I came across an interesting post written by the wonderful Ashley over at Small Strokes on the subject of overload . What she had to say was familiar, especially the bit about disappearing when overcommitment prevents the required perfection being attained (reading the last bit into it through my own messed up process). The urge to do everything and to do it perfectly is so strong, and when each project that comes along is so very exciting, or challenging, or offers such an amazing developmental opportunity, how can you say no? I have to say I admire the way that Ashley has created a strategy to filter and that that involves getting a reality check from her biggest supporter, her husband. Would that we all could have that external calm and positive reflector to helpus figure out our priorities.
But what also came to mind reading Ashley's post was about the opposite problem, the danger of underload. That vast gaping chasm that envelops when you are not being challenged, when there is no excitement, when lack of confidence has led to the incremental reduction in your projects and goals. And just as the panic of overload can lead to disappearance as a means of managing the stress, so the panic of worthlessness that comes with underload can lead to disappearance.
As I struggle to complete this wretched PhD, I find that my world has shrunk to this house, these few streets, and few, predictable outings for functional purposes. And rather than being a productive space to write in, the inertia of underload makes the whole process one of constant struggle against self-doubt and, at times, loathing.
Which is not to take anything away from Ashley and her struggles with overload. It just got me wondering if there is a sweet spot of 'load' in which heart, body and mind sings, and the possibilities soar. And if so, how do you go about finding it?
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
Finding the right prescription
I've just read this interesting post on the ever wonderful The F-Word and it chimed with me. Not because I've gone through what Jane is talking about in her post, but because I've had some experience of the impact that not getting the right treatment, or indeed not getting any treatment at all, can have on one's day to day life.
I have an underactive thyroid. No big deal; 100mcg of levothyroxine a day (for me) and the problem is fixed. The problem is that as I look back over my life I have clearly had an underactive thyroid for at least half my life, and that has affected everything. I've struggled with my weight for years, I've been sleepy when by rights I couldn't possibly be (16hrs sleep and still tired?), and I've struggled to concentrate for even half a sentence of reading let alone a whole chapter (not so good when you are a lifelong student!). But it was more than that: I also had severe anxiety to go with the apathy, which spiralled into agoraphobia when I was also depressed. If I exercised it took me days to recover and I had physical tremors at times of stress. One way or another, I went to the doctor about all of these problems over the course of at least 15 years, and it was not recognised once as a possibility. It was only when they started to investigate for another condition entirely that the thyroid problem was diagnosed.
I still remember vividly the experience of taking the thyroxine for the first time. It felt like the most amazing high, because I actually had energy. After the first few days of bouncing round the room and irritating everyone (especially my boss), I began to get used to this increase in the hormone that should be there naturally. But every day, week, month, everything just got a little easier and I began to realise that everyone didn't feel the way that I always had and that they weren't just managing it better than me. I really wasn't a lazy failure - I just hadn't stood a chance. Now it was all going to be better.
Except gradually it wasn't getting better any more and then it started to get worse. My docs were great about working with me to get my thyroxine dosage right, happy to take my lead as long as my bloods stayed somewhere in the recommended range. But something was not right. And I had to push to be taken seriously, after all my bloods looked fine. What hadn't been checked was my iron levels, and when I finally got it checked, turns out I was right off the bottom of the chart.
So now I take my iron tablets twice a day, as well as the thyroxine, and again I have that feeling of 'oh, THIS is what being a human is supposed to feel like'. When I exercise, my fitness actually increases. When I need to think, my brain actually works. And when there are chores to be done, I have the energy to tear through the list and then keep going.
Now that's quite a ramble through the saga of my health. And I guess the question is how does that relate to the post I linked to above. Well my point is this: for years I was made to feel that everything I struggled with was my fault, that I was lazy, fat and should be ashamed of myself. Every time I went into the doctor's surgery I was told that if I just lost weight it would all be fine, if I just conformed then there would be no problems. Thing is, I was biochemically incapable of conforming. I needed those tiny, almost inconsequential, tablets to function and to feel right in myself. I did not need to be shamed for the consequences of what was physically wrong for me. And I think that perhaps my experience is a very pale shadow of how it must feel for people who are intersex or trans and are looking for help and support.
So yeah, I read a post like the one above and I think about the myriad ways that prescribing is political and the way that the refusal to consider prescribing is also political. I think about the ways in which meds are pushed onto some people (those experiencing mental health problems, for example) and the way that meds are witheld for others. And I think about the ways in which the messages that surround health and the prescription process often vilify and punish the individual who is asking for help.
I don't think it's necessarily a personal message from a particular doctor; I think it's usually the result of policy, whether national or local. But those policies are often deciding who is worthy of treatment, and thus respect, and who is categorically not worthy.
And if you happen to fall outside the boundaries drawn, well it's clearly your own damn fault.
I have an underactive thyroid. No big deal; 100mcg of levothyroxine a day (for me) and the problem is fixed. The problem is that as I look back over my life I have clearly had an underactive thyroid for at least half my life, and that has affected everything. I've struggled with my weight for years, I've been sleepy when by rights I couldn't possibly be (16hrs sleep and still tired?), and I've struggled to concentrate for even half a sentence of reading let alone a whole chapter (not so good when you are a lifelong student!). But it was more than that: I also had severe anxiety to go with the apathy, which spiralled into agoraphobia when I was also depressed. If I exercised it took me days to recover and I had physical tremors at times of stress. One way or another, I went to the doctor about all of these problems over the course of at least 15 years, and it was not recognised once as a possibility. It was only when they started to investigate for another condition entirely that the thyroid problem was diagnosed.
I still remember vividly the experience of taking the thyroxine for the first time. It felt like the most amazing high, because I actually had energy. After the first few days of bouncing round the room and irritating everyone (especially my boss), I began to get used to this increase in the hormone that should be there naturally. But every day, week, month, everything just got a little easier and I began to realise that everyone didn't feel the way that I always had and that they weren't just managing it better than me. I really wasn't a lazy failure - I just hadn't stood a chance. Now it was all going to be better.
Except gradually it wasn't getting better any more and then it started to get worse. My docs were great about working with me to get my thyroxine dosage right, happy to take my lead as long as my bloods stayed somewhere in the recommended range. But something was not right. And I had to push to be taken seriously, after all my bloods looked fine. What hadn't been checked was my iron levels, and when I finally got it checked, turns out I was right off the bottom of the chart.
So now I take my iron tablets twice a day, as well as the thyroxine, and again I have that feeling of 'oh, THIS is what being a human is supposed to feel like'. When I exercise, my fitness actually increases. When I need to think, my brain actually works. And when there are chores to be done, I have the energy to tear through the list and then keep going.
Now that's quite a ramble through the saga of my health. And I guess the question is how does that relate to the post I linked to above. Well my point is this: for years I was made to feel that everything I struggled with was my fault, that I was lazy, fat and should be ashamed of myself. Every time I went into the doctor's surgery I was told that if I just lost weight it would all be fine, if I just conformed then there would be no problems. Thing is, I was biochemically incapable of conforming. I needed those tiny, almost inconsequential, tablets to function and to feel right in myself. I did not need to be shamed for the consequences of what was physically wrong for me. And I think that perhaps my experience is a very pale shadow of how it must feel for people who are intersex or trans and are looking for help and support.
So yeah, I read a post like the one above and I think about the myriad ways that prescribing is political and the way that the refusal to consider prescribing is also political. I think about the ways in which meds are pushed onto some people (those experiencing mental health problems, for example) and the way that meds are witheld for others. And I think about the ways in which the messages that surround health and the prescription process often vilify and punish the individual who is asking for help.
I don't think it's necessarily a personal message from a particular doctor; I think it's usually the result of policy, whether national or local. But those policies are often deciding who is worthy of treatment, and thus respect, and who is categorically not worthy.
And if you happen to fall outside the boundaries drawn, well it's clearly your own damn fault.
Friday, 17 September 2010
Nausea Inducing News - Issue 1
Whilst today offers a wealth of possible winners for the NIN award (the cost of the Pope's visit to the UK, the appalling way that some humans treat animals, or the ongoing erasure of rights, decency and diversity in France), I'm going to start with something close to my heart: the disgusting way that people with histories of mental health problems are treated in this country.
This story about police refusing to believe that a woman had been seriously sexually assaulted in her own home twice, because of her history of mental health problems, makes me feel physically sick as well as making my blood boil. I wish I could say that I cannot believe that it took her family and GP to intervene before the investigation was carried out properly, but unfortunately I can believe it. I'm actually more surprised that the GP actually weighed in on her side; I don't think ours would do the same.
I'm also pleased that this woman has family who will go into battle for her; so many people with complex mental health histories either do not have families who would be prepared to fight for them, or their families do not have the resources or social capital to take this kind of action. And it often is a fight; if you love a person with history of mental health problems, you become discountable by association. That this woman's family has been able to get notices served to 11 officers in relation to their conduct in this case is impressive. I wish that were not something to be impressed about.
I cannot begin to imagine how it must have felt for this woman to be assaulted in such a manner and have the sense of safety in her own home destroyed. To then be told by police that you must be lying because, well, you're mad, just compounds the damage. Can you imagine being dismissed about something so serious, despite the physical evidence that you can provide? Can you imagine having something in your history or from a completely irrelevant part of your life used to prove you can never be believed? Can you imagine what that would do to your sense of your own perception of the world? Can you imagine how worthless that could make you feel? Don't you think that that might make any mental health problems so much worse?
I hope whoever she is and wherever she is, the eventual conviction of her attacker and this IPCC ruling might have gone some way to helping her heal. And I wish her peace and safety.
And, Essex Police, you are the winners of today's Nausea Inducing News Award. The word despicable does not begin to cover what you've done.
This story about police refusing to believe that a woman had been seriously sexually assaulted in her own home twice, because of her history of mental health problems, makes me feel physically sick as well as making my blood boil. I wish I could say that I cannot believe that it took her family and GP to intervene before the investigation was carried out properly, but unfortunately I can believe it. I'm actually more surprised that the GP actually weighed in on her side; I don't think ours would do the same.
I'm also pleased that this woman has family who will go into battle for her; so many people with complex mental health histories either do not have families who would be prepared to fight for them, or their families do not have the resources or social capital to take this kind of action. And it often is a fight; if you love a person with history of mental health problems, you become discountable by association. That this woman's family has been able to get notices served to 11 officers in relation to their conduct in this case is impressive. I wish that were not something to be impressed about.
I cannot begin to imagine how it must have felt for this woman to be assaulted in such a manner and have the sense of safety in her own home destroyed. To then be told by police that you must be lying because, well, you're mad, just compounds the damage. Can you imagine being dismissed about something so serious, despite the physical evidence that you can provide? Can you imagine having something in your history or from a completely irrelevant part of your life used to prove you can never be believed? Can you imagine what that would do to your sense of your own perception of the world? Can you imagine how worthless that could make you feel? Don't you think that that might make any mental health problems so much worse?
I hope whoever she is and wherever she is, the eventual conviction of her attacker and this IPCC ruling might have gone some way to helping her heal. And I wish her peace and safety.
And, Essex Police, you are the winners of today's Nausea Inducing News Award. The word despicable does not begin to cover what you've done.
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Conference week, day 3
Wow, it's been an amazing couple of days. Let me see...
The rest of the conference on Monday in Brighton was fab. There were some really interesting papers, some lovely new people met and hopefully the chance to create some interesting new opportunities. I got the chance to promote the feminist cultural activism carnival and met a few people who I've followed online. I left the university of Sussex campus feeling so energised and happy. The organisers must be commended for putting together a fantastic event. All in all a great day.
Which was good, because the next day was PAINFUL. I elected to travel to San diego the day before presenting at the current conference because of monday's event. So yesterday started at 4:20 in order to get my 8:30 flight to Toronto. Yep, that's right, I flew to San Diego via Toronto. I then should have had another connection in Chicago before finally reaching San Diego. Not what happened. The first flight was 40 mins late leaving heathrow and so despite running through Toronto airport, there was no way in hell I was ever going to make that connection, since I had to collect my bag, then go through US border preclearance then recheck my bag, and then head for the gate. And apparently I am a bit risky according to the US customs people. I have no idea why, but the pissiest guard ever seemed particularly worried about the fact that I was carrying 4 - count 'em, 4 - books. They got more scrutiny than anything else in my bag. Not my external hard-drive which could have been a fake, or my many meds, no, the books were apparently the most worrisome thing I could be carrying. By this point I was already so tired I wanted to cry. And then the bitch had the audacity to bend the cornerbof one of my books as she shoved it back into my bag. I have killed people for less.
So 25 hours after I started my journey, I got to my hotel room, which is seriously plush. Pictures will follow when I get home to a better Internet connection. The bed was bliss - until the train went past at 2am and the train driver thought it would be cute to toot his horn 10 fricking times. Seriously, W T F!!
Anyway, I need to wrap this up now, so I'll just say for now that I gave my paper this morning and it went well. To time, well received, and plenty of great questions. Met the lovely Ashley,my fellow panellist along w Ann, my academic supervisor. Had some fab conversations about subjectivity and the reality of cultural activism via blog. Think I can congratulate myself on a job well-done.
Right, got to go now to call my honey before she goes to bed. Hope you all having a good day, folks.
The rest of the conference on Monday in Brighton was fab. There were some really interesting papers, some lovely new people met and hopefully the chance to create some interesting new opportunities. I got the chance to promote the feminist cultural activism carnival and met a few people who I've followed online. I left the university of Sussex campus feeling so energised and happy. The organisers must be commended for putting together a fantastic event. All in all a great day.
Which was good, because the next day was PAINFUL. I elected to travel to San diego the day before presenting at the current conference because of monday's event. So yesterday started at 4:20 in order to get my 8:30 flight to Toronto. Yep, that's right, I flew to San Diego via Toronto. I then should have had another connection in Chicago before finally reaching San Diego. Not what happened. The first flight was 40 mins late leaving heathrow and so despite running through Toronto airport, there was no way in hell I was ever going to make that connection, since I had to collect my bag, then go through US border preclearance then recheck my bag, and then head for the gate. And apparently I am a bit risky according to the US customs people. I have no idea why, but the pissiest guard ever seemed particularly worried about the fact that I was carrying 4 - count 'em, 4 - books. They got more scrutiny than anything else in my bag. Not my external hard-drive which could have been a fake, or my many meds, no, the books were apparently the most worrisome thing I could be carrying. By this point I was already so tired I wanted to cry. And then the bitch had the audacity to bend the cornerbof one of my books as she shoved it back into my bag. I have killed people for less.
So 25 hours after I started my journey, I got to my hotel room, which is seriously plush. Pictures will follow when I get home to a better Internet connection. The bed was bliss - until the train went past at 2am and the train driver thought it would be cute to toot his horn 10 fricking times. Seriously, W T F!!
Anyway, I need to wrap this up now, so I'll just say for now that I gave my paper this morning and it went well. To time, well received, and plenty of great questions. Met the lovely Ashley,my fellow panellist along w Ann, my academic supervisor. Had some fab conversations about subjectivity and the reality of cultural activism via blog. Think I can congratulate myself on a job well-done.
Right, got to go now to call my honey before she goes to bed. Hope you all having a good day, folks.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Conference week - day 1, post 1
This week is the week of conferences. Today, it's Brighton for the Digital Methods, Cultural Politics and Feminist Approaches conference. Then tomorrow I fly out to San Diego to present on Wednesday morning at the contemporary women's writing network annual conference. In the process I will be travelling internationally on my own for the first time, which as a nervous flyer is more than a bit daunting. On the other hand, I will be presenting my first conference paper & hopefully expanding my network of academic contacts for my nascent career. Not too much pressure for the week then!
So one hour in to the first day of the week of conferences and I already have so many new things to think about. Adi Kuntsman just gave the first keynote of the day on 'Politics of/in digital cultures: lessons from feminist and queer theory'. It was a really rich, interesting, complex talk, which I am going to get so much out of reflecting on.
Thus far, it's a really good start to the week.
So one hour in to the first day of the week of conferences and I already have so many new things to think about. Adi Kuntsman just gave the first keynote of the day on 'Politics of/in digital cultures: lessons from feminist and queer theory'. It was a really rich, interesting, complex talk, which I am going to get so much out of reflecting on.
Thus far, it's a really good start to the week.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
My Research
This is a post I have been putting off writing for far too long. But here goes....
I am currently just over 18 months in to my PhD research, for which I am considering feminist and womanist blogging, specifically what kind of feminist and womanist theory is being written about and developed in these blogs. I use the word theory, but I don't necessarily mean it in a purely academic sense; rather I mean theory at all levels, from the theories that we use to make sense of our every day lives to the grand theories of the academy. Georgia Gaden has suggested that the feminist blogosphere is the first place to direct people wanting to find out more about feminism, so I want to know what kinds of feminism and womanism are there out there? What is sayable and what absolutely not? And how does the presence of readers and commenters with unprecedented access to the blogger affect the way in which she chooses to write or what she chooses to write about? And, thus, how does the presence of the immediately interactive audience impact on the expressions of feminism and womanism that are available to an interested party?
That, in a rather long paragraph is my research. Needless to say it feels more complex and wooly at the moment than those few sentences would seem to betray, but I can see how my thinking is moving forward in this area. So why the anxiety about posting this? Well partly, it's protectiveness and insecurity about my academic work. If I blog about my ideas, maybe someone else will pick them up and publish before I am ready to (because obviously they are that good!). On the other hand, perhaps someone will leave a comment that trashes my work completely, and I am not sure if I could deal with that. And then I find the work of people like Ashley at Small Strokes and see both how great it is and how closely related it is to my work, and my anxiety does not get any smaller.
However, I have had enough of being that fearful, so here it is world: My Research.
I am currently just over 18 months in to my PhD research, for which I am considering feminist and womanist blogging, specifically what kind of feminist and womanist theory is being written about and developed in these blogs. I use the word theory, but I don't necessarily mean it in a purely academic sense; rather I mean theory at all levels, from the theories that we use to make sense of our every day lives to the grand theories of the academy. Georgia Gaden has suggested that the feminist blogosphere is the first place to direct people wanting to find out more about feminism, so I want to know what kinds of feminism and womanism are there out there? What is sayable and what absolutely not? And how does the presence of readers and commenters with unprecedented access to the blogger affect the way in which she chooses to write or what she chooses to write about? And, thus, how does the presence of the immediately interactive audience impact on the expressions of feminism and womanism that are available to an interested party?
That, in a rather long paragraph is my research. Needless to say it feels more complex and wooly at the moment than those few sentences would seem to betray, but I can see how my thinking is moving forward in this area. So why the anxiety about posting this? Well partly, it's protectiveness and insecurity about my academic work. If I blog about my ideas, maybe someone else will pick them up and publish before I am ready to (because obviously they are that good!). On the other hand, perhaps someone will leave a comment that trashes my work completely, and I am not sure if I could deal with that. And then I find the work of people like Ashley at Small Strokes and see both how great it is and how closely related it is to my work, and my anxiety does not get any smaller.
However, I have had enough of being that fearful, so here it is world: My Research.
Monday, 10 May 2010
Sometimes other people say it better
I think this warrants a 'Hell yeah!'
I will always expect more. It's the only way I know how to be.
H/T to the wonderful Shakesville
I will always expect more. It's the only way I know how to be.
H/T to the wonderful Shakesville
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Working on it
As I've already mentioned, life got a bit complicated there for a while. Which is tricky enough generally, but since I am half way through my PhD, the timing was particularly sucky. Add in my ongoing issues with self-doubt and procrastination and the mix is not very positive.
But I'm working on it.
In so many ways.
But I'm working on it.
In so many ways.
Friday, 23 April 2010
So close and yet so far
Don't you jsut hate it when people that you otherwise have a lot of hope for get something so right and yet so very wrong at the same time?
My case in point for today is Nick Clegg and one particular statement from his otherwise respectable performance in last night's debate. To wit, his accusation that David Cameron is working with 'nutters, anti-Semites, people who deny climate change exists, homophobes' in Europe. It made my heart glad to hear Cameron called out over his alliances with homophobic bigots (amongst the many other questionable, if not outright disgusting alliances), but did Clegg really have to use the word 'nutter' like that? Could he not have found another word rather than thoughtlessly (hopefully) using words that people with mental health problems are punished with every day? Did he intend to conflate people with mental health problems with these unpleasant groups?
According to Beatrice Bray writing in the Guardian's Comment is Free, 'All three [party leaders] have signed a compact, drafted by the all-party parliamentary mental health group on the use of language', specifically about the thoughtless, inaccurate and pejorative use of language related to mental health.
Perhaps Nick Clegg should go back and review his copy.
My case in point for today is Nick Clegg and one particular statement from his otherwise respectable performance in last night's debate. To wit, his accusation that David Cameron is working with 'nutters, anti-Semites, people who deny climate change exists, homophobes' in Europe. It made my heart glad to hear Cameron called out over his alliances with homophobic bigots (amongst the many other questionable, if not outright disgusting alliances), but did Clegg really have to use the word 'nutter' like that? Could he not have found another word rather than thoughtlessly (hopefully) using words that people with mental health problems are punished with every day? Did he intend to conflate people with mental health problems with these unpleasant groups?
According to Beatrice Bray writing in the Guardian's Comment is Free, 'All three [party leaders] have signed a compact, drafted by the all-party parliamentary mental health group on the use of language', specifically about the thoughtless, inaccurate and pejorative use of language related to mental health.
Perhaps Nick Clegg should go back and review his copy.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Closer to Fine
You know how there are times in life when you can see just how precariously everything is balanced in your life and just how fragile it all is really?
Well, that's where I have been over the last couple of months. And it has been hard. Some of it I want to blog about in more detail, but need to check it out with others first, but for now I want to capture the feeling of resurgence and hope that I am currently filled with. Whilst nothing is fixed or sorted, I am nonetheless 'Closer to Fine' and that feels like a pretty damn good place to be.
There have been some tough times in the past, the kind that seems to generate lots of questions about just how I am managing to cope (and I have no doubt there will be many, many more such times in the future). In response, I keep coming back to the Indigo Girls track of the title and particularly the lines 'The best thing you ever done for me/ was to help me take my life less seriously./ It's only life after all'. Getting to that point in life where the worst has happened and you have survived anyway can be so incredibly freeing.
And that is definitely something to be revelled in.
So I want to share the joy of one of my favourite songs by one of my very favourite bands and because this is my blog and I can, I give you the Indigo Girls and 'Closer to Fine':
Well, that's where I have been over the last couple of months. And it has been hard. Some of it I want to blog about in more detail, but need to check it out with others first, but for now I want to capture the feeling of resurgence and hope that I am currently filled with. Whilst nothing is fixed or sorted, I am nonetheless 'Closer to Fine' and that feels like a pretty damn good place to be.
There have been some tough times in the past, the kind that seems to generate lots of questions about just how I am managing to cope (and I have no doubt there will be many, many more such times in the future). In response, I keep coming back to the Indigo Girls track of the title and particularly the lines 'The best thing you ever done for me/ was to help me take my life less seriously./ It's only life after all'. Getting to that point in life where the worst has happened and you have survived anyway can be so incredibly freeing.
And that is definitely something to be revelled in.
So I want to share the joy of one of my favourite songs by one of my very favourite bands and because this is my blog and I can, I give you the Indigo Girls and 'Closer to Fine':
Monday, 8 February 2010
Warm fuzzies
So I haven't been keeping my blog up to date - what are you going to do about it?
But in the spirit of picking this thing up, dusting it down and holding it up to the cold light of day, I start with a small, micro-mini-postette. Baby steps and all that.
Tha thought for today is the warm fuzzies that follows an old friend you thought you had lost touch with forever getting in touch out of the blue.
That is all. Going off to continue being fuzzy. And warm.
But in the spirit of picking this thing up, dusting it down and holding it up to the cold light of day, I start with a small, micro-mini-postette. Baby steps and all that.
Tha thought for today is the warm fuzzies that follows an old friend you thought you had lost touch with forever getting in touch out of the blue.
That is all. Going off to continue being fuzzy. And warm.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Teaching
I'm teaching my first class on the MA Interdisciplinary Methods module today and am feeling increasingly nervous about it. However, the class that we have designed should be really interesting. We are asking the class to think about the different ways that one might investigate a phenomenon such as blogs, whether one's focus is on blogs as culture or as cultural artefact. Fingers crossed we have a good session.
I'll let you know how it went - if I survive!
I'll let you know how it went - if I survive!
Thursday, 13 August 2009
A little ray of gay sunshine
I realise this alternative video for Lily Allen's 'Fuck You Very Much' might have been around for a while, but I just stumbled over it and think it really needs to be shared. Much, much better than the official video. Kudos to Lily for the track, though.
Right, now I'm off to jump gleefully round my lounge to it for the 10th time today.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
From the heart of an eloquent butch
Following on from my previous post, I wanted to share the following link with you about femmes, from Ivan Coyote at xtra.ca.
Now that is what the love of a good butch feels like.
Btw, Ivan ranks number 6 in the 2009 Top Hot Butches list.
Not so damn extinct, huh?
Now that is what the love of a good butch feels like.
Btw, Ivan ranks number 6 in the 2009 Top Hot Butches list.
Not so damn extinct, huh?
Thursday, 30 July 2009
In honour of the butch
Ever read something so smack-you-between-the-eyes stupid that you wonder how the hell you and the writer exist in the same world? Especially when you both allegedly live in the same small niche that the rest of the world ignores, denigrates or uses for titillation? There’s supposed to be some solidarity in those circumstances, right?
Yesterday I was chatting with my beloved and she clued me into an article printed in g3, a free monthly lesbian magazine. Now, I have read this magazine over the years, and can appreciate that, with an estimated readership of approximately 140,000, such a magazine cannot be expected to truly represent every single queer woman out there. But from a quick scan of their data about their average reader, I was the walking embodiment of that average reader.
Until I became a poor student again, of course.
My beloved is still smack dab in the middle of the average reader category. But according to the offending article, she does not even exist.
You see, my beloved is a butch. A short-back-’n’-sides, big-boot-wearin’, checked-shirted butch. She has more pairs of jeans than a Levi’s museum and channels a glorious Jimmy Dean-esque charm and quiet charisma. And the leather jacket is somewhere between her uniform and her armour.
According to the g3 article, butches under 40 do not exist, so sorry, darling, you’re an impossibility. Not only is this article just plain wrong, it was so poorly argued with no internal logic that the writer and the editor should be ashamed to have published this shit. The writer manages to both note that butch represents gender fluidity that increasingly no longer exists and to argue that butch is no longer necessary because we have enough gender fluidity. Yup, I can’t get my head around that one either.
Another beautiful piece of circular logic suggests that we don’t need to dress butch any more because you can just go to a gay club or check out a profile to find another queer woman. But at the same time, straight women are increasingly dressing like queer women, who are increasingly dressing like straights, so it can be hard to figure out who might be up for a Sapphic encounter or two. Damn it, why can’t you just tell by the way that women dress? It’s all too confusing!! Oh.
Of course, butch might just be about being in yer face political, opines the writer. Because walking down the street every day taking the random abuse and rudeness that people hand out to butches is absolutely about being political. These dang women are just being difficult and you know there’s just no need for a nice lesbian to do that any more!
I hope you note the liberal dose of sarcasm laced through the preceding chapters. Please don’t miss it.
I am a butch-loving femme. A smile from a butch makes me go weak at the knees in all sorts of good ways. So I am absolutely biased. I am also apparently invisible as well. Those gay clubs that are allegedly the obvious places to go to find a fellow queer woman are not particularly helpful places for me. I get read as a fag hag and dismissed by most queer women. In clubs for gay women, I get treated like I do not belong, unless I have a woman with me to validate my credentials. I walk down Old Compton Street with my beloved and she gets cruised whilst I am blatantly ignored as irrelevant by most queer women. Butches, on the other hand, always recognise me for who and what I am. It’s like we speak a language other queer women cannot or do not want to understand. And I can tell you that there are butch women out there, including butches under 40.
It takes a lot of courage to be a butch, because it means being yourself. It means knowing who you are and refusing to hide or pretend, just to make other people feel less challenged. It means holding your head high every single day and rejecting all the judgement and insults that the rest of the world might throw at you today. It means being prepared to fight to be treated like a human being just because the cut of your hair, the clothes you wear and the way you move are not the way that you have been told to behave. Being butch means being brave.
So when a community magazine declares butches extinct, whether due to gender fluidity or rigidity, lack of political need or just plain fear, my heart bleeds for the butches that I know and my own beloved butch. To me, this article smacks of an internalised misogyny and homophobia . And I know that there are butches out there who feel now even more isolated, since even their own community does not recognise that they exist.
Believe me, butches, there are women out there who love you just as you are and would be devastated if you disappeared.
Yesterday I was chatting with my beloved and she clued me into an article printed in g3, a free monthly lesbian magazine. Now, I have read this magazine over the years, and can appreciate that, with an estimated readership of approximately 140,000, such a magazine cannot be expected to truly represent every single queer woman out there. But from a quick scan of their data about their average reader, I was the walking embodiment of that average reader.
Until I became a poor student again, of course.
My beloved is still smack dab in the middle of the average reader category. But according to the offending article, she does not even exist.
You see, my beloved is a butch. A short-back-’n’-sides, big-boot-wearin’, checked-shirted butch. She has more pairs of jeans than a Levi’s museum and channels a glorious Jimmy Dean-esque charm and quiet charisma. And the leather jacket is somewhere between her uniform and her armour.
According to the g3 article, butches under 40 do not exist, so sorry, darling, you’re an impossibility. Not only is this article just plain wrong, it was so poorly argued with no internal logic that the writer and the editor should be ashamed to have published this shit. The writer manages to both note that butch represents gender fluidity that increasingly no longer exists and to argue that butch is no longer necessary because we have enough gender fluidity. Yup, I can’t get my head around that one either.
Another beautiful piece of circular logic suggests that we don’t need to dress butch any more because you can just go to a gay club or check out a profile to find another queer woman. But at the same time, straight women are increasingly dressing like queer women, who are increasingly dressing like straights, so it can be hard to figure out who might be up for a Sapphic encounter or two. Damn it, why can’t you just tell by the way that women dress? It’s all too confusing!! Oh.
Of course, butch might just be about being in yer face political, opines the writer. Because walking down the street every day taking the random abuse and rudeness that people hand out to butches is absolutely about being political. These dang women are just being difficult and you know there’s just no need for a nice lesbian to do that any more!
I hope you note the liberal dose of sarcasm laced through the preceding chapters. Please don’t miss it.
I am a butch-loving femme. A smile from a butch makes me go weak at the knees in all sorts of good ways. So I am absolutely biased. I am also apparently invisible as well. Those gay clubs that are allegedly the obvious places to go to find a fellow queer woman are not particularly helpful places for me. I get read as a fag hag and dismissed by most queer women. In clubs for gay women, I get treated like I do not belong, unless I have a woman with me to validate my credentials. I walk down Old Compton Street with my beloved and she gets cruised whilst I am blatantly ignored as irrelevant by most queer women. Butches, on the other hand, always recognise me for who and what I am. It’s like we speak a language other queer women cannot or do not want to understand. And I can tell you that there are butch women out there, including butches under 40.
It takes a lot of courage to be a butch, because it means being yourself. It means knowing who you are and refusing to hide or pretend, just to make other people feel less challenged. It means holding your head high every single day and rejecting all the judgement and insults that the rest of the world might throw at you today. It means being prepared to fight to be treated like a human being just because the cut of your hair, the clothes you wear and the way you move are not the way that you have been told to behave. Being butch means being brave.
So when a community magazine declares butches extinct, whether due to gender fluidity or rigidity, lack of political need or just plain fear, my heart bleeds for the butches that I know and my own beloved butch. To me, this article smacks of an internalised misogyny and homophobia . And I know that there are butches out there who feel now even more isolated, since even their own community does not recognise that they exist.
Believe me, butches, there are women out there who love you just as you are and would be devastated if you disappeared.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Advert rage
Ever deconstructed the messages and language within adverts?
Sometimes there's fun to be had (see the weekly column at the beginning of the Saturday Guardian's Guide section). Sometimes there are pure head-desk moments. And sometimes the red mist of rage descends.
At the moment, amongst others, I am feeling pretty pissed at the relatively recent appearance of adverts which assume that plastic surgery will be an eventual and necessary choice for every woman.
Firstly, Juviderm, a feather will never convince me that the needle you are hiding behind it will not hurt. Of course it frickin' will. And no, I do not have an aesthetic practitioner. And hiding the word surgery does not change the realities or the risks of undertaking even so-called simple procedures.
But putting all that to one side, the other thing that chaps my hide about all of this is the limited and restrictive idea of 'perfect woman' that these kinds of adverts promote at an apparently increasingly urgent fashion. These women are almost universally white, definitely middle-class (both by accent and by resource measures for these things to be matter of course), absolutely not queer, not differently abled, without doubt cisgendered, etc. This woman that we are all supposed to be and to spend money on being as 'naturally' as possible ignores the realities of the vast majority of women in this country. I realise that advertisers target the market that will buy their product, but when all the adverts make the same assumptions, I have to come to the conclusion that to a capitalist system, I am invisible and therefore irrelevant.
On the other hand, when I think about who I am invisible to, maybe I am better off existing in their blindspots.
Sometimes there's fun to be had (see the weekly column at the beginning of the Saturday Guardian's Guide section). Sometimes there are pure head-desk moments. And sometimes the red mist of rage descends.
At the moment, amongst others, I am feeling pretty pissed at the relatively recent appearance of adverts which assume that plastic surgery will be an eventual and necessary choice for every woman.
Firstly, Juviderm, a feather will never convince me that the needle you are hiding behind it will not hurt. Of course it frickin' will. And no, I do not have an aesthetic practitioner. And hiding the word surgery does not change the realities or the risks of undertaking even so-called simple procedures.
But putting all that to one side, the other thing that chaps my hide about all of this is the limited and restrictive idea of 'perfect woman' that these kinds of adverts promote at an apparently increasingly urgent fashion. These women are almost universally white, definitely middle-class (both by accent and by resource measures for these things to be matter of course), absolutely not queer, not differently abled, without doubt cisgendered, etc. This woman that we are all supposed to be and to spend money on being as 'naturally' as possible ignores the realities of the vast majority of women in this country. I realise that advertisers target the market that will buy their product, but when all the adverts make the same assumptions, I have to come to the conclusion that to a capitalist system, I am invisible and therefore irrelevant.
On the other hand, when I think about who I am invisible to, maybe I am better off existing in their blindspots.
The need for sleep
3 hours of sleep a night, in two 1 and a half hour batches, is simply not enough.
I can only hope that tonight is at least a smidge better. Fingers crossed
I can only hope that tonight is at least a smidge better. Fingers crossed
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