxiety, I’m finding it harder to access the enthusiasm I usually feel. 

Sonia listened and suggested that I look back and allow myself some time to celebrate my achievements. I said I would, though when I hung up I immediately asked myself, ‘How the heck do I celebrate?’ It’s made me realize how little time I’ve invested in having fun, being playful and relaxing. I’m not a particularly chilled out person anyway, preferring to work and have a massive goal in sight at all times, but I could definitely do more to reflect on my own journey…and enjoy the view. So here is my unabashed list of achievements in recent times (bear with me if I sound like Trumpy Pants in full self aggrandisement mode, this is a mental health exercise). So

1. I’ve been a good mother. Not perfect, but I’ve had to grow so much in my mothering in recent months. As much as I love my son, I wasn’t prepared for having to spend every walking moment with him for 6 months and it has come with challenges (duh, understatement). In all honesty, I spend a lot of time feeling guilty about how I’m parenting my son, specifically worrying
   • that I’m traumatizing him by shouting at him to pick up his toys
   • if I’m making him fat
   • if I’m feeding him enough
   • if I’m spoiling him
   • that I’m too strict
   • that I don’t enforce boundaries
   • if I’m modeling my own parents’ excesses
   • if I’m giving him enough attention
   • if he’s done enough maths during lockdown
   • if he should he be able to do his 6 times tables
   • that he’ll forget to read
   • if he should sleep in his own bed more…and on it goes, but no, I’m actually doing good. I’ve managed to work, study and keep him alive all at the same time. I’ve taught him to use my spare computer, practice his typing, knit, sew, chop vegetables and write letters. My son is amazing. He’s polite, kind, intelligent, curious, creative, affectionate, mouthy, playful and cute. And I’m taking most of the credit for it.
2. I’m a good wife. I adore Hubster and he knows it. Only today, I agreed to do all the cooking from now on (he recorded me for future reference.) Yes, he does all the housework, but that’s irrelevant. I’m also a good listener and am positive about our relationship. It hasn’t always been that way and has taken almost 14 years to get this place, but it’s been worth it. We talk, we share, we laugh, we love. I can barely keep my hands off him, and for that he gives God praise. 
3. I’ve worked hard to deal with long-term mental health issues. This has been tough, and it’s not over. It may never be fully, but I’m doing pretty well. I’ve learnt, more so in recent years, to be honest about where I’m at. I can cry. (It took me nearly 20 years to do so). I struggle with constant (physical) pain, and some days I just want to sack it all and stay in bed, eat Pringles and watch Judge Rinder (Hey, maybe I should?) It can be easy to share about the past, but much more difficult to share when you’re in the midst of an episode of depression or in full on crisis. I’m learning to shrug off the shame and resist the urge to tidy up the ugliness and negativity to spare the embarrassment of others. Shame and secrecy kills, folks. This Jack is out of the box. 
4. I’ve done so many jobs! I worked at 3 mental health charities while in Bristol and met some amazing people. I was a tutor for 7 years, and ran courses at more than 40 primary schools and Children’s Centres. I hope I made a difference because each place left their mark on me. It’s impossible to teach people without connecting with them. At times it nearly broke me as I suck up other people’s feelings, greedy empath that I am, but it was an honour all the same. I also worked for the NHS, with the homeless team and also at NHS 111 – exhausting roles, but I count both as a huge privilege. 
5. I completed my MA in Creative Writing – finally! I started in 2010 but had to leave after a year. I was cracking up with grief over infertility and couldn’t focus. I actually started believing that I was incapable of finishing anything, after a long season of false starts, disappointments and failures. But that was a lie. I’m brilliant at loads of things and breezed to the end of this course like an absolute G. (NB. I’m lying. I got to the end mainly with the aid of strong coffee, donuts, rave playlists and fear. I was this close  *thumb and forefinger almost touching* to sending Hubster out for some coke. But I finished and wrote a badass script.)
6. I’m a fantastic trainer. Despite being an introvert, I get on with people and like seeing them move forward. I’m not afraid to tackle hard topics. But this is not a CV so I’ll move on to …
7. I’m creative, resilient (but not unbreakable), strong (but making space for vulnerability) and resourceful. I’m good at crochet. And cooking. And I give amazing hugs…

And I’m good at writing…obvs. Though I’ve deliberately avoided crafting this piece…no energy folks, so forgive the number of times I’ve used ‘good’. Better than ‘wrecked’. And on that note, I’m off to celebrate now –  a well deserved tea party with my son and Hubster, complete with cake, peanut M & Ms and Prosecco. Thanks for reading and allowing me to pat my own back for a while. Feels good.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

This week, along with packing (just 1 week left in Bristol!), I’ve been delivering training in anti-racist practice via Zoom. It’s a weird thing discussing race online. I’m one of those people who likes to read body language, who needs to sit in silence occasionally and pause before contributing, which can be difficult when the connection is wonky and there’s a 7 year old kicking in the spare room door.

In the session, we spoke about language, the words that describe our diverse identities, our complex histories, and multiple allegiances. Language is transformed through time, and words that were deemed offensive in the past are now used in everyday speech by people who were once targeted and oppressed by the very same words. The N-word is a good (and contentious) example – an old, racist insult, which is used colloquially amongst some black people and widely in hip hop music. This type of linguistic reappropriation, where a previous slur is adopted, and through repurposing, emptied of its ferocity, is seen across loads of minority communities – words like ‘crip’, ‘queer’, ‘bitch’ and ‘dyke’ are a few common examples. I do wonder though, in this most profane of years, with so much fear, tension and uncertainty ahead of us, if the use of the P-word in a pop song has tipped a bunch of us over the edge.

Now, just to prove how swiftly words can change meaning and cause offence depending on whose mouth they come from, let’s imagine someone stroking their cute pussy cat. We can say that, right? No-one passed out. But change the context, and let the rage begin.

Cardi B and Megan the Stallion made a song, WAP. It’s hip hop, the raw and overtly sexual kind. I’m not  really a fan, but decided to watch the video, mainly because folks were calling it outrageous, vile and just plain wrong. I read lots of opinion in papers, reviews and on social media, and have to say I was surprised. Yes, the video was edgy and graphic, but anyone calling it pornography obviously hasn’t seen a lot of pornography. The lyrics were explicit, but not dangerous as some commentators were stating. Two women talking about having (and liking) sex – why is that dangerous? Like I said, I’m no fan or apologist for the bump and grind reverie that features in so much hip hop/pop these days. What I find interesting is the level of anger and disgust levelled at these two artists, when so much of the pop industry is a facsimile of this booty shaking formula. I think it’s partly in the use of language – the P word, particularly with it being described in active sexual terms, and also the refrain of ‘Whores in the house’, from a 90’s sample. The word ‘whore’ or ‘ho’, slang for prostitute or promiscuous woman, has been used in hip hop for decades, and there has been debate over whether it demeans women, but I can’t remember anyone passing a petition my way to ban Snoop Dog from the radio. My personal view? It’s not my vernacular, and there’s no one in my world who would dream of placing it in a sentence when talking to me. I come from a family who didn’t swear at each other and have spent a large chunk of my life around church folks whose skills in the self-censor arena are legendary. But they’re also good at moral outrage and panic, with voices questioning Cardi B’s parenting skills (sexual and a mother? Impossible!)and opining that the women are evidence of some evil, secret mission to corrupt our daughters. (Flashback to late 1980’s: no one has told me that women are allowed to enjoy sex. It’s something that men do, and that women receive. Mid 90s: I have met more than a few ‘sanctified’ men who have exorcised their demons on me.) I’m more worried about Trump and his pussy grabbing antics than Cardi B and hers. The song and video, I would argue, is clearly aimed at adults. (It’s interesting how many men watched the whole video, for *ahem* research purposes.) Its message is unapologetically about grown-up fun-time, and as such, should perhaps be reserved for the post 9pm audience, and come with a 10 second earmuff warning.

You see, I’m not immune from these pearl-clutching speculations. I remember when Little Mix released their ‘Black Magic’ track back in 2015, I was horrified by the messaging. Here’s how you transform your ‘plain’ teenage self into something worthy (sexy) enough to get the attention of a boy who has previously ignored you. Watch the video. I felt sad that in the 21^st century, these very young girls were being presented with the idea that they would have to change, in such a narrow way, to be accepted. And Little Mix’s audience is little girls, primary school age. Perhaps there was wide-spread outrage, but I managed to miss it on Twitter and Facebook.

Enough now. All this sex talk is distracting – I’ve got ornaments to wrap in biodegradable bubble-wrap.

Image designed by Katemangostar / Freepik

I think I was 17 when I saw my first pasty-looking penis. It was unremarkable (the penis and the event) – I’d just started a full-time job as a Care Assistant in a Nursing home, and it’s fair to say most of my days were filled with all shapes and types of flaccid. Any lingering ideas I had about becoming an actor were blown to pieces that first time I had to wipe an elderly arse, and it underscored the growing sense I felt that, as a working class woman, my options were limited. But hear me right – I’m not hating on saggy old bums, and I swear, I learnt so much about human dignity, resilience and joy in those 2 years of caring for elders, including making significant progress on my OCD recovery, that I would do it all again. But I digress – we’re here to talk about penises.

Flicking through the TV last night, I came across Naked Attraction, on Channel 4. I’d heard of it before, but for some reason this time, I felt compelled to stop and watch awhile. There stood three butt naked young men, being questioned by the presenter and one female contestant – let’s call her Jane from Bolton. One of them would ‘win’ a date with her if they passed the nudity test blah blah blah. I have to say, I wasn’t really listening. I was mesmerised by their brazen display of cockiness. One of them, John from Leeds, was trying to gain a lead by thrusting his groin aggressively at the camera – my eyes started to water. All three of them trotted out their own versions of ‘Watch me! Watch me!’ with cringe-worth puns referencing their appendages and virility. On some base level, it was funny, and I tried to see the light-hearted side of it, but alas, there was just too much flesh going on for me to be at ease.

Now, I have to make one thing clear. I’m no prude. I don’t frown at nudity or sex scenes in a blanket sense, but there was something overtly distasteful about the way Naked Attraction framed their contestants. I don’t know if it was the close-ups, the tacky booths they stood in or the lack of a decent filter in post-production (man, we needed some colour!) but after two minutes, I felt angry. Hubster was shouting, ‘Turn it off!’ but my eyes were on stalks – I literally couldn’t look away.  And then it was Jane from Bolton’s turn to de-robe and submit her body to scrutiny. This, in my opinion, is where the show revealed its rotten core. Jane walks out as the camera slowly pans up her body and the fellas take turns to judge her with comments like ‘Great pair of tits!’ and ‘Nice tidy fanny, just how I like ‘em!’ – three guys slipping smoothly into a culturally validated show of misogyny, like school boys pushing the boundaries to see how naughty they can be before they lose their privileges. And their privilege was telling, because rude as things got, there was no slapping of wrists for this grimy little bunch, no shame in grossly objectifying this woman and effectively applauding her (between drools) for having the body of a 14 year old girl. Call me a middle-aged, fat feminist, but there was a certain violence to this, dressed up as equality – you show me yours, I’ll show you mine – but we know which way the balance tips in a world where women are constantly sexualised, commodified and denied protections, even when they’re fully dressed. I was seething – tidy fanny, he says with relief, while sporting that sad, wrinkled, horror story! The audacity!

Note to self: Don’t watch this shit. Alternate note to self: Stop being judgemental, Liz – you are not the demographic they’re fighting for…it was 10.30pm and you should have been in bed, old lady. Note to other women reading this, after a flashback I had this morning at 6am: Please don’t shave your lady parts to fit in with some porn inspired ideal. It’s okay to have body hair, flabby thighs, uneven breasts and (here’s the shocker) to want to keep your clothes on when meeting someone for the first time. And for the fellas, you don’t have to compare shlongs or display them on live TV, at stag parties, to strangers, on Whatsapp or anywhere else online, in order to get validation or prove that you’re a really big man. We (other humans) don’t care. What turns us on most is a really good…heart.  

Photo by Mark Tryapichnikov on Unsplash

So today, I had an epiphany. It’s my 15th since lockdown. It’s what I do these days, sit idly in my damp garden waiting for bolts of existential lightening to hit me. Actually, I was sitting because I’d attempted to skip, which came after two epiphanies (or epiphani?) I had last week about (i) needing to do more exercise to help me lose weight so I hopefully don’t die of Covid and (ii) needing to have more fun like I did forty years ago when I was a lass. Only I’d momentarily forgot that I’m now a big lass, with an extra 10 stone bearing down on my perimenopausal bones (I had an epiphany about organic supplements for wimmin back in May but haven’t ordered any yet) and as for the chaffing, jiggling and local birds stopping to watch me…well, I had to take a few seconds to rest my ample haunches and compose myself.

But I digress. Today’s momentous realisation is…I am happy. Not particularly earth shattering, but for me it marks…it marks…I’ve been trying to think of a metaphor, and am scrambling for something other than a cliche about giant leaps or lost and found…but that’s kind of in the realm of what I’m wanting to say. All those years ago, when the little version of me was skipping in the school playground, desperate to fit in, heavy with the cares of my complex family and what I saw as a limited future, the thing I found hardest to imagine was a time when I would feel carefree, unencumbered and, despite what my new digital scales tell me, light. I’m finally occupying a space and season that fills me with optimism, even with the very real challenges that this world is throwing at us right now. I have faith that we humans who love can work things out. I have faith that artists are going to rise up and paint, sing, dance and write it better. I believe that those of us with a heart for revolution, for fending off the real enemies of hate, poverty, ignorance and greed will win. 

I’m having a Rocky moment. Eye of the tiger. Where’s that skipping rope?

Photo by Zach Lucero on Unsplash