The internet is wonderful. It provides so many opportunities to learn, connect, help. It’s entertaining. I use it every damn day, but there’s always a catch.
Join me as I let off a little steam about that catch. Let’s begin with the old foe; men. There are so many men with oh so many opinions online. There’s the reply guy who must say something. The sleazy guys who just have to objectify every female presenting person they scroll upon. The scammers who think every woman becomes an idiot when contacted by surgeon, soldier or pilot. The obsequious guys & the ‘I want to be your sugar daddy’ guys. Last but not least annoying are the gotta throw inane insults at fat women guys. They’re all tedious. I don’t want creepy compliments or offers. I couldn’t care less what some random man thinks about my body or anything else. Stop assuming that you can impose your thoughts on strangers. I am not flattered by your compliments or interested in your preferences. What I am is disgusted, tired and sometimes fucking angry.
Less toxic, but the irritation factor remains high with the tarot, spiritualist, astrology charlatans. Every one of my social media inboxes are jammed with ‘offers’. Just send my DOB, mother’s maiden name & first pet’s name for a free expert reading. Even if I were stupid enough to fall for that con I still wouldn’t believe in any of the tripe they are preaching. I’m also smart enough not to use any of the requested info as security questions. I’d bet most of the population are equally savvy. Stop bothering me. I resent the minutes and finger taps I exert to block you.
Given our fast approaching election, politics loom large. That’s fine with me, I’ve always been political and the Tories need to go. My complaint is two fold. Firstly, the gammon. The folk who get all their information from GB News & use that propaganda to legitimise their hateful beliefs. As hard as I try I can’t not be angry when I see comments spouting vile and untrue hyperbole. I despise how many people have so eagerly adopted the most hateful far right rhetoric. I could not be more sick of seeing it every day. Secondly, I despair that the parliamentary Labour Party has abandoned its soul. Keir Starmer is barely discernible from the incumbents. We deserve better. 13yrs of Conservative rule has ravaged this country. People are suffering and they should have a real alternative.
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Every now again I use the blog to vent my anger. Well, it’s that time again. The world is brimming over with things to be mad & sad about. These are just a few that I need to get off my chest.
One of my biggest pet peeves is when brands jump on the fat positivity train for their own benefit without actually incorporating real size diversity. The most recent culprit being Marc Jacobs. The advert for the perfume, Perfect is an ode to diversity. It features a wide variety of models including a couple of plus size women. Great right? Well it would be if the Marc Jacobs ready to wear line didn’t stop at a UK16. I doubt either of the models featured in the ad would be able to shop the line.
Also on my mind at the moment is when celebs reveal themselves to be shits & ruin one’s favourites. Brought to mind when I couldn’t sleep & was searching for something soothing to watch. Lewis popped up in one of my streaming apps. I loved Inspector Morse & was delighted when his sergeant returned. However, a once comforting programme is now spoiled by Laurence Fox’s gammon exploits. No matter how lovely Lewis & Hathaway are, I can’t enjoy them without thinking about Fox’s racism, misogyny & all out far right vileness. Other notable examples include anything with Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson’s presence in the Lethal Weapons & of course Gary Barlow destroying my love of Take That.
Finally & most rage inducing is Keir Starmer. From his refusal to support Trade Unions to his abandonment of Palestine, Starmer is a spineless wannabe Tory. Under his leadership Labour is no longer the party of working people. Who thought we would see an ex human rights lawyer turned Labour leader cowardly defend war crimes on national television? Not me. The man is disgusting.
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I am attempting to have a rest day, but my head is doing the anxious ‘doing nothing is not ok’ thing. So, in attempt to both rest my body and ease my mind I thought I’d do one of silly little blog rants. Come along if you fancy a vent.
Pores
Oh I know they have job a to do, but why do they need to be so troublesome? They always want to be making an appearance when I want them hidden. Constantly busying themselves with getting clogged. Try to take care of your skin with spf or a nice deep moisturiser and they will suck it up & make a big blemish. I just want soft smooth skin. Why must my pores always try to ruin it?
Horror Movies
They’re all about ghost or too disturbing to watch. Where are all the good old fashioned crazy killer films? Or even a well made creepy monster would do. Maybe I am just old, but it feels like the only scary movies I enjoy are from the 90’s. Is this how it starts? One day pop culture is annoying me and then next I’m saying ‘in my day’ to kids on the bus? Oh god, I hope not.
Fat Phobia
I’m always complaining about this. However, this week I’m pissed off about a particular kind of fat phobia. If you’ve seen that Tik Tok clip of Bethenny Frankel saying she hates plus sizes, you might get what I’m on about. She’s not saying she hates that brands are making xl, xxl and so on. What disturbs her is what they’re named. Why can’t we name them something nicer, she posits while entirely missing the point. The issue isn’t that fat people clothes come in extra, extra large; the problem is the that people still shy away from those terms. Large isn’t bad. Super large isn’t bad. No one is suggesting we find a cuter name for XS. Continuing in the belief that accepting fat people are fat is hurtful is not ‘body positive’. It’s just entrenching the stigma. Our bodies are bigger and that is ok. Everyone can see that I’m fat whether my label says 2xl or ‘bad bitch’. I will face the same stigma & barriers regardless. The point is, the size on your clothes doesn’t matter. It gives no information about a person other than the circumference of body parts. You’re not a fat ally of you don’t understand that.
Instagram Men
Not all of them obviously. Just the ones who think is it Tinder. Every day I get messages from men I do not know who think I exist for them to chat up. Or worse send repulsive, grammatically incorrect filth to. I honestly do not understand why they think it is ok. Nor why they think any woman is going to respond positively. There are sites designed for that shit. If you want to meet someone to date, download a dating app. The folk on there are interested in getting to know strangers. If you want to exchange explicit messages there are sites for that too. Having an Instagram account is not an invitation for any random man to crawl into my dm’s. If I don’t know you, leave me alone!
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Of late I have been bothered by much of the therapy speak I see cropping up everywhere. I’ve always been slightly irritated by the therapy buzz words, but it used be reserved to certain arenas. Now it feels impossible to get away from it. Some are impenetrable, some misapplied and some a little stupid. So, come with me in a little therapy rant.
Sit with it.
The ‘it’ being emotions. I doubt there is anyone who has ever sought mental health treatment who is unfamiliar with this phrase. I have been advised to ‘sit with’ all manner of feelings. I’ve never been entirely sure what this means. Nor has any explanation ever satisfied me. Let yourself feel it makes sense if you are actively avoiding emotions. I used self harm, disordered eating and occasionally alcohol to block emotions that I wasn’t able to deal with. However, when I moved past avoidance it was still the guidance I was given. When I was ready to acknowledge and tackle those feelings I needed more. ‘Let yourself feel it’ is redundant. I am feeling it; that is the problem.
Don’t Judgeit.
Once you are sitting in all that emotion you will often be advised ‘not to judge it’. Just feel it, they’ll say. Well, I’m sorry, that’s impossible. I have already judged it. Judging is a prerequisite for finding something problematic. The judgement is automatic. More than that, it’s involuntary. The minute I find the emotion unpalatable it has been judged. I came to the (sometimes correct) conclusion that perhaps what these therapist meant was don’t judge yourself for having that emotion. That makes sense, I can work on not attaching negative connotation to what I feel or how uncomfortable that makes me. I can even get on board with attempting not to label specific emotions intrinsically negative. I’m not convinced, but I do see how in some cases that could be fruitful. However, removing the intuitive I DO NOT LIKE THIS just doesn’t strike me as a realistic goal. If I were able to control my brain in that way, I wouldn’t have a problem.
Let it go.
Feel it and then let it go is definitely the aim. I’m not sure it actually counts as advice though. I know that getting stuck in difficult emotions is not good for me. What I need is help learning the way out if that. Restating what I should do is not helpful. I know the problem, I am here because I am looking for answers.
Inner Child
Many years ago when I first experienced therapy the inner child thing was kind of a joke. It never came up. Of course therapists talked about childhood experiences & being compassionate to past versions of yourself. However, a psychologist would never say the words ‘inner child’. Now it is everywhere; from woo woo spiritual healers to actual trained therapists. I’m sure it applies to some people, but it’s just not relevant to me. My inner child is a ok. I had a remarkably lovely childhood. I was loved, appreciated, supported, safe and very well taken care of. My ‘inner child’ is probably the healthiest part of me. I’m not carrying any painful scars from childhood. So, I have found it incredibly frustrating that everyone and their granny wants me to get in touch with my inner child and heal her. Even when I proffer my history and explain that my upbringing is not a problem area, I am still pressed to explore it. I don’t know how or why this happened, but I really don’t love it.
Be vulnerable
This is another one that totally has merit in the right situation. There have been times when I have been scared of touching memories and emotions that made me feel vulnerable. I did need to work through that. Being vulnerable can be frightening, but it is also necessary. I would argue that engaging in therapy is already submitting to vulnerability in many ways. The showing up is a great first step. However, the canonisation of vulnerability has gone too far. There is definitely a time and a place for vulnerability. We can’t and shouldn’t always expose weak spots. We live in a fairly brutal capitalist society and being completely honest about your vulnerabilities will not serve you in many situations. People will take advantage, they will bypass you based on their perception of that vulnerability and many folk will judge you. Still I hear professionals who really should know better urge everyone to embrace their vulnerability throughout their life. It drives me crazy; we need to protect ourselves. Let yourself be vulnerable in safe spaces only.
Am I just jaded? Or do you feel frustrated by these therapy catchphrases? Maybe you have your own therapy pet hates. I would love to know your takes.
Adorable Bronan for rant tax.
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It’s been one of hell of a week. On top of quite the year. I’m sure I’m not the only one still processing the gigantic mess. Sometimes I find it easier to let off steam about the little things. I invite you to join me in a big sigh of relief that Trump will soon be gone & an equally big moan about some non life & death grievances.
Trivial annoyance no 1; the shacket. You’ll no doubt have seen an influencer raving about this shirt/jacket hybrid by now. I’m afraid I must strongly protest. For starters that name gives me boak. Moreover, do not look good. Admittedly they do bring up bad memories of a really ugly quilted denim shirt I had in 1994, but they’re also useless. They’re not a great inbetweener. You end up sweating inside & shivering out. Just put your coat on and take it off when you head indoors. The shacket must go.
I know loads of folk are going to disagree with this one, I care not a jot. The pink Xmas trend can get in the sea. I’m not traditional about much, but when it comes to festive decorations I am old school. Pink does not belong on the tree. It’s not Christmassy. I don’t care if Elle decor has declared it this year’s prettiest trend. I want Christmas looks that warm my heart. Think Forrest green & twinkly gold. Candy floss is a Yuletide treat. Please stop it.
I’m heading back to the resurgence of the fashion of my youth now. Specifically, cycle shorts. I can’t quite work out how a thing I wore to P.E. when I as 11 has become ‘a look’. Moreover I’m baffled that it’s still hanging around mid November. It’s fucking cold there.
Finally, I have a complaint for our friends across the Atlantic. God, knows they’ve given us plenty to bitch about. In the spirit of keeping it light I have picked this hill to die on. Plaid is not the same thing as Tartan. As we head into prime tartan season I need the conflation of the two to cease. My poor Scottish heart can’t take the way my blood pressure soars when I see either wrongly labelled.
That felt pretty good. I highly recommend you take a minute to whine about something pointless. First thing tomorrow it’s back to the Revolution!
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I’ve had a pretty blue day. There’s proper storm blowing around outside & I am incredibly tired, which definitely hasn’t helped. Mostly though, I feel shit because too many people have been horrible to me this week.
I had a very small day surgery on Monday, which went smoothly & really wasn’t a huge deal. It was on my dodgy leg & in a spot when stitches are very easy to burst, so I was told to be careful. With that in mind I got a taxi to the train station early on Tuesday morning (I watch my nephew on Tuesdays). The station has a little car park at one side, but that is not the platform I get the train from, so I need the taxi to stop on the main road. I say need because I mean need. If I get out in the car park I have to go out up a big flight of stairs to street level over the tracks & then down a smaller staircase to the platform. Getting out on the street means navigating one smaller set of stairs (which is hard & sore & slow enough). The taxi driver of course did not want to stop on the main road. He was annoyed that he’d have to go a little further down the road to turn at a roundabout & he didn’t want to pull over on a busy road. He argued that it made no sense when the station had a car park. Now, maybe I’m a bitch, but in my mind part of the convenience of paying a taxi to take me somewhere is that I don’t have to explain myself & I get to go where I want to go. I don’t relish having to explain my disabilities & why I can’t do certain things. Especially when I walk with a stick & it’s bloody obvious that stairs are not my friend. I did however tell the driver why I wanted to be dropped in that specific spot, but he still wanted to argue. Thus I had to say either drop me where I say or take me home and don’t get paid. With much muttering under his breath he did as I asked, which probably took less than 5 minutes more & was basically zero hassle to him. This, my day is off to a crap start & I’m already tired of just trying to move around in the world.
I struggle down the steps just in time to heave myself on to a packed train. The train is headed into town & it’s 7.45am, of course there are no seats left. I make my way to the seats that are reserved for the disabled, elderly etc and everyone sitting there avoids eye contact. I don’t know why people do this because not looking at me does nothing to reduce my need to sit down. All it achieves is putting me in the horrible position of having to ask for seat. This, I duly do. I politely ask the women in the closet seat if I can have her seat if she is able to stand. I am met with huffing & puffing as puts her jacket back on and a glare as she vacates the seat. I thank her anyway because I have some bloody manners & sit whilst others who previously avoided looking in my direction now recover their ability to see me. They now make full use of this rediscovered function to gawk at me for most of the journey. I’m sore & tired & anxious & very conspicuous. It isn’t even 8am. I arrive at central station & have to buy a ticket. There was no ticket inspector on the first train & I have to get a second to complete my journey. The ticket office on the platform has the barriers set up to control the queue. I have to walk around it to get into the queuing area & follow the barriers to actually reach the end of the line. I’m slow, i’m conscious of not messing with the wound on my dodgy leg & I am worried about this queue because I’m really not sure I can stand that long. Roll on more rude people. As I follow the path made by the barriers people just barge right past me. One women even does a little run just as I near the end of queue so she can get in front of me. What kind of dickhead rushes to skip a disabled person who is clearly having difficulty? I don’t know, but I can tell you there are too many of them & I don’t always have it in me to let them know that they’re a knob.
Anyway, I get my ticket. I locate the platform of my next train. I find a seat because I can’t go any further until I’ve had a rest. I eat a lovely banana, check my messages & listen to some tunes whilst I gather myself. When it’s time to to head to the train I have recovered some equilibrium. I’m thinking today can be saved. One train journey & I can cuddle my gorgeous wee monkey. This is what I’m thinking as make my way along the platform & a large man barges right into me. He took me completely by surprise, I had nothing to steady myself on & went flying. Mr ‘catching my train is life’ didn’t even stop. No apology, no let me help you up. Kept marching right on & boarded his train. Incidentally his train was my train & it wasn’t leaving for 9 minutes. Whilst he presumably found a good seat I was lying on the platform bleeding. A nice ticket guy helped me up & onto the train. He even radioed someone the description of the guy who knocked me over, but to what end I have no idea. I’m not sure what anyone could really do other than tell him he was a prick. That surgical wound I was being oh so careful with is now bleeding furiously. I didn’t want to remove the dressing on the train, but I’m sure the stitches have burst (they had). So, I’m applying pressure & being watched by other travellers (again) as I try to put myself back together. I was pissed off, but focusing on gathering myself & getting where I needed to go.
Mr nephew was, as always, a delightful little bundle & I got through the day. I arrived home last night utterly exhausted & dropped into bed almost immediately. After a fitful night of sleep I awoke feeling just as tired. My leg is swollen & the wound can’t be restitched (it’s been open over night & restitching would be an infection risk). It will heal, but slower & messier. I had things to do today, but I didn’t do them. Partly because I was in a fair bit of pain and exhausted. Mostly, though, because there was a strong wind & yesterday shook my confidence. The accumulation of the rudeness, arguing, staring & knocking me to the ground was that today I was acutely aware of my disabilities. I didn’t feel up to dealing with the world & perhaps ending up worse for wear again. That realisation made me feel like shit.
Cheeky monkey trying to steal my stick.
I don’t like to think of myself as fragile or incapable. I know my limitations & I try really hard to work around them. I have to think ahead. I do things a bit at a time & I sometimes have tackle things in ways that might not make sense to others. I know I can be awkward. I know that the accommodations I need can be a pest to others. All disabled people know this. We aren’t asking for seats or giving specific instructions for a laugh; it’s the only way we can live in the world. I already feel stressed & anxious about needing these things. I am certain I’m not alone in it that. So, when you force me(us) to explain ourselves it’s horrible. When you make a fuss about being stuck behind me as I move at glacial pace, you are making my life a nightmare. Your stares & sighs can ruin my day. Limping along with a stick at 37 is not my ideal life situation. Fainting on public transport is not a thing I relish. I did not choose to hurt all the live long day. I do not want to have to ask you for anything, but I can assure if I was in your shoes I’d offer my seat with good grace.
I’ll heal. I’ll give myself a shake & force myself back out the door again. I will hold my tongue (most of the time) as you push past me & roll your eyes. I shouldn’t have to, though. Living with my disabilities is hard enough. I don’t want to manage your arsehole tendencies too.
Something in the way she moves... 
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