Days Of Gratitude - Treating Winefride. Taking The Ferry But Not To The Baltic

Readers of this blog will be unsurprised by the next sentence.

I am behind with my blog.

Here are four more days of gratitude.  Were they really less than a fortnight ago?

9^th August

Grateful that people seem to like the most recent blog posts by Blob and the one I accidentally wrote about biphobia this morning.

Grateful to have been able to take Blob Thing and Winefride on an adventure. She wanted to go on the ferry too. Who am I to deny her request?

Winefride poses with a giant lion.

He was very friendly.

Blob and Winefride enjoying themselves.

 Grateful that I just about kept my brain functioning when out. Just. About.

Grateful that nobody has yet locked me up in a psychiatric ward for the way I talk about, to, and as Blob Thing!

10^th August

Grateful for charity shop books of a kind that would almost have been an instant eternal hell sentence for the good reasonably fundy I once was. Almost.

Grateful, not for the first time, for free tea and cake at John Lewis, and for finding a way out of that shop that doesn't involve heading back into the rest of the shopping mall. Woo hoo!

Another grateful. I just thought of it.

Six months ago today it was Ash Wednesday. The first day of my official Lenten fasting from church.

Very grateful to have been able somehow to take that step. Six months into my six week fast I have no regrets about starting to learn what life without regular church attending might look and feel like.

11^th August

Grateful to have gone out with wife and child today. A rare family outing. We didn't do the planned activity but found things.

Grateful too that I am quite pleased with Blob's post today ( blobthing.blogspot.comI think) even though it entirely didn't go to plan.

Going for the obscure pictures today! 

12^th August



Grateful to have got into town long enough to gain a shorter fringe, or to lose a longer fringe.

Also grateful to start writing something in the cathedral cafe. On paper rather than on the walls. And to continue for a while at home.

Grateful to have had just enough spoons to be out for these things, to find two things to snap a picture of, and to buy this hippo.

In Which Clare Says Something Unpopular About Her Autistic Life

This one is hard to write.

It might not be popular.

What the heck?  I'll just free write it and see how the words come out.  I hope that my community of autistic people will hug me rather than crucify me.

I am in my mid-40s.  For pretty much all of my life I have struggled.  Every single day.  Things used to be a lot worse.

I used to struggle with depression.  Every single day.  Even on the days when I wasn't actually depressed according to any diagnostic criteria there was a dark, dark shadow falling over me and I knew that the depression would return at some point.

I did not like myself and believed that I was, fundamentally, some kind of monster.  As a result I embraced a conservative version of a faith that bolstered my own belief.  It said that yes I was, fundamentally, corrupt.  An evil being, deserving only to burn for eternity in a hell so awful that it was beyond imagining.  That's what the faith taught.  It taught that we were all like that.  Evil.   But it was okay.  Because it preached a God who gave a way out of the consequences of our own disgusting sinfulness.  It preached a solution.  Not necessarily to our own evil.  At least not in this life.  But a solution that meant God wouldn't be angry anymore and wouldn't throw us all in the fire for ever and ever and ever.  I already believed in my own monsterhood.  And so I embraced that faith thoroughly.

Yeah, I did not like myself.  And conservative Christianity gave both hope and an excuse to keep on saying mea maxima culpa.  I have grievously sinned.  And so has everyone else.

That all changed three years ago when I embraced and welcomed myself as a transgender woman.  The dark shadow lifted for the first time in my life.  In one day it was gone.  It was like a miracle.  A miracle I had prayed for over two decades of faith.  In many ways it was a miracle.  For someone who believed as I did to say "Yes, I'm transgender and that's okay," couldn't be described better than with a word such as miracle.

I had already begun a process of healing, of moving from self hatred, self abuse, hopelessness that I could ever be truly happy or content.

From that day I began the process of healing, of coming to the point at which I could honestly say I both love and like myself.  The process is still not complete three years later.  I have come a very long way.  But there are still moments.  There are still unfair self critiques.

The shadow had gone.

But that didn't mean everything was fixed.  Yes, I had a long spell of euphoria.  A long period of exploring the new freedom to be myself.  And - in amongst all the fear, the verbal abuse, the struggles that most transgender people share - all of that was wonderful.  More than wonderful.  Today I don't quite have the words to describe what it is like to live under that shadow, that crushing weight, that night of darkness, and then to have it all lifted away and to finally see the sun and know that the shadow will not return.

But after the euphoria, then what?

Then I had to look at myself honestly.  And see that many of the struggles I had always known - every day - were still there.  Social struggles.  Sensory struggles.  Anxiety struggles.  And removing my depression, removing my self-loathing, didn't remove these struggles.

And these were things I had been trying to solve for most of my life.  They were things I had received therapy for.  I had read the self help books.  I had prayed almost unceasingly at times.  Through the treatments for depression (which never worked because they didn't tackle the cause) I also sought treatment for my own struggles, struggles I thought intimately bound up with depression.

I looked.  And it was all still there.

Unsolved.

Uncured.

And although I didn't talk about them with everyone like I do now, they affected my life profoundly.

People didn't know.

My coping mechanisms and the masks I wore made it look for the most part that I was reasonably okay a reasonable amount of the time.

I struggled on.

Social struggles.  Sensory struggles.  Anxiety struggles.

I wanted them solved.

To put it bluntly:   I WANTED A CURE.

____________________

And then, nearly two years ago I started to think about myself another way.  I got talking with some people about their lives.  Their problems.  And I realised through much thought, much discussion, much reading, and much to my surprise and shock, that something which was true for them was true for me too.

They were autistic adults.

And I learned that I am an autistic adult too.  I'd been putting off learning that truth for many years.  Because of stigma.  Because of shame.

The process of realisation and acceptance and then seeking diagnosis took much of last year.

It was incredibly difficult, far more so than anything else I have ever done in my life.  I thought it would be pretty easy but I turned out to be completely wrong.  Hey, I've gone through the gender transition thing.  At least socially, although the medical side won't be done and dusted for a long while yet.  The medical side is simple.  The social side is complex.  And the acceptance of myself as Clare, when it finally happened, was quite easy.  Gender transition isn't easy.  Surely a little thing like autism would be a doddle after the whole changing my name and wearing frocks thing!

Autism. 

Now that was hard.  Excruciatingly hard.

One word changed everything.  Every single aspect of my life and my being needed to be reexamined in light of that word.  Everything became open to intense scrutiny as I began to understand myself a lot better.

It was hard.  It is hard still.   It's been ten months since the official diagnosis.  I am still working through the ramifications.  People tell me it's a process that can take many years.  People agree that it can be tough.

But this new knowledge was wonderful.  Totally, beautifully wonderful.

Now I had an explanation.  I had a reason why things had always been as they were.

There were so many things I had always felt guilty about, or ashamed about.  And now they had a word.  They had a name.  There was a reason for me being as I was.  There was no cause for guilt.  No shame.  No whipping myself about social struggles, sensory struggles, anxiety struggles.

And in that I could breathe.  In that I could find pride in myself.  Autistic pride.  I hold it still.

But.

Social struggles.  Sensory struggles.  Anxiety struggles.

Every single day.  Without remission.  Without rest.  Without any break at all.

There are much better days.  There are much worse days.  But they are there.

In some way they will always be there.  Always.  Always.  Fucking Always.

This is my autism.  This is how being autistic plays out now.   For forty years.  For many years to come - hopefully many, many years because I would dearly love to live as many years as someone who knows herself as an autistic woman as I did as someone who lived as a man and would never have accepted the autism label.

And what are these struggles?

They are the very things I fought against for so many years.  They are the thinks I wanted a solution for.

I wanted a cure then.

Now they are named.

And I know there is no cure.

But sometimes.  Some days.  When things are bad and I know I have the rest of my life to experience it all.

On those days.

I WANT A CURE.

Why should I not want a cure?  I wanted one before I had an explanation.  Why shouldn't I still want one?

It's irrelevant in a way.  There is no cure.  Being autistic is a part of my identity and it always will be.  There is good in that.  There is.  And I happily wear my autistic pride badges and bracelet and often a necklace that just says "Autistic".   I recognise that autism gives me gifts as well as hardships.

I am proud of me.  And I am proud of all the other autistic people who struggle every day, and all the autistic people for whom autism is far more debilitating than it is for me - for the ones who will need twenty-four hour care every day until they die.

I am proud of them all.  Because autism is fucking difficult.  For me it is that difficult every day.  Every day.

And on some of them.  If I am honest.  As I am being publicly honest right now:

I WANT A CURE.  A fucking cure so I don't have to endure what I endure.  Yes, one that would leave my personality intact - which would probably be an impossibility.

I say that knowing that it's not a popular view.  We're all meant to be proud.  We're all meant to be autism positive.  We're all meant to cultivate our autistic space, autistic identity, autistic culture, to fight for acceptance not just awareness, for accommodations to help us, to say that we're autistic and we're bloody wonderful.

Yeah.  I can do all that.  And I will keep doing all that.  Because, as the saying goes, we are different but not less.  I believe that.  Firmly.  Without hesitation.

And yet.

On some days.  I want a cure.

There.  I've said it.  The unpopular thing.



[1611 words - far more serious ones than the 2700 written earlier for Blob Thing's blog.  Read those words for light relief.]

The Beginnings Of Story: Harmonising The Crack In A Bell

This morning I sat in the refectory of St. Nicholas Cathedral, Newcastle.  I read for a while and then put my book down and picked up a pen and a piece of paper.

The idea was to write down five words that I could see around me and from those words write a story.

The words were

Bell,   Crack,    Exit,    Harmonising,    Coffee

The first of the words wasn't one I could see, but the cathedral bell chimed the hour just as I was about to put the tip of my pen on the paper.

I sat there in the refectory and began to write.  I sat at home and wrote some more.  It's not quite free writing this time.  This time I've actually done some thinking about it!  And I've even read through my words to see whether or not they are completely awful.  It's not an ideal situation.  They're too fresh in my head to be able to have much of a clue whether or not their awful.  I might look at it again in a few weeks and cringe deeply, only not deleting the file out of a sense of completeness in a long exploration into the experience of writing.

This is the beginning of the story, formed from those words.  First version.  Raw.  Yeah, I think that highly of you all!  You're getting the raw version.  The whole uncooked potato.

So far I have included zero of those words but they are there in my head and they are leading me into a story that I haven't imagined yet.  Four of the five words are anyway.  I confess that coffee might be binned in much the same way as I would bin a coffee chocolate from the selection box.

I'm guessing that the pace would pick up in whatever comes next.  And whether anything comes next depends on my head.  Whoever this person is - I don't know who they are.  But I seem to have laid down a few clues for myself and would like to find out about them.  That said, I want to find out about the mirror woman too and need to know if the shopping trolley story might have a happy ending.  I might manage to find out one day - if I can make enough time between Blob Thing's adventures and him wanting to write long blog posts about them.

Before the first and so far only 1300 words of a story, a photograph.  It has nothing to do with the story.  Unless the story turns out to have a similar tower.  But if I don't include it then the photo included with this post when it's shared on Facebook and Twitter will be my profile picture from 2013.  It's a decent picture but it could dearly do with updating and I'd prefer this picture to be the one.

Awakening.

A mind rising from nothing. The sweetness of annihilation. A featureless oblivion.

Nothing and yet everything. In the blank canvas an infinite potential of image. In the white page an unfulfilled vision not yet dreamed where words and colour and even music may come together in a plenitude of beauty or ugliness.

An uncreated mind, empty. More full than it would ever be again unless returned into the void, into a placeless place where even description is beyond describing.

A mind rising into chaos. The noticing of its own existence. Those moments of wondering what form that existence may take. The torrent of thoughtless thoughts, of shapeless shape. And then remembrance. The mind existed before annihilation. The mind had form, shape. It had ways of being, preconceived, set hard in neural connections formed through many wakings.

A mind rising into reason. It's quick conclusion that it knows what it is, knows what manner of creature it owns, that its life is a coherent series of events. Today follows yesterday. Usually. The mind realises that sometimes it hasn't always happened that way.

This mind knows. As much as a mind can know.

I am here. I am myself. I am this person. I have lived in this body and live in it still. Everything is as it was before I slept into that bare nothing.

My mind risen into self awareness.

Then rising further into the first fragments of awareness of what lies beyond self.

I looked outside mind, into flesh, into earth, into elemental existence.

The pitch perfect quiet surrounded my ears, a silence punctuated only by the gentle washing of the air through my nostrils as I allowed my body to breathe. I let myself view each breath, feeling the rise and fall of my lungs pressing against my ribs and witnessing the peace in which air passed my relaxed throat. In those moments of awakening, my breath is at its clearest. It sounds in my mind as if a string quartet had somehow found a perfect chord unwritten by composers who could dream such musicality but, unable to sound out the dream, were tempted to despair by the way the music of the gods could never be sung.

As awareness continued to return, I listened.

I listened, leaned into the quiet, into the near perfect and empty stillness, into the cacophony of the voiceless, the overwhelming vibrancy of a piano long after the last note has been played and the last pianist has died. I listened. And I heard it clearly.

Outside of myself: nothing, trickling through me as unbroken stream.

I had experienced such perfect quiet once before. Deep in a cave, where the constant stream – no, raging river – of noise above ground cannot penetrate. That time, timeless in silence, was my freedom. I had sought it out purposefully. I would never have made it through the burning had I not found that place and remained suspended in the dark for as long as it took. In that space I learned control. I learned how to channel pieces of the dark, the silence into the world above. After my exile, I could survive and continue my growth. Just about.

This too, as I woke, was the peace of the free born, as if the air itself had been sucked dry of its natural ability to carry a single decibel from source to ear.

Unnatural.

I began to wonder why. And then forced back my wondering. It didn't matter why. Not right then. What mattered was that here was peace. Just a few more seconds of waking solitude before, inevitably, I would be joined by a million uncontrollable voices each wanting to have their say in the wind and the rain, in the stars and the sun, in the electrical hum and vibration of the lights, in just the over-abundance of the background noise – the hissing, jeering, broken cheering, the birdsong, the jet planes, the piercing screams of the artificial satellites.

A few more seconds. Breathe the peace. And know myself. Breathe. Then wonder. Then panic. Then fight. That's the order.

I let thoughts go. Postponing wakefulness. It was overrated anyway.

My body, in rebellion. Form must have life. Commanding life.

As I allowed myself to wake further, I watched and saw the air passing my nostrils. I felt each moment, a fraction of time, almost feeling each molecule in turn, the edges of nitrogen and oxygen and the way the bonds between their atoms sparkled, the jaggedness of carbon dioxide and the way sparks flew whenever it hit my flesh. I saw the space between molecules and in those dark places – although dark is a poor metaphor – I could sense the edges of something darker, just out of reach of my appreciation.

The air was cold, so cold. Far from the cool comfort of the cave. Coldness. A frigidity that could almost freeze the moisture of my nose, as if with each out-breath fresh ice would form on each nasal hair were it not for the warmth of my blood warming each follicle from below. Christ, so damn cold it might have been better to have remained unaware.

Unnatural. Again.

I allowed myself to enter into the touch of the air on my face. Unmoving, except below my nose where moved by breath. Yet it seemed to have its own life, the dead coldness tap tapping on my skin, hitting me with a gentle ferocity, calling each nerve and pore to join it on a frozen journey.

I let awareness of my body come into focus. I realised I was lying on my back. The ground, or floor, below pressed into my back and legs and head as gravity pushed me down. My weight felt right. In the unnatural, at least gravity was something familiar. Whatever I was lying on was soft, a blanket rather than a rock. It was flat. And it was warm, a sandy beach on a summer day. I could tell I was fully dressed but my hand and wrist lay against this ground. The sensation returned was pleasant, a cross between mown grass and silk. I allowed the nerves of my hand to carry this pleasure to my mind and for a while I lived just in that sensation.

I knew what I would see when I opened my eyes. There was no light on the other side of my eyelids. Just like the cave. I knew. I opened my eyes anyway. And gazed into black. I watched the colours for a while, created by my eyes and by the creativity of a brain striving for stimulation. Meaningless patterns, except for the meanings I would give them in my dreams.

And then I stretched my body out. Luxuriously on the soft grass-silk.

At least, that's what my mind told my body to do.

It wouldn't obey.

It wouldn't stretch or cooperate in enjoying the softness.

I focused harder, placed more effort into the command. Telling my hand to move, to experiment with the sensation.

Nothing. Nothing at all. My mind was strong. My body aware. But without movement I could know no more.

Unnatural. Again.

I waited in the silence. Watched my breath. Watched the molecules move. Listened to my heart beat and wondered at the way my body drowned out the outer quiet. I waited. What else could I do? I would have loved to be moving. To get up and feel my way round my surroundings. I like silence. I crave it. But choosing it is one thing. Having it imposed is another. If I could, I would have been searching for a way back to the noise, the fire and sonic booms of the world.

Instead, I could only wait.  Watch.  And remember.

Days Of Gratitude - A Scribble, A Space Station, A Poem, And A Rare Meal

And so the year continues.

These are another four days on which I could have listed the problems and difficulties of being me.  Even the day I mark down as a "very good mental capabilities day" was still a lot of effort.  I was so proud of myself and very grateful too.  I can cook.  It's just that most of the time I can't cook.   I have the ability and practical knowledge to be able to knock together a few ingredients and whack up the flavour with harissa and paprika and whatever else is to hand.  But the day below was a rarity.  The DWP guidelines for assessment talk about whether a person is able to prepare a meal from fresh ingredients.  For the guidelines, heating up a ready meal or a tin of beans does not count.  But when I was assessed and even as my application for PIP has gone through the mandatory reconsideration, it seems that they haven't followed the rules.  And because I'm not emaciated they judge that I have no food problems.  Yeah, I'm not emaciated.  Because I eat a whole load of crap.  Ready meals and junk food and a shit load of sugar and fat.  I'm not emaciated.  It's true.  But that's not because I don't have any problems with food.  It's because I DO have problems with food.

I was so pleased this day.  I cooked a meal.  I managed to buy ingredients.  And those ingredients didn't all go in the bin having gone mouldy.

Unfortunately I bought quite a lot of ingredients that day.  Good quality ingredients - including really good organic produce from the farmers' market that happened to be in progress when I was retreating to the Metro to get home.  And I haven't managed to cook a meal from fresh ingredients in the six days since that one.  I suspect that the excellent food will end up in the bin.

That makes me sad.  The way I have been with food for a long time makes me sad.  Sometimes I have phases when I can cook regularly and while the food isn't going to get me through an audition for Masterchef, it tastes good.  It's simple.  It's not very varied.  But it tastes good.  I have those phases.  But the last one was two years ago.

Things are worse at the moment than they were.  I am now on stronger medication to deal with my anxiety - the daily panic attacks, meltdowns and shut downs were getting far too much and sometimes were getting to be a danger to my well being and safety.  So I have the medication and it's really helping a lot.  It has side effects though.  One of those listed is weight gain - one in ten people who use it experience significant weight gain through treatment.  I seem to be one of those people which doesn't surprise me because I'm good at side effects.

Now, if I had no food issues that would be fine.  I'd just cut down and sort out different things to cook and I'd be able to adjust and not put on the weight.  But I do have food issues.

Pretty much there is this:

On a bad day I don't have the mental energy or wellbeing to deal with much at all and I still do my best and try to do as much as I can.

On a good day I have more mental energy but it all goes on dealing with life and I haven't got anything left to be able to sort out my eating or my cooking.

On August 5th, one day in six months, I had even more mental energy and could cook a decent meal, one that was very healthy indeed and which tasted better than any of the ready meals and any of the junk that I usually have to eat.

That's my life with food.

The DWP say that I don't have problems.  Well fuck the DWP.  I have problems.  Every single sodding day.  Every single day.

August 5th was also an amazingly good day in another respect.  I found the mental energy to get the form filled out to officially appeal their judgement about PIP.  Yay!  I did it.  On time.  Yay!  Now I have to wait until that's all processed and then I'll be called to a tribunal.  The thought is not an easy one.  The initial assessment sent me a bit crazy for weeks.  It affected me very badly.  And now there is a tribunal to look forward to.

Here's an idea of just how screwed the DWP assessment for PIP is.  The woman informed me directly that you can live on two biscuits a day.  Did she really believe that?  If she did she is an idiot, totally unqualified to make a judgment on anybody.  If she didn't then she should be sacked for dishonesty.

Anyway.  Four days of gratitude.  Starting with the best mental wellbeing day I've had in a LONG while.

5^th August

A food post.

Grateful that I cooked a proper meal.

I. Cooked. A. Meal.

That is a very big thing for me. It's the first time I have managed to combine actual ingredients into a meal in quite a lot of months.

Yes. It's been a very very good mental capabilities day.

6^th August

After doing so well on Friday, the day was a massive contrast. I could do very little at all during the day. All plans scrapped. But:

Grateful to have started reading a book and to be enjoying it. And grateful to discover that there are three more in the series. They will probably cost more than the first which was in a shop selling seven paperbacks for a pound.

 Grateful to have spent a little time outside our back door in the evening with Kit. We startled foxes and talked of the present and the past - including that time they were mentioned on Radio 3 during the interval of the Horrible Histories Prom Concert when they were sitting at the organ in the Albert Hall with the organist and music arranger for the concert. Yep. That happened.

And we watched as the sky grew darker and the stars began to appear. And then a much brighter light appeared at 9.51 and crossed the sky.

Grateful because last night was the first time I have ever randomly seen the International Space Station. I don't think I've ever intentionally seen it. This, of course, is not a photo taken that night.

7^th August

Grateful for Blob Thing and the way he encourages me to write at least something each day. I think his blog post was probably his strangest yet!

Grateful that I forced myself to go out for at least a while, to the not-church. An activity involved drawing round our hands while praying. Or not praying - instead thinking love of people or consciously letting go of situations and burdens, part of the walk into freedom. (Okay, so I did that even if it wasn't officially the activity.) Here's my hand scribble thing.

Grateful to have been encouraged before bed to try to art the thing in my head. Terrifying! A totally different thing happened, more suited to my zero art skills. With a few words. I can word a bit!

8^th August

Dragged myself into town!

 Grateful for buying too many books I don't need from Oxfam.

Grateful for a drink in the cathedral cafe. At one point a Viking was there.

And grateful for the friendly faces I found in the building. I am posting too many here. There are many more and a blog will happen eventually.

A Few Thoughts Of Christopher Biggins, Biphobia, And Bisexual Invisibility

The words of Christopher Biggins that recently got him thrown off a cheap TV show should throw a light not just on Biggins.

He's not unique.

He has attitudes that in some form are shared by too many people within the LGBTQIA++ community. Often the offenders are older gay men but not exclusively. Younger gay men and lesbians may also have similar views to Biggins. One marginalised group of people attacking one more marginalised group of people. Of course not everyone there looks down on bisexuals. But too many do.

Bisexual friends have told me of the biphobia they often encounter if they go to such places or are involved in a gay-dominated queer community, of how they are insulted there for being bisexual. They can tell the stories better than I could.

Bisexual people can be verbally abused from both sides. Prejudiced straight people attack them for being too queer. Prejudiced gay people attack them for not being queer enough.  Bisexual people are called confused.  They are called greedy.  They're accused of being promiscuous - that they're just bisexual to get lots of sex.  They're told it's just a phase and they'll get over it soon.  It's pointed out to them that everyone is a bit bisexual.  (Wrong!)  It's pointed out to them that they can't be bisexual because bisexuality doesn't really exist.  Basically, say you're bisexual and a surprising number of people won't accept your sexuality.

 

 

Bisexual people can also tell us of the problems associated with bisexual erasure within both the media and the (supposedly) LGBTQIA++ community.  Bisexual erasure.  That's a term that many readers will not have encountered.  That's okay.  It's a term that I hadn't encountered either until I came out as trans and started to learn at least something about queer issues.  It's not a term that you're likely to hear much.

 

I'm not going to talk about it here.  Others have talked far more eloquently than I would.  A very quick internet hunt led to this article on "Erasure of Bisexuality" and this article on "The LGBT Community's Dirty Little Secret."  The first article is an introduction.  The second is worth reading and shows how common the problem is.

Biggins is one man of many similar men and that he should have said the things he said comes as no surprise to me whatsoever.

Now is the time not to attack Biggins but to bring widespread prejudice against bisexual people into the spotlight. To deal with the prejudice and not just with one celebrity.

Yeah, that would be good. Wiping out biphobia. Wherever it is to be found.

 

Image from https://www.etsy.com/listing/194409681/bunnies-against-biphobia-sticker

So far I haven't spotted any major media channels doing that.  They've condemned Biggins.  Yes, the man said prejudiced things.  Yes, they were nasty.  And maybe the offense he would cause bars him from being on a television show that by its very nature is offensive to some.

 

Condemning Christopher Biggins this week is easy.  It's the stuff of soundbites.  It's the stuff of feeling good about ourselves because of our righteous anger against an imperfect human.

 

Tackling biphobia is hard.

 

No easy soundbites here.  No opportunity to pretend that everything is okay.  To tackle biphobia is to say that here is a way in which our society is still broken.  Here is something that needs fixing.  Here is real work that we need to do.

 

Here is the space in which each one of us has to take personal responsibility for how we think and what we believe.  We have to look at ourselves and check to see if our minds and hearts contain any taint of biphobia - just as we have to look at ourselves and check for racism, homophobia, and all the other ways we may have become prejudiced against other human beings.

 

Here is the place in which every single one of us has to take personal responsibility for bringing change to society by the way we speak and act or at least for never standing in the way of that change.

Tackling biphobia is work.

So call out Biggins for his attitudes.  Please do.  Just don't stop there.

Days of Gratitude - Going Over The Edge And Entering The Lost World With A Giraffe

There have been some hard days recently.  Days on which keeping this gratitude diary becomes very important to me.  Days on which it would be easy to feel miserable because it is so hard to continue.  Days on which every single thing is a fight inside on a scale of The Battle of Waterloo.  And the cannons sound just as loud.

These were such days.  Each of them was hard.

1st August - I couldn't leave the house and hid away for much of the day.  Having done so well when out for a few hours the day before I was still in recovery.  Some tears.  Physically shaking for quite a while.  Yes.  I could watch the shaking.  So much I wanted to do.  So little I could do.

2nd August - a really horrible time.  I did manage to buy some food ingredients but couldn't do food.  Yeah, I got through the electrolysis okay but it wiped me out completely.

3rd August - forcing myself out and getting overwhelmed, getting lost, getting more overwhelmed and spending quite a period walking alone outside unable to stop talking but only able to say "Carry the cat."  Getting dizzy and giddy and nearly falling down a steep hill away from any paths.

4th August - buying a ticket to Crawley and everything from last year coming flooding back, the pretty total collapse I had a year ago that meant I couldn't go there, the struggles earlier in the year when I was there including the hallucinations I suffered in the nights.  Heading to town to do one little job, getting there and being so overwhelmed and having sensory issues ramped up to twelve (it's one more than eleven) and having to leave, failing to do that job, getting even more overwhelmed in the street and bloody hell it was pretty damn shit!

During those days I could have given a lot more details about the things I just couldn't do.  Every single day is hard.  Every single day there are problems and I work extremely hard so that if I am with people outside of this house they don't know that anything is wrong.  I remember during my worst ever breakdown when I was self harming multiple times every day just to get through and stay alive, people would eventually find out - because I'd say - and they wouldn't have had a clue that I wasn't a happy little bunny bouncing away in the woods to a home filled with carrots.

But I don't write a "being unhappy and finding the difficulties" diary.  I write a gratitude diary.

And so the memories of all the dren fade away.  But the things for which I am grateful each day remain.  I can look back and smile.  And I can set the screensaver to show me all the gratitude posts or all the other wonderful things that I've done and seen in the last year or so.

The last year has had so many unexpected moments and themes and directions.  It's been amazing.  Bloody hard.  But amazing.

Here then are four days that I could choose to moan about but choose to celebrate.

1^st August

Hard day. Much physical shaking. Much mental dren. And no snazzy photos taken!

But I just blogged about why keeping a gratitude diary is important to me on every day, including the hard ones. So here goes:

Grateful for words. Grateful for writing blog posts. For the memories they bring back. For the humour that can go into them at times. For the seriousness too.

Grateful for puzzles, today in particular for the killer sudoku book that kept me company.

Grateful that even on a dren day I could still read some of a book. That's progress.

Grateful that a year ago I encountered a quote by Jim Palmer. Grateful for all those who have given me some strength on my journey out of soul destroying religion. The quote wasn't the one in this picture.

The picture asks questions. All my answers used to be no.

Grateful that I have a conference and a festival to look forward to this month.

Grateful to have started to rearrange the new art room into something more comfortable to sit in and where the table is closer to natural light.

Grateful that the state of my head today is just for today. Not for yesterday. Not for tomorrow. And certainly not forever.

And then there's this. It's a biggie:

Grateful that I have a piece of paper dated three years ago today. It's my deed poll certificate from when I changed my name legally to Clare.

Some days are bloody difficult. But life is amazingly better than it was three years ago. It's better than it was one year ago. And compared to just four months ago it's pretty damn stonkingly good.

Yep. That's enough thankfulness for a "bad" day. The actual lists we could all write if we were to stand back - in good mindful manner - and step out of our own dramas are very long ones.

2^nd August

Some things hurt. I struggle with electrolysis. Total meltdown would be easier than getting it done.

Grateful to have got it done yesterday and that, very slowly, it has the desired result.

Grateful for soft toy friends to help me through it and for peaceful music through my headphones.

This time, from a set of very ambient music that Moby released for free.

Grateful too for the Metro and for the difference public transport makes to my life.

Yesterday I travelled in carriage 4041 which is the first to be named after someone.

3^rd August

Grateful to have not stayed at home even though I wanted to. Managed a walk instead although my head was such that I got lost several times and my lack of balance today would have ended very badly had there not been a tree to fall into. Yay for trees.

But the walk contained some superb sights, only some of which were photographed - hey, an excuse to return.

One of these pictures is where I ate lunch. The other seemed a good place to stop for a drink and gaze down on what Blob decided was the Lost World.

Grateful too for the shop by Wilko's in Gateshead - six packets of Snowy Road treats for a Pound.

4^th August

Rough day. And I just bought a train ticket to Crawley. That would be a bad enough fate for anyone but I have extra motivation to dread being there.

Anyway. Grateful today that I just about avoided breaking down in town having already completely failed to do the one thing I had wanted to do. Avoidance was thanks to a newish charity shop. And thanks to Amanda and text messages too.

Happy purchases:

Love the art.

Love the most cuddly giraffe ever.

Love the book.

On The Creation Of New Worlds. Ruach Breathes In Laughter

It was bed time last night.  I was tired.

Before heading for bed I mentioned to a friend that an art image had started to come into my head during the afternoon.  I mentioned it might include glitter.  In all honesty the only clear thing about the image was the first two lines.  My friend said to do it.

Art is very scary for me.  I have no skill and the thought of throwing colour out and seeing what happens is a very daunting one.  But I agreed to do this art.  Experiment.

I got out paper.  A sheet from a cheap A3 sketch pad from The Works.  I got out some pens.  And I drew the first of the two lines.  It didn't look like the one in my head.  It was the wrong colour.  The wrong shape.  I drew the second of the two lines.  What was on paper was now a different image to anything in my head.  For a start the two lines in my head were black.  For a continuation they were closer together.  For a finale they weren't quite that shape or form.

Two lines.  And I had gone wrong.  Completely and utterly wrong.  And my total lack of skill in putting something from my head onto paper was displayed.  I'm a failure!

I could have thought that.  I could have allowed myself to be disheartened.  I could have put the pens away and screwed up the paper and gone to bed unhappy with myself.  All of that would have been very easy for a person such as myself to do.

But I didn't do that.

I decided I would play instead.  I drew some more lines.  And then drew some words.  And then I wrote some words to fill some of the gaps.

I've played a little more this morning.  And by half past seven I had this sitting on the table.  Is it time to stop?  Or should I continue to play?  I haven't quite decided yet.  There's a lot of scope for play.  Lots of space to fill.  But there's also a lot of wall in this room that needs to be filled.  Maybe this simple image can help with the process, a call to me to play so much that there is nothing left to fill.

For now there is this:

Ruach roared, smiled, soared.

Uncontrollable, uncontained, undying.

Releasing love, her breath

Illuminated all the Stars.

In song, wilderness dance, and lyrical laughter.

In total, free generosity of ecstatic colours,

Stars gave birth to Worlds.

It's not going to win any prizes for artistic or literary virtuosity.  But it's there.  It's mine.  It's part of my long trek into freedom and a place where the air is fresh and the earth under my feet sighs with contentment.  And it's there at half past seven in the morning.  I rise, and life - with all it's difficulties and all the thorns that wound from within and without - is good.  So I learn:

Today.  Ruach, Spirit, breathes life into me.

Today.  Ruach, Spirit, breathes life into each one of you.

She breathes.  Every day.  Every moment.

We just have to stand with outstretched arms and receive

As her breath washes us from without,

As her breath rises, dangerously powerful, from within.

Then one day, filled, filled, filled again,

We will realise the truth:

We are that breath.

We are Ruach.

Then lightning will let fly from our hands

We will be the light and life of this world

And each day live as creators of the new worlds.

A Grand Day Out in Durham - 6: The Jumping Bean Cafe

A shorter post to finish off my grand day in Durham.

I had been wanting to visit a cafe for a while.  I'd felt hot and tired and had planned either to just catch a bus home or to have a quick drink.

Instead I had walked along the river, visited a gallery and thoroughly explored a large churchyard.  Instead of that drink I had wandered for a few hours and found a lot of enjoyment in the wandering.

Now I was back on a main shopping street and I honestly was much less tired than I had been before the relaxed wandering and exploration along streets and through gateways, wherever appealed.  I was pretty thirsty but I was mentally energised and the only part of me to feel tired now was my feet.  It is interesting how much of what we call tiredness is related to a state of mind not a state of body.

I was very glad to have wandered.  I enjoyed it then.  And I've enjoyed looking at all the photos I took of the riverside and the graves in St. Margaret's extensive grounds.  Those things added something precious to my life and cost me nothing except the effort to go and do them.  That's the way it's been for the last few months.  A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

I was approaching the bus station and still hadn't made a cafe decision.  I can be terrible at making cafe decisions.  Sometimes I can walk right round a town three times and still won't have been able to go and get a drink.  And now my cafe opportunities were running out.  Suspense!

But then I looked up a quiet street leading up from that busy shopping street - a street of many nice charity shops - and saw a sign for a cafe.  It was my last chance.  Yes.  Last chance saloon.  Last fuel before the motorway!  No services on M25!  (It's been a while since I was on the M25.)  I would climb that hill, follow that street, go to that cafe.  Determination kicked in.  I needed a drink.  I needed a quieter place than a bus station.  And I needed it now.  Not for me a bottle of water from Tesco.  I would go to the cafe.

And what a cafe it was.  It was the end of their day so it was pretty much deserted.  There was no music playing inside.  The decor was just right.  The service was friendly.  The whole place was just what I needed at that moment.

For anyone tempted to follow our cafe visiting example, this is The Jumping Bean on Neville Street.  There are lots of good reviews here.  This is their Facebook page.

I bought myself a drink.  If I had one moan it would be this:  The cafe stocked several kinds of San Pellegrino fizzy drink.  But it didn't have the lemonade.  My favourite was missing!  Never mind, it's only a small place and can't stock every drink in the world.  I bought a can of one of their other drinks and sat down.  And breathed.  And surveyed the empty cafe in front of me:

A slight delay in blog posting there.  I typed these words above: A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

As I continued to write I convicted myself.  There was something happening this afternoon, a kind of not-church church meeting that happens every month in the city centre.  I'd only ever been to it once before but get an email each month to tell me when it will be taking place and what the theme will be.  I'd been thinking of going but then today came and I decided that staying at home would be much easier.  And then my own words hit me.  Making of effort.  When I can.  Find the precious things.

So I went to it.  I'm glad I did.  Even not-church church can trigger me with that explicit belief in the words spoken and in the small amount of mostly belief free liturgy - made for the occasion - that there is a benevolent being out there, a sky-god ready to intervene in our lives.  But in that atmosphere I found I could just about cope with it and the people who are there each have their own manifestation of wonder.

Back to the memories of the cafe now.   The walls of the cafe were covered with art.  I guess that the display changes from time to time and maybe when I return there will be different art on display.  I used to go to a cafe in Newcastle that was like that - The Laughing Cat - and sometimes I would adore the art and sometimes I'd find it a lot more difficult.  It didn't matter much either way.

I really liked being in the cafe.  Blob Thing agreed to take a couple of pictures of me and I took some of Blob.  He's already blogged about it of course because he's far less behind with his blog than I am with my own.

Here's Blob - and one of the varieties of San Pellegrino that was in stock.  And some art and music books to browse.

A picture of the counter area.  It's only small.  But it's rather wonderful.

And another piece of art close to my seat.  This is the cathedral of course and I confess that I prefer the picture to the real thing.

Ecclesiastical Philistine!





Blob enjoyed himself at the cafe almost as much as I did.  We resolved that if we were in Durham again we could return to the cafe.  I think we should go soon with Winefride on a charity shop crawl.  We should be able to visit the shops of High Fell, Birtley and Chester-le-Street on the way.  Or perhaps we should plan a day in Durham and find some more surprises.  And Blob and I did return to the cafe another day.  On that day we had walked from Chester-le-Street along the River Wear and were very glad to sit outside the cafe on the quiet street.  I have another Chester-le-Street to Durham walk planned too, and this time we won't see the Wear until we reach Durham.  We have such a lot to look forward to.

This particular cafe has loyalty badges.  We bought the red badge for a pound.  It entitles us to ten percent off drinks forever more.  There's another more expensive badge that would entitle us to ten percent off all the food too.  Blob wore the badge with pride.  It's not just a good cafe.  It's a good badge.

And then it was time to go home.  Back to the bus station.  Catch a bus.  Pull out of the bus station.  Reach the end of the street.

At which point the bus broke down!

Catch a second bus.  Blob Thing was very pleased to look out of the window on the way home and see his old friend The Angel of The North.  The Angel had told him that he would have wonderful surprises and experiences.  This day out in Durham had more than its fair share of them.

A Grand Day Out In Durham - 5: Life and Death In St. Margaret's Garth

My day in Durham was providing wonderful surprises.  I had just explored the overgrown woods at the edge of Saint Margaret's graveyard.  Now I had the rest of the graveyard to wander in.  This is not a graveyard of neatly regimented stones, with perfectly tended grass.  This is a place where nature has been allowed to take over in places.  I loved it.

Yesterday I got carried away with a discussion of death and graves and what rules and customs we have concerning dead bodies and the places in which we put them.  Today I'm not going to do any of that.  Instead I just want to share photos of Saint Margaret's church yard, Durham.

I recommend that if you're visiting Durham you shouldn't just go to the major tourist spots - the cathedral, castle, museums and so on.  Because Durham has at least this one place that the tourists never see.  If it has one place it is likely to have many more and in the course of time I'll go back and explore the city more.

For now though, I have memories.  And I have photos.  Here are a dozen of them.  I haven't edited any of them at all - they're just what was taken that day using my phone.  You will possibly conclude from these photos and from the previous post that I am a fan of graveyards.  You would be correct.  I like them a lot.

I do like them.  But I do not wish to be buried in one unless it's in one of the schemes where trees are planted on your grave, adding life and beauty to the land.  That would be okay.  But in general I have an issue with me being buried - in terms of land use and the cost of it all.  When I am dead my corpse will be a corpse.  It can be disposed of in any way.  I'd love for as much as possible of it to be used for transplants, giving life from my death.  I wouldn't mind if what was left was taken and used for scientific purposes.

What I would hate would be to have a grave that people would come and visit and lay flowers on.  When I am gone, weep not for me.  And please don't visit the site of my rotting corpse because I'm not there.  When I am gone, I call you to live.  Don't worry, I have no plans to die just yet.  I'd like to live for a lot of years and have been commanded not to die.  In any case, I have a holiday booked with a friend - we want to see in the next millennium in Iceland.  It's booked!

I have seen a certain family which has an attitude that I find difficult to watch.  The parents in this large family are buried together in a plot in a cemetery.  One of them died 29 years ago.  I have watched as the children who still live nearby visit the grave.  Regularly.  They go and tend the grave and add flowers and have done it faithfully for over a quarter of a century.  An ancestor worshipping society would be amazed by the depth of devotion they have all showed.  If that made them all happy I wouldn't be so worried by their attitude to death and graves.  Carry on family!  Be happy.

But it doesn't.  I have watched them argue with each other.  I have watched them bickering and sometimes falling out in bigger ways.  I have watched as every single one of them has accused every other one of them.  "I go to the grave this much - and they don't."   "I buy flowers - and they don't."  "They are disrespectful to our parents."  Every one of them has said things like that.  And it's been a regular thing.  If I've met any of them singly it was almost a guarantee that at some point they would be moaning about the rest and about the grave and about "What would dad think of them?"

I have watched all that.  Over and over.  It makes me sad that they are all so unhappy and that they almost seem to go out of their way to be unhappy and increase the woes and guilt of each other.  The deaths of their parents has become an excuse for stabbing each other with words and attitudes.

I'd hate it if anyone behaved that way about my grave.  Of course I'd be dead so wouldn't be in a position to do much hating.  But the thought appalls me.

When I am gone.  No grave stone.  No regular visiting for 29 years.  No arguing.  May as much of my body as possible be used to bring life or as a contribution to scientific research.  And then dispose of the rest cheaply.  No buying flowers.  No gifts for the site of my corpse or remains.  If you want to give to my corpse site, please give to the living instead.  Don't spend a fiver on some flowers.  It might make you feel good but it wouldn't make me feel good.  Spend your fiver on feeding the hungry, helping the oppressed.  Spend it on being merciful in a world where many need to receive acts of mercy.  Let your kind charity be for the living and not for me.

Remember me.  But move on.  Live your lives to the full and let me go.

Wow.  That got a little morbid.  Sorry.  It was unplanned.  Instead of just presenting you with a set of photos you've had to cope with me typing meandering thoughts about death again.   I'll try not to mention death in the next post.  I'll mention art and badges and Blob Thing and drinks.  And a very lovely little cafe that was just the place I needed to be in between graveyard and bus stop.

[985 words]