Archive for December 2012

Come Together.

December 31, 2012
Volcanic Brightening Burst

Volcanic Brightening Burst

Sometimes things, people, places come together. Sometimes they even come together in a good way.

They’ve been coming together in a good way for me during the last two years.

There was of course the ‘girl interrupted’ moment (6 weeks) two years ago when the Mental Health Services of Redditch & Bromsgrove made their final demonstration of legalised force and empowerment to invade my legal and corporal life and imprison me for publishing things they considered best left unsaid. They took this power, astonishingly, whilst I was in bed at 2 am in the morning and they asserted the right to do so unobserved by a video camera held in my home in order to document absurd conduct by self same.

They did so by intimidating my elder daughter into giving them permission, by scaring her witless, by dragging her from (her final year at) university to come and ‘look after me’ for two weeks so that I could be kept quiet for that time. The deal was – prevent me from writing my blog, watch my every move and tuck me into bed by 10pm.

She found the house policing very frustrating as I really neither wanted nor appreciated being policed. She later returned with a box in which to take my dog in lieue of my being sectioned. The job was not achieved so Benjii was collected later after I had been bundled into an ‘ambulance’ and driven to Worcester where no bed was available for me.

So – a lost night’s sleep for an unbelievably outrageous mission. By around 2.30 pm the same day I was transferred to Redditch where I continued to write my blog and to co-ordinate activity around it via the assistance of a couple of good friends and to continue a conference plan despite my situation.

Sadly, Mary Nettle amongst a few other well meaning ‘service user’ ‘friends’ paid me the very dubious honour of declaring me ‘ill’ and assuring the relevant social world that the conference was an illness driven fantasy that would not take place. Frankly that kind of talk ensured it didn’t – costing me £250 and credibility at the Adrian Boult Hall.

It now being nearly two years since this debacle, however, it is time to forgive others for their bungling behaviours

(not all others, Francis Leech, Tim someone or another and some other guy who I recognise and won’t forget in a hurry, need to be aware – there are occasions where I make a mental note to follow up. I always do. That it hasn’t happened means this: I haven’t got that far yet. 99% of all success lies in the planning. I am the very mistress of the planning scenario – and as I get older I get more meticulous and consequently, I suspect, more liable to success… Needless to say in other realms I have plans afoot – let’s see how the year unfolds :-))

Innocent errors are always forgivable. Self interested; ignorant; incompetent errors sit within a different zone. Errors that follow a strategy of deviant motivation require the greatest of agility and the sincerest of purpose. I have spent my life like a dog with a bone. I remain an individual driven by this inner impulse.

This year I am going to exercise as much wisdom as I can muster. I am also going to exercise as much temperance, compassion and purity of purpose.

Whilst also accepting that I am an ordinary mortal with ordinary passions and ordinary capacities. Sometimes I simply cannot pass over damaging or greedy or dishonest conduct and continue to sit comfortably. In that case I have to take action to remedy the wrongs observed. This is my year of retribution. That is: my year of planning. Nothing and no-one can stop me. Not God – for He would if I were wrong, so – let’s leave Him out of it, if I am wrong he certainly would; but no-one else. It’s all going to be in the planning.

So – yes, it’s evident that there is still ‘old stuff’ that I am wanting to clear out of my life since it no longer belongs to my life. It sits in my life as an irritant and so it must go.

As to the new: the new, that which has been accumulating in my life in the form of friends and purposes – is all quite wonderful: hopeful; fulfilling; interesting; peaceful; helpful; fun; – my life is complete – especially now my two daughters and I have been healing our relationships for enough time that the pleasure is evident and the pain is drifting away.

Adolescence acts like a whirlwind of rage through the heart of the home and when it passes the rest that settles is so needed, so welcome, such a huge relief that it is a little like, I imagine, finding oneself having survived a war.

And since Home is where the Heart is: this home has now re-emerged as a happy one, and I can’t even begin to tell you what this is meaning to me. I have just enjoyed a Happy Christmas and I am looking forward to a Very Merry New Year 😉

And – to all of you I wish the Happiest of Beginnings to a fresh new year – the snow will fall in February to close business from the old, and March will bring daffodils to dance in the spring – and providing we have stored our nuts and berries the next few weeks will be an enjoyable hibernation of all kinds of wonderful summer fruitions.

NAOMI WOLF.. ‘VAGINA: A NEW BIOGRAPHY’

December 20, 2012
Love, Love, Love..

Love, Love, Love..

..Sounds very interesting.#

I haven’t got a copy – if you have – fancy lending it to me when you’ve finished it?

I have trawled through a few articles by this journalist today, in the online Guardian pages, pursuing more information about this little ditty, and I have been favourably impressed.

That doesn’t mean – ‘I’m impressed – quick everyone, get your visas out and make a purchase’. It means : mmmm…. now this sounds worth a look…

I was looking up ‘neuroscience’ in relation to a conference I’m thinking of sending an abstract for ‘Understanding Human Flourishing: A Postgraduate Medical Humanities Conference’ (CfP, Durham University, 16-17 May 2013) [in case you’re interested yourself] and somehow or another – don’t ask me how, because I can hardly recall, I ended up via a host of other articles I read during the hunt-down, coming across a couple of articles by Naomi – a far cry from my original intent.

But hardly a far cry from yesterday’s entry so – it must have been a case of serendipity.

The first thing I have to say to Naomi Wolf is : Brave Woman!!! In a world where, outside the (un)adventurous boundaries of the Guardian and the Independent, English society is terrified of the word ‘Vagina’ (though thoroughly comfortable with words like ‘shag’, ‘slag’ and ‘cunt’) (the last rather ironic of course as it usually is used against men as a term of abuse) here is a woman who happens to be at the forefront of the public eye and doesn’t cringe to admit that – she has one.

Quite a lot of us do, I hear rumoured.

I know, I know.. If you’re a man it’s a harsh thing to hear. Your mother has one, your daughter has one, the little old lady you passed in the street has one. Every other person you ever see has one.

How fucking outrageous!!!!

And it’s the reason why Feminism was fated to make such a shit job of improving our world.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course – women had to find a way to get seen, heard, valued in the world we found ourselves in: a world in which we frequently found ourselves valued as less than the cattle we slept with.

Sure things had to change.

Apparently they needed to change in this bizarre manner. With ‘feminism’ standing for ‘women’s rights’ to become ever more like men.

Ouch!!!

Who won then?

Who’s winning now?

The ‘femininists‘, that’s who – who love and adore men, who love and adore them – those whose object is to integrate and complete the human circle – by entering ‘woman’ as the equal and different partner of ‘man’. Ie:-

Those women and men who are beginning to wake up to the differences, that’s who. Those men and women who are learning to heed the sound of softness, of feeling, of tenderness, of subtlety: who tire of the call of gongs and trophies; who wear of the demand of competitive success; who notice how vacuous is the grand title, how precious the arrival of a new born baby.

Who notice how precious is the touch that is made for love, how futile the touch of coins and bedazzled, camera driven lust.

When will we ever learn… When will we ever…

Oh – I have to share with you the huge pleasure writing this has given me. A long time ago I was a post-grad at Leeds University and was privileged to be taught by two people I rapidly grew to love – Griselda Pollock and Fred Orton. Each of these individuals were exemplary examples of humanity at its best – warm, passionate, alert, sincere, determined – that must surely be sufficient attributes to win anyone’s love? I didn’t agree with the feminist part of my ‘social history of art’ nor did I feel qualified to disagree with anything.

But – if you get wind of this as it moves through the www air, Fred and Griselda: I want you to know: you did me the world of good: indeed, together with Charles Harrison, a man who grew to detest me but who I loved to and beyond the end: you made me who I am today.. Just because you never heard from me again doesn’t mean I lost ambition or drive. It means I walked my own path. And that ‘as they say’ – is the record of a fully achieved student. 😉

Primary and Secondary Sexual components.

December 20, 2012
Thanks to sarahstitely

Sun Bejewells Water

How absurd. Even to identify ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ sexual characteristics.
What is the masculine ‘secondary’ sexual characteristic?
A Deep Voice?
I haven’t googled it.
I only have my surface impression. That breasts are a female’s ‘secondary sexual characteristics’.

How fucking ridiculous.
They are not primary or secondary.

They are essential sexual characteristics.

Find a man who is capable of lactating.

You will find a few.
However – you will remark every single one.
Every single one is gifted. They have the characteristics of both sexes, assuming they are characterisable as male.

Or as female despite possessing a ‘male member’.

The fact is that possessing lactating organs – in the arena of the breast region – is characteristically feminine. Female. It is where the feminine links up with the female.

It has nothing whatever to do with the ‘size of breasts’
I have absurdly minute breasts unless I’m breast feeding.
I breast fed between 1990 and 1992. I could have fed the nation of infants.
Though frankly that possibility didn’t occur to me. I simply fed my own til they were obese and then leaked – pints.

It was my happiest time.

I was ‘huge’ – overflowing with the love of motherhood caused my breasts to swell and provide more than twins or quadruplets could possibly have managed to consume safely.

I did so despite working full time, despite attempting to transfer my surfeit to them for whenever I couldn’t be with them, despite demanding of my body that it respect my ‘normal professional life’
I couldn’t be more delighted. I felt proud at the time. I feel delighted still.
Me. Tiny me. Sliver of an item of humanity, featuring some hip bone and little much else; a tiny waist (til the kids distorted my rib cage) and breasts as flat as they could get short of a nipple or two…
I’ve seen men with needs for a bigger bra than I who wouldn’t even need a bra…

So I knew and know for certainty that breast size has nothing to do with functionality – from 32 aa to 38DD in a few months – all for the love of babies

And that is why I have an issue with the pathetic (in the sympathetic sense) followers of ‘Jordan’

Oh how I regret, on her behalf, the passion she has brought about to emulate the passion of men for huge dick.

When she could have taught men how inappropriate, irrelevant, senseless was/is the fetish of ‘size’ – power is not in ‘size’ but in character and disposition:

How long will it take humanity to learn this lesson???

PEER SUPPORT

December 20, 2012

All Kinds of Roads Lead to Love

Peer Support has a strong following.

At its most normative it is the fellowship of members of a suffering group.

Frankly the suffering can be at any level. Mothers at a baby and toddlers group; men at the pub chewing over grudges in the office over a couple of pints and a lot of disassociation and a tendency to dissociate from problems and an equivalent tendency to ‘boast’ about capacities and ‘gains’ – sexual, ….mainly sexual… linked in with self representations as ’empowered’ despite underlying ‘power’ issues…

Those ‘peer support’ groups which lean toward such as mental health survivor groups (/service user groups etc) possess an almost beautiful tendency to accommodate feelings of vulnerability, of failure, of anxiety, of underlying fear.

It is not that we would want anyone to embrace fear.

It is the reverse of what anyone should embrace.

However.

To embrace the honesty of the experience indicates an HONESTY.

Apparently ‘honesty’ is easier to embrace if one is a woman.

Women find it easier to confide in each other about their fears of failure – failing to be the ‘perfect mother’; ‘perfect homemaker’; ‘perfect earner’; ‘perfect body’; ‘perfect face’; ‘perfect lover’; ‘perfect all-rounder’…

It makes it much easier for us. By seeing ourselves as imperfect everywhere we have so much less pressure weighing down upon us…

By having so much less pressure weighing upon us we have a greater chance of achieving anything at all…

Is that a possibility?

What is ‘woman’s priority’? On the whole, by the time most women get to 30 or 35 (more likely 25 maximum as a median average) they have already chosen that the care of their children counts as top priority.

This subsumes their identity to another(s).

Meanwhile men, on the whole, are stifled by this commitment, since their commitment is predominantly still to themselves. On the whole – if a problem arises in their relationship with a female, even their parenthood will prevent them from continuing as a committed partner. Or parent. Their focus remains upon themselves.

This has multiple consequences. Although it has apparent unfortunate indications for women who are trapped by their emotional social commitments of minors depending upon them, thus tending toward lower incomes to support them: they tend to have strong friendships with fellow women including family members, and a very strong sense of purpose.

Men on the other hand are weak by comparison. Why are they weak? Because of their solitary commitments and because of their fear of confessing or showing weakness.

Perhaps where they are able to declare their victimisation at the hands of one woman they may be able to ‘buy in’ to another woman’s sympathetic loving commitment. Indeed, I’m sure we are all keenly aware of one or two men whose social (and sometimes financial) ‘salvation’ is gained this way.

How long will this last once the perpetrator of male misery has paled from view, however?

No – let’s return again to the strength of woman to woman solidarity and what it can teach men, and men and women.

A woman who tends to the misery of man to the exclusion of her own woes is as a mother to a son. A man who does similarly is as a father to a child.

The strong ‘peer support movement’ between members of the ‘mental health service users and survivors movement’ is one which can withstand strong challenges from both strength and weakness because of the empathy that holds between members.

If we forget this side of the movement and simply focus upon ‘professional commitments’ of ‘research’, ‘committees’ and ‘meetings’ – we have lost the war. Never mind the battle. Just de-frock and go home. The strength is surging through the feminine in a manner that has nothing to do with ‘feminism’ or ‘being a woman’.

It’s all about ‘yin’ and ‘yang’. I haven’t a clue which is who. But I do know that femininity needs to surge in order that humanity survive.

Amen to that.

Olympian Star Glows On

December 17, 2012

This link works – press it 😉

I wrote the title of this entry in August. Sarah Attar was the first woman from Saudi Arabia to be permitted to run a race in the Olympics. She ran fully covered from head to foot, with only her face and hands on view unveiled.

She finished her 800 metre race almost a full lap behind her competitors yet crossed the line to a standing ovation and with a smile to light up the city of London.

For one brief moment we witnessed the beauty of humanity applauding effort over achievement, challenge over facility, obstacle over determination. In that act we simultaneously celebrated the true nature of all of these ‘normal’ values: it is through effort that we achieve, through challenge that we develop facilities and through determination that we overcome obstacles.

Sarah has already broken through astounding obstacles and challenges by arriving in England to run for her country. She may have been ‘slow’ for the Olympic Championship once she got here – but of course, even once here she was disabled by her difference of outfit as well as her disability of culture at home. I doubt she found herself well accompanied in Saudi Arabia to match the conditions she would discover in England with women world wide having already competed severally with their opponents.

It is a heroic story within the disability movement. Her disability has been cultural. She has now broken through a ceiling for her culture and we can’t do anything but smile with her – for no-one else in the championships went so far this year: In four years time we should see more women having trickled out of this opening.

Of course – there could be questions. For example – the entire obsession with competition, with establishing who runs fastest, who throws furthest, who is cleverest etc., etc., etc., – isn’t this an agenda set by men for men and infiltrated by women who can’t help feeling left out by the games men play?

This is a tough question for me. Mainly because I’m crap at competitive games. So, I stopped being interested in winning competitions shortly before I became able to think at all. I arrived in language freshly shorn of competitive ambitions.

Would that be my ‘femininity’ or simply my inclination to fail that pushed me in this way?

Competition is a difficult concept. It yields its greatest loading in politics as the arena of ‘possessive individualism’ (CB MCPherson, subtitle ‘from Hobbes to Locke’ if you’re interested); the American Dream, the shop-keeper’s daughter etc etc.

If ‘man’ stands for ‘competition’ – couldn’t ‘woman’ stand for ‘bonding’/’sharing’? Women could help men (and women who have moved to ‘male values’) to learn how to relax, how to share, how to feel safe, how to feel ok, how to feel that lovability doesn’t lie in trophies of competition – be it financial, status or penis length.

Yes, I know, how bloody radical am I??!!! 😉

But truth is – my joys come from a walk, a drink, an afternoon baking bread (not so different from clay work really), from helping a little friend with her homework, from making people laugh, from going to bed at night feeling that I’ve done one or two things to make one or two people happier.. How many trophies do I need for these achievements? And if I’ve eaten again today – does it matter?

I guess this must be why I’m not ‘rich and famous’ and why I’ve never run a race let alone win one.

I’m happy though.

Does that count at all?

I think Sarah Attar is happy too. Nothing I have said or suggested by way of reflection – detracts from her achievement. Far from it. In a land where women can wear what they like, work where they like and muscle up with the boys if that’s their wish – who on earth am I, or would I be, to oppose or question the right of the saudi arabian women to assert their existence as fully acknowledged and valued human citizens? In such a world women become the avant-garde sector pushing humanisation.

In England I believe that burden falls upon the shoulders of the ‘disability community’. There are a lot of us. If you begin to include the numbers disabled by culture and finance – it runs to many millions. Too many, by far, for David Cameron to hold back.

All it will take is a few determined people to emerge and this movement will transform this country for good.

I intuit the emergency as I write.

Why: Thank You!! Unexpected Gift :-)

December 13, 2012
Even the Smallest Signal of Life - Is Life

Even the Smallest Signal of Life – Is Life

Suddenly today, after couple of weeks lull, there was a little flood of visitors to this site.

Thank you so much. I’ve never worked out why sometimes literally thousands of people potter over to see what I’m thinking and other times I find just one lonely soul checking in.

Well – that’s not quite true. Sometime ago I noticed that the more danger I put myself in, the more controversial my actions, the more intemperate my emotions – the more popular my blog became.

Ultimately, though, that almost appeared to be some appetite for a ‘true life suspense thriller’ in which I was always the loser lol, so – on balance I decided to take my risk taking ‘off air’ so to speak.

And invest my very soul in the task suggested to me by a book I bought a few years ago. ‘Pronoia’ it was called. I.e., the opposite of ‘paranoia’..

Paranoia comes easily to me. I am easily taken up by fear driven scenarios. In relation to which my defence is often anger – well, at least, if I want to defend myself against my worst fears, anger becomes my first defence. My second is paralysis. I believe that this would translate as the ‘flight’ variant of the ‘fight’ response to danger.

My first response to danger in my life was ‘flight’. When my mother began to shout at me I stood like a moron before her, shaking, and sometimes with an expression on my face that she took to be a ‘smirk’ but which was, internally, my involuntary expression of terror. She would then ‘lose the plot’ and begin slapping me, pretty hard. I would offer no defence apart from beginning to cry and then to sob. Eventually the sobbing would stop and she would continue to remonstrate with me as my sobs became more and more uncontrollable until I began to hyper-ventilate (a term I learned much, much later at Leeds University).

At this point she would calm right down and inform me that I had now shown sufficient remorse for my wrong doing.

I never had a clue what my ‘wrong doing’ had been. I seem to recall that on one occasion it had been laughing and joking at the dinner table when a school friend had come for tea and I was nine or ten. It’s the only occasion I remember with that degree of clarity.

I expect my poor beleaguered mother felt desperately guilty about my hyper-ventilation episodes (at times almost daily). I wasn’t a very naughty little girl – just plain stupid I suppose, because I never caught up with her issues. I just knew that she routinely lost her temper, shouted, started slapping and then got left with this hyper-ventilating little wreck.

She was an ill-educated young woman, an immigrant from afar, with a husband working round the clock to keep us all. She saw him between 2am and 11 am – most of the time they were asleep – not very supportive, when you’re exhausted, young and anxious. With language challenges.

….Where were we… Oh yes – paranoia – vs PRONOIA.

Yes, pronoia is much the better option I find. Goodbye Fear. Hello Hope. Goodbye regrets. Hello Anticipation. Goodbye Yesterday & Tomorrow. Hello Today.

Today I learn that it is OK to mourn losses I haven’t yet come to terms with.
to
1. I haven’t come to terms with the loss of my unborn baby from 1994. I lost a baby in 1989 and because everyone knew about it, I was allowed to grieve, I was allowed to talk about it, I was allowed the time I needed to come to terms with it.

Luckily for me, two beautiful daughters followed this loss, and there is no doubt that they have more than compensated for the loss of my first baby. The child died within me quite ‘naturally’ and miscarried within 7 or 8 weeks of conception and I found it possible to ‘fit in’ with the convention of perceiving natural ‘miscarriage’ as a ‘sign of nature’ that the baby is not ‘meant to be’.

My second ‘miscarriage’ was no such simple matter, as you will know if you have read the entry immediately previous to this one. S/he didn’t leave my body naturally. S/he gave me no sign that s/he was dead until nurse told me this had been shown on a scan. Following the operation to remove the ‘debris of a pregnancy’ I found myself in an invisible capsule of enforced silence. Indeed – let’s go further and ‘tell it as it was’ : I was expected to emerge from a hospital bed in excellent spirits for a New Years Eve celebration.

Thanks for listening. No-one in my palpable life has any interest at all in knowing of my private griefs – some don’t know anything about it; some don’t realise I still have needs to express my thoughts and feelings about it; some don’t think it at all appropriate that I experience grief around this topic; some I wish to protect; … Funnily enough – this weirdly anonymous vehicle of fully ‘public’ communication has become a place of ‘sanctuary’ for me.

Yes – as usual I forget the season. I don’t actually: that’s what is so damned inconvenient about it. I remember the season all too well. This is the wrong mood and the wrong topic to be choosing for Christmas. ..I want to say ‘I didn’t choose it, it chose me..

And in the one clause I have my thinking matter… if I didn’t choose it and it chose me – I need to meditate on that.. I need to derive something positive out of this.. Something about ‘aborted beginnings’ and ‘auspicious births’…

Merry Christmas and an Aborted Old Year !

December 10, 2012

228483_10150573506395514_893365513_18705285_5857753_n sisters

Like my style? 😉

Abortion.

What might we like to abort today?

Justice? Barely.

Injustice? Possibly.

Abortion is a sensitive, delicate subject.

..It is particularly delicate and sensitive for me.

Every Christmas since December 30th 1994 I have approached Christmas with an intent to please and make everything lovely.

And then completely ruined it.

Well – actually – I managed Christmas 94, 95, 96 just about Ok.

Probably the first because I hadn’t quite hit the wall.

Probably 95 because, well, I’d convinced myself that silence really was the way forward; false smiles the cheer of the good.

’96… 96 I was fraying within. Reaching the end of my personal, fragile weave…

’97 I’d already tipped over to the point where I’d so successfully repressed my pain and its source that I didn’t even have a conscious awareness that this… This.. THIS was the cause of my unbearable trauma.

This year I’m determined to focus on this earth, this blessing, these blessings, the beauty of all that is and all that can be.

I refuse to bleed my griefs into the fabric of the season.

Were I a good Catholic girl I would find myself in commune with those who understand my undying pain.

http://https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSpl-CyZl-kqZAvxp2-B8pj1QXRbWNMzekp2T4iULAq_BFdrpqA

But I’m not even a Catholic, let alone a good one.

By culture I’m a Scandinavian-Germanic-(Celtic) Calvinist who happens to abhor abortion simply because in my own bizarre, no doubt, eyes, every conception is, at the very instant of it – a miraculous wonder of life burgeoning: a ‘god given blessing’ to share this earth with a new innocent emerging..

http://http://uploads5.wikipaintings.org/images/sandro-botticelli/the-birth-of-venus-1485(1).jpg

My husband-of-the-time, who had announced, most decisively from my point of view (‘shared values’ etc) that he ‘wanted at least 4 or 5 children’ ordered me to have an abortion in early? mid? December 1994.

The Doctor I visited in the fervent hope and belief he would refuse such a crime on the grounds of inappropriacy and unsuitability simply reached for his form and sent me to the hospital for a scan and abort.

Question asked: ‘Why do you want an abortion?’ Question answered, in a hesitant, reluctant and reticent form as a quotation as required ‘because my husband and I think our family is complete’. Response: reach for form. Eye contact: Nil.

My husband-of-the-time came with me for the hospital appointment. He would. He’d want to ensure I went through with it.

http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRlo0Bb1QTHMQ5epqLduUqoJRv7J98SqKluDEjj1m7G6biY5neZyQegB2Fp9g

I sat in the waiting area after the scan to assess age of gestation. I sobbed. Then sobbed. Then sobbed some more. I begged my H-of-the-time not to make me kill my baby.

He sat beside me watching some tv screen ahead and above him as if I weren’t there. He didn’t say a word to me. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t give a shit how I felt.

When we were called in the sister/nurse did give a shit. She took my right hand in hers, or both my hands, can’t be quite sure, and she showed caring. It was a caring I hadn’t experienced in a long while.

She told me that she had something to tell me that, under the circumstances maybe was a good thing.

The foetus, as she named it, had died within me a fortnight before. It had been poisoning my body as a result of not naturally aborting (as a ‘miscarriage’) and so if I hadn’t come for this scan I could have died.

I saw this as my baby giving up on life in the belief that I didn’t love him/her enough.

I suffered years of flashbacks and dreams about my lost baby. I imagined the nurse having been bribed to tell me this and that my baby wasn’t dead but was killed because I believed the lie.

https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRVQPaXhwOHBOpuaWOahhbDANuiFfMIUAf58yRH18Tn32ep1cG_Bg

However absurd the idea of that :- my sense of myself as a murderer of my longed-for baby sat in my ‘god shaped hole’ for years. And years. And years.

It spilled out one day in 2009 in a preceptorship course session. Not very neat. Not very tidy. Not well handled (by me, I mean).

It made one of the students cry.

I shouldn’t have been glad.

But I was glad.

Especially perhaps, because it was a male student. He healed my total loss of trust in men (apart from my father and my grandfather.

https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT6Zocgu_fSgcFTNzGStQTbCqHamNVYe3ZSqOS2_suVHb8Z0uU7kw
(I use an ‘in-service soldier’ image because – I believe that mental health practitioners need to realise that – that’s what they have to have the courage to be in order to do their job well)

Only now do I look back with shame as I realise –

I was glad.

At last I had shared a bit of my pain.

(But shouldn’t have got such a healing from the comfort of strangers… sadly no comfort had come from anywhere else..)(Not that it had had a chance – I’d shared it with no-one else.)

It must have lessened it.

Because in 2012 I sit here writing these words: sure – I’ve cried a river as I’ve written this, have had to stop, at times, just to protect the keyboard and find a way to carry on.

But until 2009 I was driven by my unconscious and my sleeping nightmares.

I had spent a full 11 years or more, by that time, attempting to live with an unbearable reality.

It had driven me round the bend.

Not so crazy that I so lost the plot that I didn’t know the difference between truth and reality.

I was very clear on that.

Some bits in the middle were not so easy to determine.

I must say though.

I only have and would only ever publish what I know.

I know that you visit. I know that you skim through to see what you find interesting.

I have no idea what you think.

On this particular entry: I would love to hear from you.

I imagine that most of you probably come from a pro-abortion background and may feel offended.

Please don’t.

Try to imagine that for ME PERSONALLY pregnancy in my body is always experienced as an existence of 2 in 1.

I don’t assume or judge others for having different views.

Who am I to judge?

I do judge internally and very rarely, openly – those who act to transgress my essential identity and values. Identity and values that, as it happens, are entirely legal. I don’t judge others in this value/view: I can imagine that experiences outside of mine could lead me to hold different views. But I haven’t had them. So I don’t.

Especially where I been explicit and honest about them. I used ‘the pill’ a few times. Probably about 3 months in the whole of my life. I doubt it was that long. Actually I used the ‘rhythm method’. Oh – and celibacy.

I didn’t mean to be a catholic.

It was the way I was brought up.

It was the way my heart beat.

It was where the stars were placed on the instant of my birth.

It was the result of my father’s piano playing.

It derived from my adoration of babies..

From my yearning to share the joy of living

From my wishful conviction in the multiplication of love

From my conviction that the world is always as big as the heart

….

..or as small…

Tell me.

What do YOU think? 🙂

Survival & Threat: Payment by Results

December 3, 2012
Volcanic Brightening Burst

Volcanic Brightening Burst

Survival & Threat, Recovery, Discovery, Thriving.

Where would you put your life in relation to the above concepts/standards of living?

Where is the course of your life, normatively, and progressively, in relation to them?

In a sense you could see birth through to adulthood as a mixture of survival and discovery with recovering an thriving peppered in amongst the mix. Perhaps most of us become a little more reflective as we mature, with more painful events and consequential errors of judgement causing us to retract at times and more pleasurable events and consequentially advantageous judgements enabling us to enlarge, at others.

Remembering always that consequentially destructive, constructive and creative decisions, actions and habits by no means ‘show up’ in their ‘true colours’ at once.

I sat down to write because I hadn’t published anything for a week or so (as you probably know this blog is intermittent and driven by impulse more than by systematised strategy) and I was wondering about my own ‘mental health recovery’.

My father’s death has somehow brought to light more clearly than for some time that my attitudes and values hamper my peace of mind far less than many around me who have no history of ‘mental illness’. I guess that my stability emotionally is aided by sodium valproate, a mood stabilisor, and that co-extensively and certainly more importantly my thinking is steadied and directed more helpfully by the work I have done with a psychotherapist over the last year and a half (seeing her on average about once a month).

The loving, light spirited yet somehow deeply spiritual time I shared with my father on the Saturday before his death added to my strength and the unexpected discovery that he had written a will favouring me and my sister, though it has thrown some family members into disarray, has by no means diminished my feelings of well-being – though nor has it diminished my sense of responsibility towards angry and upset family members.

Running parallel to my father’s death has been an emerging perception of me, by the mental health services, that I am ‘recovering well’ and needing little or no support from them. That said, I have four sessions with the psychologist left and running alongside that I see a ‘social worker’ also about once a month. The social worker has a value – as does the psychologist on the grounds of their sex: they are women and I have needed to align myself more strongly and trustingly with my same sex associates and to begin to feel safer in friendships with same sex people. This has been a great success and I feel altogether a more rounded, happy and contented human being since my psychologist moved me in that direction.

To be a heterosexual woman who feels uncomfortable with women makes for a very uncomfortable relationship with oneself. How can you feel safe with, trust and value yourself if you’re that kind of woman?

So – what a difference it’s making to my life!!!!

Anyway – the point is: Am I moving to be discharged from secondary services and declared fit for work because I am now well, or is it because of ‘payment by results’? I suspect it is the latter and that I’ve been allowed to recover because of the latter where I was tripped up and into ditches by the same before because it suited their own budgets and careers.

Psychiatry is a thorn in the side of positive mental health in my view – no doubt, if you know me or have ever visited this space before this view will come as no surprise to you.

Apparently my ship is due to be released from its naval fleet: Thank f***g goodness for that!! Do I sail away, never to be heard of again? Hmmm.. Good question… A sea shanty comes to mind…

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