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

One of things I’ve really missed about lockdown and social distancing is being able to hug. I’m a hugger. I’m not one of those people who forces myself on work colleagues (I know all about boundaries, folks!) or squashes my ample self onto strangers, but nonetheless, I appreciate the value of a well placed embrace. I’ve been told that I give good hugs, that my hugs could even be considered my superpower. With some studies proving that hugs can prevent us from getting ill, it’s a shame that we’re having to be less tactile at a time when we so need a boost in wellbeing.

Another reason I’m struggling with a reduction in physical touch is that it’s one of the ways I love to communicate. As well as being a hugger, I’m also a toucher (sounds gross, so let me explain). Depending on what mood I’m in, I can find it difficult to express myself verbally. I’m pretty good at writing my thoughts down, but I’m not always that confident in speaking to strangers. I can deliver presentations, facilitate meetings, direct action and even butt in on dodgy conversations, but on a one to one, sometimes I stutter. I am at my least articulate when having a coffee with a friend. I’m one of those people who doesn’t mind long silences and could quite happily eat my lunch quietly with the occasional word.

Some of you reading this will be thinking ‘Really, Liz? You always make conversation – you’re never quiet!’ A-ha, that’s because I work really hard at it, but it doesn’t come naturally. Ask Husband Bruce and he will tell you – we can sit in silence for ages at home* and yet our communication is still on point** What makes most of my relationships work in my ability to touch people (still sounds wrong but stay with me). I like shaking hands when I meet people. Not because it’s the social convention, but because I like to exchange some warmth – it feels good to touch someone’s hand, to make that connection, which to me says, ‘I’m ready to engage with you’. In moments when I’m struggling with anxiety (which often manifests in me finding it hard to summon words from my memory banks), I can move forward by placing a hand around someone’s shoulder, or a hand on their arm. I like putting my arms around someone. It enables us both to relax – I get to give support, they get to feel supported, we share a moment of understanding. Even sitting close can do this, as can a hand on a knee (use your intuition and only touch people who have given you consent! I don’t want you to have this image of me going round feeling people up!) You know who your people are and when proximity and touch is welcome and appropriate.

A quick note: I never hug other people’s children, unless they initiate it. I’ve been really clear with my own son that he does not have to hug family members, friends or strangers unless he wants to. I’m teaching him that his body is his own, that he has a right to decide who engages with it, and that he needs to trust his own feelings of discomfort. Hi-fives are good enough.

I remember having a debate with some colleagues when I was working in mental health about whether we should hug clients. Most therapists would say no, as (1) it can appear unprofessional and cross a boundary (2) can signal a different type of relationship between the therapist and client and create an emotional attachment (3) can be misinterpreted and open the door for complaints (4) can trigger traumatic episodes. Having said that, loads of clients would attempt hugs, and in my role as support worker, some clients would naturally hug me at the end of sessions or as a way of expressing gratitude. Working with mainly black women, there were also some cultural norms to navigate and not hugging often created more issues than just having the damn hug! Along with colleagues, I determined that I would hug (1) at the end of sessions where the client initiated it and it was part of a goodbye (2) if the client asked for it and they were in operating from a position of strength (3) it was brief. I have to say, there were occasions when I wanted to hug clients because my social self kicked-in in response to their despair, and I moved toward that nurturing parent described in Transactional Analysis model. Sometimes I gave in to this, though I mainly tried to resist and redirect my energy to building their resilience instead of plugging a gap. As a hugger, who believes more hugs would make the world a better place, this has been tricky for me to navigate. In my new job at the NHS, I feel as though people don’t really know the real me – I haven’t shaken hands, touched a shoulder, given a quickie hug or a single fist bump since joining 3 months ago. This is a seriously stripped down version of Liz, and I feel they’re being short changed.

And now, I’m here sat at my keyboard, planning various Zoom encounters, nervous about these interactions devoid of touch. It’s like I don’t quite know how to start. I’ve told a few people that I’m hugging them from afar, but it’s not quite the same. It could be 6 months until we’re allowed (and feel confident enough) to hug again. Maybe I’ll just save them all up. If you’re one of my friends, prepare to get squished once this is all over.

*Though in this season, we’ve been known to engage in some rants worthy of a stadium audience.

**Physical touch is a love language for both of us. I’m lucky to have every touchy, feely inch of him.

Photo by Marco Bianchetti

For many, the lifting of certain lockdown restrictions has meant a return to semi normality, and the conversation has shifted in the direction of equality and the battle for civil rights. Everyone seems to be talking about Black Lives Matter.

Equally true is that for those of us who are black, this is not new. I’ve been outraged hurt upset speechless numbed by the death of George Floyd; in mid conversation, I’ve found myself scratching my head (literally) and turning away from people, unable to make eye contact. After that sick footage emerged, I spent a few days alone in my bedroom/study, jotting down thoughts, trying to draw, reading psalms and searching for playlists, all in an attempt to relieve the heaviness, to lift a heart that had run out of ways to beat its way through such turmoil. Because George’s life, though far away from mine, was important to me. I hope it isn’t shallow to think of him as a brother, but as someone with four brothers, black men who have been harassed, bullied, overlooked, misunderstood, stereotyped, reduced, neglected and abused, I took it really personally, and started to grieve in spite of efforts to pull myself together and file it away as just another cruel episode in the shared story that is racism.

The grieving has been strange. For one I am doing it from afar. I didn’t know George. I won’t miss seeing his face, or feel the pain of his absence. And yet, I feel so sorry that he has lost his place in this world. His life, though a catalyst for world-wide action and awakening, deserved to be lived full, deserved to be rich and meaningful, deserved to be…long. It’s incredibly sad that so many black people live with the sense that their lives could be snuffed out for the smallest of missteps.  This is where anxiety comes in to rob everyday moments of their joy.

I write this as I read the news that there has been an attack in Reading, UK with three innocent victims. My stomach just flipped. I immediately think of those families who are about to be devastated. Three lives cut short because of someone’s perverse political agenda. I can’t cope with all this hate. There is no snappy ending to this post, no way to neatly wrap up these thoughts. Can we perhaps take a moment to think of these victims, along with all other victims of terrorist attacks, to think of the families suffering and those about to enter this horrid sentence? There is nothing else to do but lean in.

Photo by Mwangi Gatheca

(Trigger Warning: suicide) 

I’ll never forget watching scenes of the terrorist attacks on 11^th September 2001. I was at a church conference and it was break time. Delegates were stood around watching the news on a large screen, frozen in horror as we witnessed the second plane hit the towers. There was something distinctly surreal about seeing something so horrific unfold, and a debilitating sense of powerlessness that rendered us all silent. I think there may have been prayers later, along with chatter and theorizing about how the west would respond. George Bush would be having discussions with his war cabinet no doubt, but I remember feeling worried about my neighbours; this was in Bradford, a multicultural city with a high Pakistani Muslim population, and despite it’s open and welcoming vibe, I was fearful that fringe racist elements would see this as an opportunity to exercise some vigilantism.

For days and weeks after the attacks, I had nightmares, sometimes as I was just dropping off to sleep. Feeling like I was falling, flashbacks to the images of men and women jumping to their deaths to escape the flames. Such experiences are normal in the face of trauma, and victims of trauma are often triggered by other people’s pain. It’s hardly surprising, then, that I have been having similar dreams again recently. Hearing almost daily reports of Covid-19 deaths has taken its toll on me, challenging my usually positive mindset and undermining my go-to rituals  and mantras – nothing seems to work, at least not in the same way. I find myself pinned to the news, sometimes switching stations to get a new nugget or perspective – there is none – and despite my anxiety rising, I can’t look away.

It’s weird to be tiptoeing along, part of an insecure (socially-distanced) huddle where no-one appears to have any clear sense of the boundaries, no firm game plan in mind. There is the mask thing, which I think is supposed to stop you passing the disease on, but doesn’t necessarily stop you catching it. The enhanced version is personal protective equipment (PPE), which some high-risk staff now have, but several months too late for many, who have either passed the virus onto their friends and family, or passed away themselves. There is the magic 2 meters, which is only 1.5m or 1m in some nations, though it’s accepted that some, including teachers, support workers and numerous other key workers will find it impossible to maintain it – but they’re not in line for PPE. I have taken to ranting during the daily briefing and the various TV debates that invite pontificating politicians and righteous journalists to lock horns. Sometimes, I get so incensed by their analysis of our apocalypse that I butt in relentlessly like some angry Question Time panelist, refusing to be ignored. Not that I’ve got anything pertinent to say – my words  sound childish, my lips set permanently in a defiant pout. But I feel driven to speak, to fill the air, to counter the silence. I know silence is supposed to be meditative, restorative, stimulating, good. But right now it’s deafening, anxiety-inducing, crippling and sad. I want answers, dates, hugs and handshakes – and a functional track and trace app, Nightingale schools, mental health support and finance for freelance artists. I don’t want to see people leaping from windows because they can’t afford their rent. I don’t want to get calls when I’m at work at NHS 111 who are so depleted in lockdown that they’ve literally banged and bloodied their head against a brick to get someone to listen. I haven’t reached that point but I feel their pain – some days I’ve been so stressed my words have come out garbled and slow and I’ve taken to my bed for a few hours to get my energy back. Surely, I’m not the only one.

In this time of crisis, when we’re speaking of ‘new normals’ while still working out how to mourn our numerous losses, maybe we need to help each other grapple with this change by simply allowing some space to speak. To say what we’re missing, what we’re frightened of, instead of endless distraction. Of course, I have my moments of distraction, but I committed years ago to reflecting intently on my own feelings, validating them, and not hiding them behind fluff, nonsense and denial. All that does is squish them down, set for an eruption at a later date. And some very vivid dreams. But that’s another post.

Photo by Fabian Møller