shame

Still…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

I’m doing well. I really am. When I compare with my previous self there is no doubt that I’m in a much better place. Still, no matter how well I become, the devil on my shoulder remains.

That devil is destruction. Self destruction. Sometimes just flashes; a momentary thought of blood or blades. Other times I experience the deepest longing to ravage my skin. My reaction to pain is still, more often that I would like, the desire for more pain. Not the same kind of pain. A pain I can control. I have worked at working myself out. Learning healthy coping strategies, questioning myself, pinning down what I feel and why have been an ongoing process for decades. I am better. I haven’t self harmed in a very long time. I still want to, though.

Not everyday. Not in the compulsive ‘can’t think about anything else until it is done way’. I don’t berate myself for not cutting or create a mandatory timetable. That is gone. I have conquered that aspect of my demon. My problem is, the underlying urge never really goes away. In times of trouble my mind thinks it knows what will ‘help’. I suppose it’s like being an alcoholic. There will always be days when one really wants a drink, except in my case it’s a scalpel, not a bottle I want to reach for. The weird bit is that these thoughts aren’t reserved for awful days. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, a wave of craving will hit me. Honestly, my toolbox isn’t particularly helpful in those instances. It is very difficult to reason with a nonsensical ghost in your head. I’m left with sheer determination & an awareness of how slippery the slope is.

Strangely, I rarely hear anyone talk about this. There is much discussion about the warning signs for self harm, the damage it causes and how to stop. There is even information on how to treat wounds and hide scars. It’s all very much a before and after narrative. People are sick and then they recover. As I’m sure you’re aware, very few things are ever that simple. We generally understand the complex nature of addiction and mental illness. For example, much work has been done to educate people on eating disorders. Most people know how difficult they are to manage and recover from. It’s generally understood that people are not concretely cured. It is a process that involves relapses and continuous effort. Disordered eating becomes compulsive and corrupts thought patterns. Often nothing is as important as maintaining the disease. Likewise substance abuse takes over a person. The priority becomes obtaining the substance of choice. Whilst no one thinks that’s good or healthy, we do understand that people don’t want to be controlled by an illness. These are topics that are commonly discussed; we have compassion and celebrate those who have worked towards recovery. Not so for self harm.

Self harm is still taboo. There isn’t really any mainstream discourse of its realities. No one is making serious documentaries or accurate media portrayals. Celebrities aren’t telling stories of how they won their battle with self harm in the way they regularly do regarding addiction, eating disorders or issues like anxiety. The latter are viewed as brave and inspiring, self harm is still seen as disturbing. Even talk of relapse or the ongoing nature of recovery are received positively, but discussions like I had above is very much in the ‘crazy’ category for most. Despite the fact that statistics show the prevalence of ED & SH are fairly similar and that they share many commonalities, the public perception is very different. Even years into ‘recovery’ it frustrates me. The stigma sticks. I can carry the weight of other people’s judgement now. That wasn’t always the case and it won’t be for many still in the throes of illness. The fear of the judgement creates an impediment to seeking help. That delay is extremely dangerous. So, yes, I’m still talking about this because hardly anyone else is. I don’t believe people get better in silence and I think it helps to be prepared for what better might actually look like.

If you like what I do you can support me on Patreon.

Design for life…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

Yesterday I was doing a little insta scrolling when I came across a really strange post. It’s from Michelle Ogundehin an interior designer who is on that design competition show on BBC. I followed her for pictures of pretty rooms. Thus, I was shocked by this abrupt change in content.

I have a problem with these kind of alarmist statements. Exercise is good for us. Everyone knows that. Encouraging people to try new things, enjoy moving their body, take a nice walk is great. Scaring the bejesus out of folk with you’re going to die, is not. Life is complicated. Not everyone has time, money or the physical ability to partake in the 30mins/5 times a week suggested in this post. The comments were flooded with people pointing this out. Many said the tone was all wrong & the content ableist. Michelle’s replies ranged from patronising to snarky. Then she turned off commenting. As a disabled person who has very few exercise options I tire of this exclusionary narrative. I also believe it is counter productive; fear & shame are not effective long term motivators.

On a wider point I’m throughly sick of how many unqualified people stray into the ‘health & well being’ sphere. Even in my carefully curated timelines I find it hard to escape grifters spewing pseudo science. The scope appears to be continually growing, manifestion, fad diets, alpha males, mlms, alternative cures… the list goes on. All making unsubstantiated claims & usually making buck. Ten minutes on google is all it takes to see that almost all of these people are unqualified. Some may be well meaning, most are shameless charlatans.

Curious as to what inspired this shift in content I took a look at Ogundehin’s substack. Amongst the expected design tips there are a lot of posts about ‘health’. She covers topics I honestly don’t think she is qualified to offer advice on. She does mention that she’s not a medical professional. She also confidently declares things fact that I am not certain stand up to much investigation. Her sources are suspect, her tone is off. She uses phrases like ‘food be thy medicine’ and writes overblown articles on the dangers of gluten. To me, it seems like another person who has realised there is money to be made in the wellness world.

Before I wrote this I did a little research. I wanted to check I wasn’t mistaken about her qualifications. Michelle appears very qualified for roles related to design. She has held impressive positions in editing, journalism and design. However, I can’t find any evidence of training that would make her a go to on food or health. She does mention in her substuck that she has started studying nutrition, but by her own admission is on the first module of what sounds like an introductory course. Health is a serious topic. I’m all for sharing our experiences and what worked for us. However, I truly fear the idea of people making impactful changes in their lives based on the pronouncements of unqualified people.

Please be careful out there. Dig a little a deeper before taking things you find online as fact. That includes me! I research topics before writing about them, but that does not make me an expert. I want readers to check things out for themselves. I always provide resources and caveat my opinions. In the case of anything related to your health, my advice is always consult a Dr.

If you like what I do you can support me here or on Patreon.

Something to talk about…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

Time to talk day has just be crept across my timeline. I’m hoping it’s a testament to how attitudes have changed towards what is needed in the mental health sphere that I’m only being alerted to it at 9.30pm. Despite my cynicism I clicked and perused the website.

Sadly, it’s the same old story. Like most other mainstream advocacy for mental illness, Time to talk fails in tackling the real barriers people with mental illness face. Of course it is important to dispel stigma around mental health problems. It is also great to encourage people to support friends, colleagues etc. The tips on how to approach such conversations are fairly helpful. My issue with this model is that I don’t believe it acknowledges the depth & breath of the problem. In fact, I would go further in saying that the offering a listening ear platitudes can even diminish the experience of many with mental illness.

I’m 43yrs old and I have managed various levels of mental Illness almost entire and life. In all of that time the NHS has been under resourced in the mental health sector. As the years have gone by funding has been slashed and the problem has grown. We have been at crisis status for a very long time. There has been an uptake in mental health awareness. Campaign after campaign successfully identified warning signs and urged us to seek help. Unfortunately, the help requested is most often not forthcoming.

At the moment just getting a Gp appointment can be an enormous struggle. From there referral to primary mental health services always results in landing in a very long waiting list. If you can survive that wait, the treatment available can be limited. The first line is usually a limited course of CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy). CBT can of course be effective for some issues. It is not an answer for more complex mental illness. Alongside CBT there are a variety of helplines and websites, which can offer valuable information, but do not constitute treatment. There are of course psychiatric medications. These can be life saving and do improve the lives of millions. However, they are not magic, most often they must be used in conjunction with other therapies.

A referral beyond the intial interventions already mentioned is difficult to obtain. Infuriatingly, not everyone merits a place on their waiting lists. Those who do make it are in for another privilege wait. The quality, duration & efficacy of what is available at the end of that line is unknown. There are excellent professionals, treatments & resources, but they are stretched beyond thin. There simply aren’t beds, funding or staffing to provide the appropriate treatment & support for everyone who needs it. The result is, most people are shirt changed. Problems that could be caught early are allowed to progress. Serious problems become emergencies. In short, our population suffers more mental illness and become trapped in illness for longer. Some, forever.

Beyond the personal tragedy, the social and economic toll this takes is clear. People become unable to work, care for their families, participate in their communities, they then are laden with whole new set of problems. This of course negatively impacts their mental health and round they go. More people end up in crisis with no where to turn but emergency services, which are not equipped to render proper treatment. Again worsening the situation of the individual and eroding resources available overall. Apply this cycle across the board and it becomes obvious how vicious it is. It is an enormous widespread problem that can not be solved without massive funding, recruitment and a re evaluation of government policy.

Atop those failings is the fundamental shortcomings of the message itself. Breaking down stigma is vital. However, I think the focus of these campaigns, asking how people are feeling, actually is listening to the answer and so on, don’t go nearly far enough. It gives the impression that all mental illness can be easily solved. The adverts and literature are always about depression or anxiety. They show the palatable side of these conditions; someone who has a difficult period and with a little help from their friends gets better. Images of people crying or holding their head in their hands distort the reality of living with such conditions. When someone can’t get out of bed or in the shower for days on end, when they can’t function or find relief despite those caring chats it’s a shock. A check in with the Gp & some anti depressants won’t cure everything. Mental illness encompasses a myriad of conditions. Symptoms can be extraordinarily distressing and debilitating. Some are enduring illnesses that require complex and specialised treatment. Conditions like schizophrenia, Ptsd or Bpd are rarely discussed. Instead they’re sensationalised & misrepresented in the media. Perpetuating dangerous ideas about those living with certain conditions. The fear and shame have not been dispelled. We’ve merely carved out a tiny category of ‘acceptable’ mental illness.

The recovery narrative presented in mainstream mental health advocacy is too simple. Not everyone gets better. Lots of people instead learn to manage their mental illness. Others have recurring episodes. They are still smart, loving, valuable human beings. When all society is presented with is neat stories of struggle, seek help, return to health forever expectations are unrealistic . Those who don’t follow that template become doubted. Compassion turns to thinking they’re not trying hard enough or maybe they’re exaggerating. Stigma persists. We need an informed public. Not only on the broader experience of mental illness, but on ways to bring about change. People should know why our services are failing. The power of our voices and votes must be understood. We also need education around navigating the systems that exist. Everyone should be aware of how best to advocate for themselves and loved ones. We do need to talk, it’s just a much bigger conversation.

If you like what I do you can support me here or on Patreon.

And what have we done?

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

The close of 2023 is fast approaching. Like many people, year end has me in a reflective mood. I’ve read a couple of year in reviews, both personal & global. I even had a look at my own from last year. All of which left me less than cheery.

I realised it has been a year of horror for the world. A year of underwhelming achievement for me. Neither elevates my mood. Given just how brutal & cruel events have been my own struggles pale. I still can’t quite shake the societal pressure to produce.

My health has been a shit show this year. That has greatly impacted my professional output. It has in fact resulted in subpar scores across the board. My house is a mess, my social life is decimated & my very ability to stay upright has been comprised. I don’t feel like a ‘productive member of society’. I’ve had to lean on friends & family more than I like and my ‘23 goals mostly remain unattained. I haven’t been able to attend protests or pull my weight on issues that desperately matter. There hasn’t been much to feel proud of.

I’m sure I am not alone in this feeling. It’s a tough time for many people. Maybe it is ok if we’re just getting by. Worth is not measured in such narrow parameters. Not giving up has value. Engaging and caring about the world matters. It can be difficult to really believe that when bombarded by hustle culture.

I get it. Intellectually I know that human merit isn’t about hours worked or pounds made. There is though, a part of me that feels inadequate when I can’t work. I feel ashamed of the overflowing washing basket and unwashed dishes. These feelings aren’t doing me or anyone else any good. I didn’t choose to be chronically ill and I am trying my best.

All of this to say, if you’re toting up your year and feel the total wanting; think again. You got up every day and did what you could. You’ve made a difference in lots of ways that you might not even realise. Small kindnesses, commiserations & making friends laugh. Perhaps even a smile you gave to a stranger in the street. People love you. You are appreciated. You made it through whatever struggles weighed you down. I did too. Maybe that is enough.

If you enjoy my content you can support me here or on Patreon.

In the name of the Father, the Skeptic & Son…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

I was raised Roman Catholic. I went to mass every Sunday, made confessions, took communion. I attended catholic schools. My primary school was flanked by a chapel, a missionary monastery & a convent. By virtue of attending those schools most of my friends were also catholic. We all prayed before lunchtime, sang hymns in assembly and had regular R.E. Classes. What I mean is I understand how organised religion works. I was immersed in dogma throughout my childhood.

That’s not to say I always liked it. Even early on I remember having the distinct feeling that some it was icky. I didn’t like the bullying ways of my school chaplains. Some of the things my teachers hammered home did not fit with the whole peace & love vibe. Mass was never anything other than a thing to be endured. Catholicism always felt too rigid.

It wasn’t until I hit secondary school that I really started to call bullshit. I didn’t believe much of what I was being taught. More importantly I hated the intolerance. Catholic views on sex, sexuality, gender roles, abortion and so much more simply did not align with my own. Neither did they fit with what I had learned at home. I couldn’t bite my tongue in the face of bigotry dressed up as god’s word. Nor could I bring myself to do the cherry picking that many religious folks do. The catholic faith felt like a straight jacket & I would not be restrained.

Thus, I drifted away. I stopped going to mass. I let myself question everything I had absorbed. I dug into the history of the church and its current practices. The more informed I became the less respect I had for any of it. It’s all steeped in atrocities & injustice. Organised religion it seemed was just a way to control the masses. What better way to impose your will than to tell people it was in fact, god’s will. By the time I finished school I no longer considered or described myself catholic at all. I had & have no use for any organised religion. I believe there is a higher power of some description, but not some patriarchal judge in the sky.

Most of my family still belong to the church. I have friends of various faiths & none. I’m very much a live & let live type of person. As long as no one is trying to impose their beliefs upon me or actively do harm in the name of religion; I don’t consider it my business. I do however retain a distrust & distaste for the institutions. I want no part of it.

I tell you all this in order for you to understand how I felt when I received this comment on something I wrote on the anniversary of my baby’s due date.

Anger was my main reaction. I removed the comment & blocked the (blank) account. I hated the thought of someone more vulnerable than myself receiving such a comment. I felt angry that this so called church elder was trawling for people they thought they could manipulate. However, I didn’t want to give it anymore time or energy. They were blocked; end of story.

Unfortunately not. A couple of weeks later, on my birthday, I received an email. This time from a church elder named Liam McIntosh. It was more of the same. Insulting & ignorant comments about my life, offers of ‘support’ and that suspicious claim of referral from a concerned friend. There is not a single person in my life who if concerned would ask the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to help me. This contact enraged me. I have an excellent support system, a sense of purpose and lots of joy in my life. However, I am aware that many people do not. I remember how little it took to overwhelm me when I was in the depths of mental illness & grief. I am also cognisant of how easily some people who feel desperate may be manipulated. Both messages utilised abuse tactics; belittle, claim to be doing so for the victim’s benefit and then purport to have all the answers. A church setting out to prey on vulnerable people in this manner sickens me.

This kind of behaviour is exactly why I do not like organised religion. It is predatory. This organisation is clearly seeking out people they believe to be vulnerable in order to manipulate them. I am not that person. I share my experiences in order to dispel stigma. I find the ‘concerned friend’ tactic particularly disturbing as it purposely exploits the guilt & shame that many people in difficult circumstances already feel.

After receiving that email I felt sufficiently angry & concerned to act. I tried to track down both men who contacted me. I could find no trace of either on official church websites etc nor could I find any record of professional training that would qualify them to offer such advice. The only COFLDS that I could find in Hamilton has disbanded. I called Edinburgh & Glasgow branches, but neither wanted to comment. Nor would they provide details of anyone in a senior role to discuss these communications. Some elders though are obviously reading this blog, perhaps they would like explain themselves?

I’m not finished with this. I am worried about the harm these unethical strategies could cause. As a result I am working on a more in depth piece for publication. If you or someone you know has been contacted in this way, I would like to hear from you.

If you enjoy my writing you can support me on Ko-Fi.

I am anything I want…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

I’ve had another sleepless night and I used the extra hours to clean up outstanding admin. One of the tasks I enjoy the least is dealing with the angry dms/emails etc I get from random followers who hate fat, single woman being happy & online. Recently there has been a sharp upturn in the number of messages telling me I should be ashamed, i’m a bad influence, should have more self respect… To those I say, SUCK IT,

close up of red haired woman with retro glasses & septum piercing sipping straw in iced drink

You’re not a slut (unless you like that term) if you enjoy lots of sex. Nudity is not inherently sexual and even when it is, it is not dirty. No one has to justify their sexual agency. I’m a grown ass woman with a healthy sex drive & I give zero fucks about what anyone thinks of that.

I have a sex life. Fat women are desired. I’ve had various partners. Some were great ideas others not so much. I’ve shed some tears, discovered things about myself, been frustrated & had a fucking ball. I’m am sick & tired of the contempt for female sexuality. I’ve regretted some of my sexcapades, but I’ve never been ashamed. In fact, I’m delighted to offer some high(& low)lights in service of the sex positive feminist agenda.

There was the Brazilian bus driver turned surgeon who was fun and precipitated an embarrassing incident.

The night club bouncer I fell arse over elbow for only to have him wreck my life.

The university professor who was kind, smart, committed & gorgeous, but just not the one.

The stunning aspiring stage actor who had the sexiest curves I’ve ever seen. She soothed my broken heart, boosted my self esteem and invited me to her wedding years later.

The film critic who gave great date and turned out to be full of shit.

The part time novelist who was a talented writer (& lover), but wanted me much more once he couldn’t have me.

The librarian union rep who presented as the ultimate lefty. Unless it related to feminism, then he was the laziest of ‘not all men’ misogynists.

The post man who was just a terrible rebound mistake and had to get up way too early.

The student whose very catholic Mum popped in when were having sex on the sofa. The 3 minutes it took me to find anything to hide behind were probably the most awkward of my life.

The bar manager who got clingy two dates in despite telling me she didn’t want anything serious.

The biologist who was fine really, but always thought he knew best. Good time in bed. Frustrating conversations.

The IT analyst who wanted to move way too fast. Very romantic, but scared the shit out of me with detailed future plans.

The tax man who started out a lot of fun. Settled into something comfortable. Ended up a huge cowardly disappointment.

The electrician who was a whirlwind. Crazy night outs. Cuddly weekends watching old movies. Fizzled out fast.

The newly divorced Mum who was actually pretty incredible, but really wanted to live the party girl life. I was just too old & tired for clubbing on a Wednesday.

The rugby player who was an entirely different person in front of his friends. I met a cool, sensitive guy. Every time we went to the pub I was with a rugby boy cliche. Big nope.

The lottery fund allocator who could have been perfect if i wasn’t so ridiculously bad at recognising the nice guys.

The mental health worker who was all erudite and kind. Big social conscious. Fostered rescue cats. Was also way too interested in my scars in bedroom. Creepy & ugh.

The photographer who was exciting & hilarious, but only because he took copious amount of cocaine. Pro tip ladies coke is no friend to the old erection.

And more.

I have a favourite who blew my mind. There were crazy hot folk, guys that others thought weren’t attractive at all, relationships, flings & the odd one nighter. It’s all fine. Every (consensual) sexual encounter was ok for me. Sex is fun. It’s natural. It can be as big or as little a deal as you feel it is.

ly is posing in black underwear with red faux suspenders tights . She has her arms above her head

Safe sex between consenting adults is A OK. Have as much or as little as you want. Talk about it or don’t. Your body is yours to do with as you please. Enjoy.

If you enjoy my content you can support me here or on Patreon.

Be running up that hill…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

Chronic illness is great at kicking you when you’re down. Lamentably, it also likes to give you a dunt when you’re flying too. It would be taxing to say which is worst, but falling from a height certainly hurts.

That was me last week. I was on a lovely break in the cutest cottage by sea. Soaking up the calming sea side views and thoroughly enjoying time with my nephew. The sun was out, we headed to an incredibly beautiful beach. I watched the boy run around having the time of his life. I paddled in the refreshingly cold sea. Took deep breaths, listened to the lapping waves & felt happy.

Tide coming in on st Cyrus beach

As it edged towards late afternoon people started to leave. I began to worry about the hill I’d have to climb to leave the beach. As we packed up I saw people stroll up. I knew it was going to be a problem.

And I was correct. That little sand dune fucked me up. I started trying to ascend it alone, but quickly realised that wasn’t going to happen. It’s hard to get your footing on slopping sand. Even harder to get purchase in moving ground with a walking stick. With every step the sand slid down the hill pushing me back. It was all working against me.

Foot with black painted tie nails on the sand with wave approaching

My sister saved the day. She let me lean on her, literally & half dragged me up that hill. Every step was excruciating. My knees felt like the where going to explode. My back, wrists, elbows & shoulders were all screaming. I couldn’t catch a breath, my lungs felt as though they were filling with the sand I was slipping on.

That little sand dune appeared to go on forever. The bench at top a promised land I’d never reach. Listen, the pain was bad, it wasn’t the culprit of tears at the summit. As my sister helped me struggle I saw my 3yr old nephew gamble up the slope. An old couple comfortably passed us. A nice man with a very concerned look stopped to ask if he could help. I focused on breathing whilst my little sister pepped talked me up that hill. I repeated ‘you’re nearly there’ in my head and tried my upmost to hold back the tears.

When I finally had my bum on that bench my nephew ran to give me a cuddle. The tears started streaming. I looked at the beautiful view as I silently cried. I didn’t want to make eye contact with my loved ones. I didn’t want my little rascal to see me in this state. I recognised the concern in my sister’s voice & the love in the silent shoulder my Mum offered to hold me upright. As much as I loved them for it, I hated that I have to be this way.

View from hill over a beach.grass & wildflowers with sand past leading down to the blue sea

It was another one of those ‘how did I get here’ moments that chronic illness brings. I never imagined it’d take a support team to get me up a hill at 40 years old. I’m not a person who likes to be publicly vulnerable, yet here I am. Regularly fragile & exposed as I try to scratch out something close to a normal life. I felt guilty and embarrassed and pathetic and grateful and burdensome and scared and loved. All crashing over me with more force than the waves below could ever muster.

I concentrated on the nature around me as fought to compose myself. I attempted to ignore the curious looks from strangers & the pain coursing through my body. I listened to the the waves and birds. I let the blue horizon pull me through all the heavy implications placed on the people I love. I dried my eyes. I got back on my feet.

The day continued. Me, making my way slowly behind the others. Stopping to rest. Taking pain relief. Zoning out when we got back in the car. It was all so much bigger than that stupid hill. I was hoping I hadn’t distressed the others. Dreading the pain that I knew was still to come. Feeling sad at the thought that I probably wouldn’t ever return to that blissful beach.

It is painful to accept one’s limitations. I find it incredibly hard to let more & more go. I hate that I’m always the one who has a problem with the plans. I despise that my difficulties are so visible. Gasping for air at checkouts that take a fraction too long. Sitting on floors when there’s no seats available. Calling in advance to check if my malfunctioning body can be accommodated. I don’t like being on display, don’t want to answer questions about my stick, shake off the exasperated sighs or smile at pitying strangers. No matter how kindly meant, I’d rather be suffering in private. I’m exhausted by the knowledge that I’ll pay for every slice of fun. Even more so by the battle with myself to keep reaching for those good times anyway. Most of all I’ll forever regret how much this impacts all the wonderful people in my life. I wish I could stop being a hindrance. I never want them to have to worry. I appreciate every tiny thing they do for me, but I still wish they didn’t have to.

This is chronic life. It’s not just the pain & illness. It is all encompassing. Lots of the time the only way to deal with that is to push it to the very back of your mind. These moments of brutal clarity never stop taking me by surprise.

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Not to blame…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

As this pandemic continues to wreak havoc there is an increasing need for a scapegoat. Predictably, fat people have become a convenient target. Navigating this strange new world is hard enough without all the finger pointing.

If you’re feeling hounded, I get it. I’m fiercely fat positive & always prepared to fly the body liberation flag. Even I am finding the constant barrage of fat phobia exhausting. With our feckless PM giving credence to a BMI/Covid link and the tabloids eating it up it is understandable that we feel attacked. When the government makes weight stigma policy it absolutely feeds the trolls.

For the record, losing 5lbs will not make you less likely to contract covid nor will it effect the severity of the virus if you do. Like much of the Tories covid 19 response it is not rooted in science. In fact, it is too early for any studies to provide reliable data on the impact of covid on fat bodies. Especially when the intersections with poverty, disability, poor medical care etc are often not factored into research.

Fat phobic newspaper headlines

You are not irresponsible for living in a fat body. You are not a burden on the NHS. You are deserving of the same care & respect as anyone else. If you need help reinforcing these facts or dealing with others who refuse to accept them I highly recommend checking out the resources below. I have linked to their Instagram accounts from which you can find all their links/books.

Jess Campbell (haes_studentdoctor) is as her insta implies a student doctor with a Health at Every Size approach. She shares excellent information in a really straightforward manner.

Dr Natasha Larmie (fatdruk) is a GP in the UK who campaigns to end medical weight stigma. She shares her own experience along with insightful analysis. Definitely a must follow.

If you aren’t already aware of Dr Joshua Wolrich where have you been? He is an NHS surgical doctor who promotes HAES, debunks junk weight loss science & has a much anticipated book due very soon.

Lindo Bacon is a body liberation author, speaker & researcher. Their first book, Health at Every Size completely changed my understanding of how my body works & the effect of dieting. I cannot recommend their work enough.

Image of book, health at every size lindo bacon

I only recently discovered HPWAS (Health Professionals Against Weight Stigma) and I am so glad. As a fat person it can be difficult to deal with the medical community. It is therefore very reassuring to know there are professionals trying to change things from within. They are currently collecting lived experiences of medical fat phobia. Please do consider sharing if you feel able.

Big fat love to everyone struggling.

If you enjoy my writing you can support me on Ko-Fi

My sign is vital, my hands are cold…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

CW: Self Harm

Lately I’ve been having regular checks for the heart rate thing. The nurse who took my blood & vitals last week was really familiar. I had that strange I’ve definitely met you feeling, but also knew I didn’t know her, know her. I couldn’t place her at all until a loud clatter startled her. Her sharp intake of breathe shot me back in time.

She was the nurse I stunned with my self destruction in this same hospital many years ago. She either didn’t recognise me or correctly judged it best not to indicate that she had. She was friendly & kind, but the sound of that inhale shook me. I was back there, covered in blood & guilt.

I can so clearly remember walking into that triage room. Concisely explaining why I was there & seeing the doubt in her eyes. I could tell she thought the large towel on my arm was overkill. I knew she was weighing up how to nicely dismiss me. I was too tired to do anything other than unwrap the makeshift dressing & expose the truth.

Foggy picture of cars outside hospital. Words ambulance only painted on ground

The inner layers were blood soaked & the final one stuck to the wound. When I yanked it off with same the lack of self care that had led me to that room, she gasped. An entirely involuntary expression of what; shock? disgust? fear? I couldn’t discern, but I knew it wasn’t good.

The speed that she whipped through the triage routine was more about her discomfort than mine. I had long lost my objectivity. I sought treatment as a means of calling a halt to that cut. I had given up seeking enough. I knew that enough was a lie. When I looked at my arm I really couldn’t tell anymore if it was any worse than anything else I had done to myself. It was just another failed attempt to carve out some peace.

Peace that I knew was never coming. I already felt stupid & ashamed & so horribly guilty. For all the usual reasons and now also because it was obvious I had ruined this women’s night. She hadn’t bargained for my level of determined self loathing; I’d upset her. I felt selfish for not being more clear. I shouldn’t have allowed anyone to be caught off guard.

I wanted to be better. Do better. I wished I could give this nurse & everyone else the explanation they needed. I yearned to be somewhere else. I didn’t even want to do this anymore. My blades had long since lost efficacy. I could never cut deep enough. Never shed enough blood. The quiet I needed was evermore elusive. I was desperate and so fucking tired. Yet, I still couldn’t stop.

As I waited for her to finish with my blood pressure I was stuck in the past. Mired in the dread. Reliving the experience of having my arm stapled shut whilst already planning the next assault. Knowing I couldn’t escape the nagging voice in my head that insisted I must cut. I must earn any rest. I had to atone for sins I wasn’t able to articulate. I had to release all the fetid emotion with my blood.

When I left I felt blessed. And cursed. Blessed that I was wrong. I did escape. I have hushed that internal need for penance. Cursed because I still haven’t silenced it. There will always be triggers pulling me back. Days when my scars itch to be opened. You can’t play with fire & not get burned. The magic is remembering I know how to make it stop. I just have to wake up every day and choose this new, better life. Easy, right?

Black and white photo oh plus size woman looking at scarred arm

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Nothing is like it was…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

This month’s insomnia has been sponsored by infertility. My inability to reproduce occupies far to much space in my head & life. A big problem with healing from pregnancy loss is how taboo the topic remains. Things have improved a little, but on the whole I still feel like most people do not want to hear about it. Some have very valid reasons to shy away from those conversations. Others merely feel uncomfortable. Rightly or wrongly that leads me (& others) to feel we must keep it to ourselves.

Obviously I have attempted to combat the silence both in my writing & my life. I know it helps those who have lost & those around us to be more open. My own attempts to get on with it quietly were incredibly harmful to me. Still, there is so much that I have not shared. There are important people in my life that I’ve never spoken about my miscarriages or infertility with. It’s not a secret, but many things have prevented me from feeling able to discuss how I have felt.

Beyond emotion there are so many details that aren’t revealed. Common place aspects of miscarriage that are only ever referred to in hushed tones by those who have been there. There are various behaviours that I kept to myself because I feared they veered towards crazy. I’ve subsequently discovered they’re common rituals. Humans find comfort where they can, it would have been less frightening to know I was normal.

Most of all, the secrets are weighty. I feel laden with the obligation to keep the unmentionables shrouded. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I definitely don’t want others strapping on this load. I need to let some of it go.

I say some, because, there are people & realities I cannot change. Crashing against solid stone will bring me no comfort. Thus, I want to reveal the parts that I can with this kind & ultimately faceless audience. Hopefully it can help others who feel burdened by conventional decorum. At the very least I may finally feel lighter.

I fear you’ll judge the box I’ve kept for 20 years. Adding items that others have hinted should not have been saved. Very few know it exists, the suggestion that it shouldn’t have has always hurt. I don’t think the positive tests from each pregnancy are gross. I’ve still felt the needed to hide them. Saving hospital bands & paperwork makes sense to me. I don’t understand why wanting to hold onto something (anything) connected to my children is morbid. I’ve been assured it is.

Positive pregnancy tests
Document requesting blood pregnancy test

I’m embarrassed of the few new born pieces I dared to purchase. So often I’ve seen childless women with tiny socks stashed in a drawer portrayed as lunatics. Dangerous, even. The type who might steal your baby. I hide the pregnancy, early years & baby names book. They’re packed away with the baby grow I saved from my niece’s early days. I thought one day I could frame pictures of them both as identically clothed babies. Yes, the frame that would have housed those photos remains box fresh alongside. I have no need for this paraphernalia, I just can’t bear to throw them away. I worry this will be viewed as pathetic. Another crazy lady whose biological clock went bang. They were logical purchases when I made them. I was pregnant. When those pregnancies failed I was certain the next one wouldn’t.

I’ve never shared the pictures I took when my stomach started to change shape during my last pregnancy. I wanted to show off that development, but I didn’t think I was allowed. At the time it would have been tempting fate. Afterwards, there is instant unease if the subject is approached.

ly is wearing a red dress and taking a side on mirror selfie

Then there are the memories that will never leave and are never uttered. Unpleasant shards of the mess no one wants to witness. The exact tone a nurse used when she told me it was for the best because I was so young. Or the ice cold that runs through me everytime I see an examination table with stirrups. The fact that a miscarriage is more than blood and that more must be dealt with. I don’t talk about sitting alone in my bathroom trying to decide what to do with the bloody fragments of the child that will never be. Or the torture of bleeding a little & then having to wait. Clinging to hope through blood tests and scans. Only to be told you’re technically still pregnant, but it’s no longer viable.

Risk of infection, prolonged bleeding, the extent of the pain are all things I only became aware of through experience or via other women in private groups. We’re all so squeamish about the reality of pregnancy loss. I think it’s entwined with the patriarchal disgust of ‘female’ bodily functions. The same whiff of shame hangs over the process. I have felt I must not reveal anything too corporeal. Almost as though declaring the facts of my physical condition is gratuitous. Likewise, I have restrained aspects of emotional responses for the comfort others. It simply isn’t sensible to treat such a traumatic event with polite moderation. The inhibition has damaged me.

The older I get the more I seek clarity. Much of the pressure that society brings to bear obscures my view. I don’t want to submit to it anymore.

Pale white feet standing in Loch with pebbles

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