Free Willy?

'Voluntary : Preceding from one's own choice or consent. Free of coercion, including any sanctions for not taking part.'

It was in the news this week that chemical castration is being proposed as the latest measure in the war against all things paedophile. The authorities insist that this would be a voluntary measure, naturally, as we are not the kind of country that goes around hacking off the balls of sex offenders in a response to the will of the lynch mob. No, we are far more civilized than that. We give them little pills, or a shot of Depo Prova in each buttock and of course, it’s entirely their choice. Isn’t it?

So this story got me thinking about the term ‘voluntary’. How it is used as a weapon to control people by those in authority. I want to explore the psychology behind it and highlight how in many cases, voluntary choices, as defined above, just don't exist.

I guess most people who can remember their childhood can relate to the kind of ‘voluntary’ decision making that adults imposed on them. I remember clearly a time in my early childhood where I was first made aware of the ambiguities of this ‘voluntary’ concept. It might be a rather frivolous example compared to castrating paedophiles but the psychology of the situation is the same.

My parents were the first to pull the voluntary trick:

‘Tidy your room or don’t tidy your room, it’s entirely up to you’, they said. ‘Go on, live in a pigsty, it doesn’t bother us. All your toys will get spoilt, your clothes won’t get washed, but we don’t care. It’s your choice, Jen, you do what you like.”

So I called their bluff. I thought I was being clever. I was fooled that I actually had the power of this so called voluntary decision behind me. I refused to tidy my room and went outside to play cricket with my brothers. When, several hours later, the sun had set and I came back inside they were both waiting, arms folded, by the bottom of the stairs.

“You haven’t tidied your room, Jen. “

“You said I didn’t have to.”

“Yes well…. (exasperated eye roll)…. I know we said that but your auntie Mary’s coming over tomorrow and you don’t want her to see your room all messy do you?”

“I don’t care. I’ll shut the door if you care that much. Can I have that ice cream left over from tea?”

“No. Not until you’ve tidied your room.”

“But you said I didn’t have to.”

“Well, you do if you want any ice cream.”

“Well, (exaggerated nonchalant shrugging of shoulders) I’ll go without then. It’s only Kwik Saves raspberry ripple anyway, and that goes all gritty between your teeth. ‘

“(audible sighs) Jennifer, stop being difficult. That room is getting tidied, tonight, whether you like it or not. Now do we have to drag you there and sit with you whilst you do it? Do you really want us to see what’s lurking under your bed? Or can you be a good girl and do it on your own?”

(Cue violent stomping up the stairs, tears, slamming my bedroom door and other general tantrumish behaviour.)

Then of course, one dirty sock at a time, in between the sobs and the foot stomps; I tidied the goddamn room. So much for voluntary decision making.

That is why I am always suspicious when I am presented with a choice and it is described as voluntary. This is why I am deeply against anything that curtails civil liberties and freedoms even on a so called voluntary basis. These things always start off as free choice, but end up mandatory. It’s the nature of the system: of power and control. When somebody demands you should make a choice, I find they usually have an agenda themselves and the chances are its not going to be so voluntary after all. The very fact that you are being told to make a choice kind of goes against the voluntary thing in the first place, doesn’t it? I mean, in a totally free world, if I wanted to live in an environment without clutter, I would just make the spontaneous decision to tidy my room, vice versa if I didn’t care about my possessions I would just leave the mess be. The very fact that my parents brought the subject up at all just highlights the fact that they have the power to make me do it. Simply by saying ‘we don’t care what you do’ they are drawing attention to the power dynamic and implying that if they did care, there’s not an awful lot you could do about it. The fact that you are being given a voluntary choice speaks volumes when in fact that voluntary choice should just go without saying; it should be part of your human rights. The fact is that most so called voluntary choices are badly disguised ultimatums. Failure to comply with the ‘right’ voluntary choice leads to further sanctions until you make the decision the authorities deem is right. Of course, if I hadn’t gone upstairs and tidied the bombsite that was my bedroom, there would have been a whole other range of escalating threats, pleas, and measures of force on the part of my parents until they got their way.

As an inpatient in a psychiatric hospital last winter, I heard person after person tell the same story- that at their crisis meetings with doctors and social workers they had been given a ‘choice’- they could enter hospital ‘voluntarily’ or be sectioned against their will. To anyone who knows anything about mental health, you avoid a section at all costs. It is, in effect, to be deemed insane. Your human rights are taken away, the fuckers can do pretty much anything they want. You have to take what they say, and comply to whatever treatment they deem is appropriate, which can include electro shocking and in some countries, a lobotomy. So when their Doctor popped the ‘voluntary’ question, were these people really being given a free choice that ‘preceded from one's own choice or consent?’ Of course not. Some people gave the shrinks a big fuck you and said ‘The only way you’re dragging me into that place is under section, I am not playing a part in this.’ However, most people I spoke to were neither as brave nor stupid as that and acquiesced. They said no to the section and went ‘willingly’ without need of police escort.

It is in this example that you see the beauty of the voluntary technique. It is effective because it seemingly passes the onus of the decision making from those in power on to you. This is no more than a smoke and mirrors trick to make them looks like the good guys. When you are ordered to do something against your will this generally causes deep wells of resentment which sometimes blossoms into rebellion. However, when you are coerced in the form of a loaded ‘voluntary’ choice (even though you were, in actuality, in the same situation as those who are forced), the process acts upon you emotionally in a very different way.

Expanding on the above example; when these ‘voluntary’ psychiatric patients entered hospital I noticed they were generally easier to control than the sectioned patients- not because as common mythology goes, those under section were actually much iller (although some were) but because the voluntary patients had gone through a process where part of them felt like they had got themselves in that situation. They felt tremendous guilt about agreeing to their treatment even though many of them had huge reservations about it and felt somehow responsible. They got angry at themselves for caving under pressure rather than getting mad at the system for the weight it piled on them in the first place. Even though, later, some of them were angry and recognised that they had been coerced, many of these people at least partially believed the lie the authorities told them; that they had come there of their own free will, they had been given a choice, they had chosen this and now they had to live with the consequences of their actions. What were they complaining about anyway? Of course, once they had entered as a voluntary patient, if they wanted to leave they would again be threatened with, or actually, sectioned, showing how empty the ‘voluntary’ label is. You can see through this example how the act of giving someone a choice makes them complicit and then less likely to rebel further on down the line.

I’m not trying to say there’s no such thing as a voluntary choice. When Owen says to me ‘do you want beer or wine?’ or ‘what shall we do tonight?’ Even though factors might complicate and influence these choices, as in I might know that he prefers wine and wants to go to the cinema; because the power relationship between us is the same, the voluntary choice is not loaded and I am free to say what I really want. I think voluntary choices only become coercions when there is some kind of power imbalance and then it’s hard to ever be truly free. As the power imbalance becomes more extreme, so can the demands of those in control. So the most vulnerable people often have the least rights. The mentally ill are drugged and shocked into submission. The paedophile is castrated. The old person incarcerated. The asylum seekers are detained, the immigrants repatriated, the Jews are exterminated. All of these horrendous things have been done under the guise of free choices, (remember that entrance to the Warsaw Ghetto was, at first, ‘entirely voluntary’) making it palatable to the public until they get used to the idea and then, eventually, it becomes compulsory.

It can be argued (and often is) that laws and regulations are necessary for preventing the system collapsing. I’m not going to get into the arguments for and against chemical castration of paedophiles. I object to it, but my real beef today is with the delusional idea that these paedophiles, who at the end of the day are considered to be the scourge of our society, the very lowest of the low, the very bottom of the power scale, are going to have any ‘choice’ in the matter at all. Yes, they may technically be allowed to turn the treatment down, at least at first, until a bill that makes it compulsory is sneakily passed in parliament ten years down the line. But, I guarantee you, behind closed doors, in the meeting rooms and on prison review committees the pressure for these men to comply with the treatment will mount and mount until the word ‘voluntary’ rings as hollow for these men as it did for the Jews, squashed together like stripy sardines on the train to Auschwitz.

Serve the Servants

The 11th to 17th of June is national carer’s week here in the UK. I’m not usually a fan of weeks for this and days for that as I think they can often provide a pinnacle of focus for that week’s highlighted charity or issue which then gets forgotten about until roughly the same time next year. They are horribly media centric – perfect for journalists and bloggers who need a prompt for something to write about that day (self obviously guilty here). The activities that surround them are usually very cheesy or horribly decadent, designed primarily to pull on heartstrings and generate direct debits from as many people as possible. However, then I start getting into my feelings about charities in general which I surely will another time but not now. For the time being I am going to take the sound bites I’ve heard on the news and Woman’s hour as bait and talk a little bit about carers and caregivers rights in this country.

I feel qualified to talk about this as it is a subject that is deeply, deeply close to my heart, even though I wish it wasn’t. In an ideal world it wouldn’t be me who was writing this blog at all, but Owen- he’s the expert on this subject and I would love for him to guest blog on this page. I’m sure he, circumstances permitting, would have gladly obliged. Like a lot of people in his position, he’d love to have time just to write articles about things for fun, too. However, for his sins Owen is my long term carer. As well as being an ambitious full time PhD student (sans funding) with a two hour commute to his University, he additionally has to look after me and work two jobs spread over thirty five hours a week to support us both enough just to scrape by. Today, Owen got out of bed at six am, started work at seven, and isn’t planning on stopping until midnight or so. It has been this way for a long time now; he barely even takes a day off. He usually falls asleep at the keyboard sometimes around one o’ clock and staggers to bed after I have spent ten minutes giving him a list of reasons why he will make himself sick if he doesn’t at least get some rest.

We don’t get any help from the government, nor have we ever done, for many complicated reasons, not least the fact that he is a student and financial help for those in higher education is pitifully hard to come by, even if your wife is so sick she can’t get out of bed and doesn’t know what day of the week it is. We don’t get any support, despite the fact that, as part of the army of unpaid carers, Owen and those like him are saving the government billions of pounds in labour costs – for the government to actually pay these carers the same as paid professionals the work they do would involve spending the same again as the annual NHS budget (57 billion). In terms of carers, Owen is one of the relatively lucky ones. Most of the time I am fairly high functioning, and can do things for myself, even if they are within a limited sphere. However, for the last five years I have been unable to work for more than a few weeks at a time and several times a year we will have a bad spell where Owen has to really take over.

During these times, which can last from a few days to a few months, Owen suddenly finds me incapacitated to the point that he has to do all my domestic jobs; the cooking, the shopping, the cleaning etc which are time consuming and annoying, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. For twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, for long stretches of time I might go into ‘I want to die’ mode, which (as I guess the name gives away), means I am actively suicidal. So, not only does Owen have to do his studies, his teaching, papers and conferences, as well as everything around the house and his mundane paid employment in museums and cafes but he has to spend countless hours watching and caring for me. On the days he doesn’t call in sick at work because he’s too scared to leave me (I think most of his employers think Owen’s immune system is pathetic when in fact it is steely) he will phone me from his desk and we will talk in code every fifteen minutes to make sure I am still alive. It is embarrassing for me to admit, but during these times he becomes responsible for everything about me; from making sure I eat, sleep, wash, dress, brush my hair, and clean my teeth and all the other things that most couples don’t think about. It is not unusual for him to take hours in the morning just getting me out of bed and looking like a human being. At night time, he has stayed up all night, for days on end, just watching me, making sure I don’t do anything daft. He takes me to appointments, liaises with doctors, psychiatrists, nurses, he learns names of drugs and therapies, negotiates what medication I should be taking when and makes sure I take it, even though this can lead to some blinding rows. He sits with me whilst I cry, listens to me for hours moaning about what an ugly bitchy shithead I am. He eats microwave food with blunt cutlery because all the knives are locked away. He accompanies me on bus and train journeys because I can’t face them alone, he walks with me in town because all the people can trigger psychosis on a grand scale.

These are just a small selection of the daily sacrifices Owen will make to give me the best life he can. Our relationship turns, (sometimes overnight) from one of absolute equality to total dependency. My personality is transformed and my functioning is grossly impaired. Yet Owen just gives and gives and gives. He does all the above and more, and has never, ever complained. Sometimes he gets tired and down with it all, sometimes he can get very upset, but has he ever snapped at me or lost his patience? Never. Not only does he do all this but he tries to give me a good quality of life; despite being so tired that he needs twenty five cups of coffee just to get up in the morning, he tries to do this all with a laugh and a smile, a hug and a kiss, a joke, a giggle and lots and lots of sympathy. He tries, whenever possible, to keep me out of hospital. He cares for me with dignity and respect and makes sure my wishes as regards my treatment are upheld as much as is humanly possible. He slaves away to make an awful situation bearable, and every night before I go to sleep he says to me ‘I believe in you, this will get better and even if it didn’t I regret not one moment: I would do it every day for the rest of my life.’ And then he is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

I know. I know. If there ever was such a thing, I am one lucky manic depressive.

But, as special as he is, Owen is not the only one.

Up and down the country there are friends, relatives, neighbours all caring for people they love not for monetary value or job satisfaction but because they feel it is the right thing to do. Many have given up well paid jobs to do so, and have to eke a living out of the pittance that the government provides for the ‘lucky’ few carers it deems eligible for financial help. At the moment, the maximum weekly carer’s budget is around £48.68, (for a minimum of 35 hours a week- equivalent to £1.39 an hour) which is significantly less than many of the other benefits going and many carers find themselves in financial dire straits. These are real people with real lives every day losing their houses, jobs, cars, and possessions in order to give their sick loved ones a life away from institutions and the slow decay they bring. The support they generally get from the system is laughable. Their hard work is often unrecognised or treated as a nuisance, their relationship with the patient undervalued. When they ask for vital support, for respite care, for some kind of state provided home help in addition to their unpaid labour, for some much needed money or equipment, it is usually an uphill struggle all the way. Forms are piled upon forms for even the most basic means of assistance and the lists of excuses soon mount up as to why you are not eligible for this or that. Many carers feel like the authorities are entities they have to constantly fight, rather than vehicles they can turn to for support. The strain is enormous, the pressure huge. Yet many of these carers are themselves are vulnerable people. A huge percentage of them are elderly, often hardly able to move properly or fully function themselves. On the other end of the spectrum, some are mere children who find themselves looking after their parents and siblings instead of concentrating on their schoolwork or social life; terrified that if they, as a ten year old child, don’t keep the family functioning then social services will get involved and split the family up. These are truly the unsung heroes of our society, for those people who have never had to care for someone day in day out then all I can say is you have no idea what it is like. I have no idea what it is like and I’m a lot closer to the action than most.

I sometimes ask Owen; ‘what do you get out of this?’ After all when we met he was just turned eighteen. He was barely an adult with patchy facial hair and a passion for computer games. He is not a super stud but he is not a bad looking bloke and he has a great personality. I think at university even if he couldn’t have pulled the Julianne Moore look-alike that he dreamt of, he could have at least chosen someone whose idea of an evening in wasn’t drinking a bottle of whiskey and locking herself in the toilet with a razor blade for three hours. To this day it mystifies me why he didn’t go running for the hills. I would have done. I have asked him this question a number of times. Sometimes I am genuinely curious, sometimes I do it when I beat myself up. He has only ever responded with these four words: ‘Jen, I love you.’ and refuses to be drawn any more on the matter.

It is, clearly, not all one way. I support Owen in many of the things he does and bring happiness into his life in many capacities other than the ones I have mentioned. Most people who care for someone deeply love the person involved and find caring for them rewarding and fulfilling, even if it is sometimes a soul-destroyingly exhausting and strenuous process. But it seems to me that it is precisely this love and devotion that the government are exploiting. They know that Owen and the six million others like him are not going to just turn their backs on their loved ones. It basically boils down to this, why pay someone for something when they are willing to do it for free? They know that Owen means it when he says ‘Jen I will do anything for you’. Even if that means year upon year of little sleep, no money, overwork and battle after battle with the authorities. When the alternative is to see their loved ones go into hospital or residential care, out of their lives and control, often putting them at risk of abuse and exploitation many carers simply say ‘over my dead body’, and battle on. That is what Owen and the rest of my family have done for me and I owe them my life several times over.

Carers, in my experience, are not asking for much.

They are asking for:

a) Enough money to provide them and the person they are caring for with a basic standard of living where crippling financial worries do not make an already fraught situation 1000 times worse.

b) Recognition of their efforts and respect of their own wishes and needs as well as the patients.

c) Respite care and more short term intensive inpatient services for when times get really tough. When they judge the situation to be unmanageable, that is, not some government crisis team’s checklist.

d) Specialist help for the things they cannot afford to provide themselves, or are not trained to do.

There are other things, but these are the main complaints I find most carers have. Of course, as a patient myself, I do realise there is a debate around giving carers too much power, in that I believe as a patient it is me who should always have the final word, if I am able to do so. Some carers may have ulterior motives and it is the authority’s job to ensure abuses do not happen. However, the truth of the matter is ‘what’s the alternative?’ If, as a patient you are not supported by those around you then there might be some limited care in the community stuff, but if you have a time of crisis or get too ill to cope, you will end up in an institution. Enter a hospital or a residential environment and you relinquish all control anyway, to people who are much more likely to abuse and neglect you than your own friends and families. Ask most patients who’d they’d rather have the power over them and I’d hedge a bet it wasn’t the syringe wielding electro-shocking multidisciplinary team at the hospital, but their loving husband, or their mum or dad or their grandparents. In most cases, patient’s rights are the one and the same as carer’s rights. These devoted caregivers are sacrificing so much and getting so little in return. That’s why we, (especially those of us who are on the receiving end of their love and attention) should be fighting together to get these unsung heroes the rights and privileges they deserve.

Pitter Patter

My best friend in the whole world found out recently that she is pregnant. I am genuinely happy for her; this is what she has always planned to happen and now it has it is amazing. She is so happy and her husband is thrilled. She showed me a picture of the scan she had confirming everything and it was incredible. It was a 12 week one and I could make out it’s head, vertebrae, eyes, and elbows. I cannot believe that my friend Marie, the girl I spent a lot of my childhood with, who I used to have sweet eating competitions with at sleepovers, dance drunkenly to silly pop songs and fantasize about dishy English teachers together is now creating a child herself. Inside that woman there is a growing baby that in only a few months time will emerge from her womb and take its first breath in the world. It is truly mindblowing in its wonder and implications.

Before this happened to me I had felt myself to be of the age group who generally viewed pregnancy as a disaster, or at least a setback. Now, it is something to be rejoiced in and that feels strange. I knew she was planning it beforehand so I didn’t have that terrible- not quite sure how to react- ‘oh is that a good/bad thing?’ However it struck me afterwards that this ambiguity would never have occurred; because now we are firmly at the age where society deems you are supposed to say congratulations, and mean it, especially when the people involved have been married for three years. As opposed, of course, to just saying it and secretly thinking, (rightly or wrongly) ‘well that’s your life fucked then’ like you did to the girls in your form room who’s 17 year old boy racer boyfriend didn’t like the feel of condoms.

Marie is always pointing out to me that although in terms of our society she is on the youngish end of the spectrum, at 26 she is historically quite old to be having her first child. Regardless, we are now, both biologically and socially at an age where we are supposed to reproduce, or at least be turning our thoughts towards the pitter patter of those cute and tiny feet (especially those of us who are coupled up).

That is a scary scary thought.

At the moment Owen and I don’t get too much pressure, but since we’ve been married it has built steadily, a comment here and a joke there and I think as we get richer and richer – with Owen’s first contract at a decent salary or when I’m well enough to work, the pressure will really mount. Everyone just knows that we would be great parents, and firmly imply that as soon as my ‘biological clock’ kicks in I will feverishly rip out my beloved coil and become a sperm hungry demon who is consumed only by reading Mothercare catalogues and viewing houses in catchment areas for one of York’s top five schools.

And when I tell them, ‘Sorry to disappoint you but that ain’t ever gonna happen’,

they laugh. They say; ‘You’ll see. Wait and see, I bet in ten years time you’ve got two or three of the little dears. ‘

They shake their heads knowingly and change the conversation, leaving me fuming, I want to stab them in the head with a fork. Instead I cut up my pork chop, jut my jaw out sulkily and think to myself, ‘No, you’ll see, we’ll see who’ll be doing the seeing around here.' Humph.

I have never really wanted to be a mother.

Ok that’s a total lie.

I have wanted to be a mother precisely once:

About six months into our relationship, we went out for a meal and Owen decided to drunkenly announce that he didn’t really want kids. I then concluded (having consumed about two full bottles of wine) that despite previously having had zero maternal urges that I wanted a huge brood and that our relationship was forever doomed.

It was a fun meal. I think I even cried at one point and used the words ‘star crossed lovers’.

That occasion, over six years ago, was the last time we ever ate in that Chinese. It was also the last time I categorically felt like I wanted children. Given that at the time I was seeing three of Owen, fell over twice on the way home and laughed about my ridiculousness the next morning, I don’t think this sentiment would stand up in a court of law, if used as evidence in the ‘Why Jen and Owen will reproduce’ case.

I love other peoples kids, when my nephew Thomas was born I was overjoyed and I relish spending time with him. I just know I will be a great ‘auntie jen’ to Marie’s lovely baby. As more and more of my friends fall pregnant, I do not feel at all like they are throwing their life away, but I also do not feel any stirrings of desire to go out and do the same thing. I have my plan of action and I’m sticking to it. The coil is staying firmly attached. I religiously check it is in place, and have it ‘ ‘MOT’d’ at the doctors annually. If the coil fails, then I am not going to throw my arms in the air and say hey nevermind lets go shopping for prams, I am going to check the next day in to the hospital and have the fetus aborted. That might shock some people but that is my plan and I have always said that is what I would do. I am arguably not well enough to look after a baby, but more importantly, I don’t want to. I believe abortion is a woman’s right and whilst I do appreciate the miracle of birth if we’re talking about categorical feelings here the one thing I have always felt is that I am not going to experience it until I’m damn well ready. I think the most special thing about birth is not the biological growing of cells to physically form a baby but is the almost spiritual loving bond between the parents and child even when it’s unborn. If you don’t have that, but only resentment and fear and regret then I don’t think its much of a miracle at all, in fact, I think its possibly one of the worst things that could happen to anyone. I’m certainly not going to sit by and wreck my life because society thinks I’m of an age where it suddenly becomes a bit more morally dubious to abort. Everyone can understand a sixteen year old doing it because she feels like she’d rather do her A levels without having to do nightly feeds, but a married woman who doesn’t even work? Doesn’t even have a career to sacrifice? With a husband who will soon be in very well paid employment and has great prospects. Why does she need an abortion anyway?

And the truth is, I wouldn’t need one. Me and Owen could afford a child, just about, maybe with a bit of financial help from my parents and the state. I am healthier now than I have been in a long time and really in societies eyes as I don’t have a job I wouldn’t be sacrificing much. Except, I think I would be sacrificing everything. I might not have a job at the moment but one day I would really like one. I want to travel all over the world. I want to read Dostoevsky’s complete works. I want to write a novel, start a band, achieve enlightenment. I want to start going on retreats two or three times a year. I have a hundred and one goals that having a child would majorly impinge on if not totally prevent. I know I am not going to achieve all of these goals, but I am not ready to let them go and replace them with PTA meetings and flute lessons and football practice and bum wiping. I honestly don’t know if I ever will be, either. Despite what people say about my biological clock I am secretly hopeful that it

a) doesn’t exist

or

b) doesn’t have any batteries.

Put it this way, I am not going to feel like my life has been wasted if there is never a Jen junior walking the earth. I don’t feel like my purpose as a human is to reproduce and have a family. I don’t believe that just because I am a kind caring person it automatically means I would enjoy being a mother. So I am counting down the days to Marie’s due date in November with great excitement for two reasons. One, because I am overjoyed for my best friend fulfilling her dream but also because as far as motherhood is concerned, this is the closest I might ever get.

Through a glass, darkly.

5. I undertake the precept to refrain from intoxicants which lead to heedlessness.

My response when I first read this precept was a bitterly muttered, brow knitted ‘fuck that’.

It hasn’t really changed much since then.

This could be the one, the big one. More challenging than the lying and the stealing and the killing and the lusting that I have already quite openly admitted I indulge in. Those, push come to shove, I am prepared to forsake in the name of enlightenment and release from samsara. However, turning my back forever on a glass of Shiraz over a home cooked meal, or a crisp, ice cold bottled larger in the beer garden of my beloved local, I am not. At least not right now, anyway. And yes I know how lame that sounds.

I am not a booze hound but I like a drink. I would say I get fairly sloshed at least once or twice a week. If it was up to me I would drink something most nights. Especially wine, but I love most alcohol from stout to asti to whiskey to just plain run of the mill 3.99 bottles of plonk that are on offer at sainsburies. It’s the taste, yes, but not only that, it’s the intoxication. Definitely the intoxication. I like the numbness that spreads from the tips of your fingers and loosens your muscles and your tongue. I love the feeling of detachedness, I adore the way it makes me want to laugh and laugh and talk and talk and even, scarily, (at least for observers) dance. I am less into the whole vomiting- crying- arguing- depression vibe that sometimes comes along with it. But I, over the years and many bad trips have basically got to the point where I can control my drinking so I hardly ever get bummed out.

The catalogue of strict rules I have created to govern my drinking is quite impressive: I don’t drink when I’m having a bad day. I don’t drink when I’m depressed, or, god forbid, because I’m depressed. I don’t drink when I’m nervous or in a crowd of people I don’t feel comfortable with. I don’t drink in very busy places, I usually only drink with food. I don’t drink alone, unless it has been specifically cleared that I can and even then this is a very rare indulgence. I don’t drink neat spirits and treat spirits full stop with great caution. I don’t drink the day before something important. I don’t ever, ever, drink in the middle of an argument. I don’t drink on antibiotics or painkillers. I don’t mix my drugs; Valium and booze is a big no no. I very rarely mix my drinks, either, I tend to have a wine night or a beer night or whatever; I’ve just found it works better that way. I don’t drink and watch horror films. I don’t drink and listen to sad songs for hours on end. I don’t get sloshed in places I don’t know very well unless I’m with people I trust who do. I do drink a pint of water before I go to sleep. I fetch a bucket to keep by the bed; just in case. I do sleep on my stomach. I usually eat something before unconsciousness hits me. I do sleep straight through. I do set an alarm. I do eat breakfast. I don’t let the hangover wreck the next day, however bad I feel.

Each of these rules (of which I am sure there are many more) has a history and have been devised over many years of mistakes and practice. They may seem strict and not very rebellious, but I don’t mind keeping them, as they in turn keep me safe.

More importantly, they keep me drinking.

The beauty of booze to me in a nutshell is lubrication. I can do without the giggling, without the double vision and the crazy stupid dancing. But the systematic destruction of inhibition glass by glass, the way it turns an awkward group of strangers into a dancing, hugging, swaying rowdy crowd is just magic. Talking as someone who sometimes finds speech very difficult, alcohol has saved the day on many occasions. Even amongst close friends, I find there’s nothing better than the sensation of an alcohol induced revelation; the more shocking the better. The times when you confide, push boundaries, deepen friendships, delve deep into your psyche and your relationship and talk straight from the heart you are proudly wearing on your sleeve. It makes people closer and gets people talking. It kick starts an evening that otherwise may have collapsed from nerves and tension.

I totally know it’s a crutch that I am leaning on here. From a Buddhist point of view this reliance on alcohol is a massive hindrance to my happiness; taking me regularly away from the virtues of seeing true reality, clarity, and awakening. Hopefully I will do without it one day. The long term plan, in my own mind at least, is that I will get so strong in my meditation practice my personality will become properly integrated and I will become so self assured that the very idea of having to pour chemicals down my throat to cope with a night out seems ridiculous. But for now doing without it is beyond the realm of possibility. I have always turned to chemical assistance to avoid reality or at the very least to blur it. Alcohol and intoxicants to me have always been the mental version of taking my glasses off; in drunkenness everything seems that less bit dangerous, less intense as the edges blur and swirl into each other. Inside, the damn inner monologue shuts the hell up for a couple of hours. I usually pass out in a state of happy oblivion. It is bliss. Is that a sad admission?

As I write these words I suddenly hear the imaginary voice of my teacher ringing in my ear. He is as pesky as a gnat sometimes that man!

He sits down beside me, smiles that peaceful smile, adjusts his robes slightly, and speaks:

“Jen, there is a better way to seek bliss than at the bottom of a glass. You know that deep down or you wouldn’t have sought me out in the first place. Stop fighting, stop struggling. Just learn to let go. Through meditation I have taught you a way to still your thoughts and bring you release in a gentle way that will not rot your brain and your liver. Use it.

You know that the peace and confidence you seek can not be bought at an off license, but already lies within you. You know that the heart of this precept deals not with outlawing the odd glass of Chardonnay in the summer sun but eliminating the dependence and desperation you still feel when you are sober and a night of socializing stretches ahead of you.

You know where it is to be found; the real deal, not a chemical band aid. Strive for enlightenment in all you do, through that process you will find the peace you so desperately seek. ”

It is then that I realise that the root of this clinging to the bottle is not a love of a harmless beer with my chicken drumsticks at the family BBQ, it is much darker than that; it is my deep yearning for oblivion that I can’t relinquish. This is something that is hard for me to dwell on and is tricky to explain. It is a difficult thing for people to grasp that right now I am extremely happy, leading a fulfilled life with a loving partner and lots of friends and family. I have a very happy life and have no complaints. Yet for as long as I can remember; day in, day out, I have battled deep suicidal urges. Even when I have been incredibly happy I have had the visual image of myself as a dog chasing its own tail, going round and round in circles and a lot of the time I just think ‘enough’. I’ve had enough.

When I discovered Buddhism it was mind-blowing because here was a group of people who had this same image in their heads. Here was a religion that wasn’t demanding I rejoice in the splendor of all God’s glorious creation. Buddha said the first noble truth is that life is suffering. I can relate to those words more than anything. Not in a really miserable eeyore kind of way, I do laugh a lot and go outside and walk with the birds and in the mountains; I do so often enjoy a rich fulfilling life. Not either because I have a hard life. Yes I have a few health problems and I don’t lead the regular life of an average 25 year old. But I have, in many ways, had a very easy, comfortable existence. I was blessed with many talents, a wonderful family and now a fantastic husband. I am not materialistic, I think I have my priorities right in terms of how to be happy. I may be on speaking terms with despair, it is true, but in my life so far I have also experienced genuine joy and love. But it has always been there; even in the happy times this dull voice that says ‘enough’. It is not, actually, me or my life I have a problem with. It is the act of living itself I find so difficult. The process of birth, growth, decay, death. The suffering I see all around. The corrupt society. The miserable people. The madness. The greed. The lies. The disease. The eating, the shitting, the washing, the dressing, the walking, the endless endless talking. Even the laughter, sometimes, when it often rings so hollow. The act of breathing is so difficult, sometimes I just feel like I don’t ever want to take another one. The empty futileness of it all often weighs heavily on my heart.

Anyway, happy thoughts.

But that is why I drink I guess. That’s the root of it. It’s my own way of saying ‘enough’, of hovering for a couple of hours in the exit without actually going the whole hog and jumping off the Ouse bridge. If I didn’t have the release of alcohol then I’m scared where it would end up. Getting trashed is like a valve being released in a pressure cooker, at least sometimes, anyway. Not that I’m trying to paint a bleak picture, its not like I consciously think ‘oh I must get wasted tonight or I’ll kill myself’. It’s not like that at all. But I think the drinking does act as a release of these negative feelings and allow me to take a break from reality for a while, a reality that sometimes I find difficult to exist in.

Fortunately for me Buddha’s four noble truths do not end with the fact that life is suffering. In the rest of the truths and in fact in the whole body of his teachings he details a ‘cure’. It is the fact that Buddhism provides a practical system for finding genuine happiness (and eventually genuine oblivion, I suppose) detailing a way of escaping the cycle of suffering that makes it so appealing to me. I have already learnt so much from its teachings and found so many of them to be sound. I am already, since discovering the Buddhist path, that bit less desperate on a Friday night to get off my face. I am finding my teachers words to be the truth; through my meditation I am more peaceful, more satisfied and most importantly, now I have the goal of nirvana in my life, it makes the notion of suicide seem inferior and unappealing. My steps might be small, like those of an infant, but I am making progress all the time.

So one day maybe I will be writing this not with a vodka lemonade in my hand, as I am so accustomed to but a cup of green tea. Maybe I will take this precept or maybe I won’t. What I would like to live without though is the need to escape. I would like to face reality and myself without the crutch that alcohol gives me. Maybe one day I will actually listen to my wise, wise teacher and seek my release in more constructive ways than drinking. But for now I am drawn to the allure of the booze: Tom Waits is on the radio and Bukowski is in my bookshelf. I realise that for the time being, at least just yet, I’m not quite ready to hop on the wagon and ride into the sunset.

The Wall of Pain.

This excellent blog by my friend Dave got me thinking about what he terms ‘emotional porn’. It’s one of those things that now my eyes are open I have started seeing evidence of it everywhere. Including when I’m least expecting it…

Owen got given some book tokens as a present when he left his last workplace so yesterday we went to Borders to spend them. It was about 6 o clock and eerily quiet which made for some good, if slightly unnerving browsing. Now, I’m not much of a fan of Borders. Not just because it is a huge corporate brand that is pushing the independent bookstores of York out of business, but also because it is often hugely crowded and I tend to find it hard to track down the things I need on the rare occasions I do shop there. It is just too damn big! The vouchers, though, were only redeemable in the Borders franchise, so that’s where we went.

Now we both are guilty of this, but Owen in particular takes hours and hours and hours to spend money. Mostly because we don’t have a lot of it and so when we get some spare we like to be careful that we are spending it wisely. Bear in mind that he has had these vouchers since February and he has been pondering over what to spend them on ever since. It’s actually quite a fun process; that ten pound note that your Nan sends you in the post for your birthday opens up a huge world of possibilities to be deliberated and chewed over during long strolls down the river and lingering coffee breaks. It’s more fun anyway, in our minds, to really give these things some serious thought rather than simply spending it on what ever shiny thing catches your eye- soon to be forgotten about. The Jowen method makes a little go a long way, it makes the anticipation almost as fun as the event and from an ethical and frugal point of view it makes you remember the value of money. It means that whatever you end up with, you know yes I really wanted this. When I have ten pounds to spend, I often think about the implications of the note in my hand; ‘Owen would have to work two whole hours to earn this, so is X really worth that? In five years will I still be valuing this, or at least its memory? I picture Owen’s aching back, his tired eyes and throbbing head, then think ‘Do I need to spend this?’ My antidote to advertising has always been the power of careful thought and a deliberate harnessing of my imagination. But anyway, I am digressing miles from what I was supposed to be talking about. Back to the story…

When Owen finally felt mentally prepared to actually go to the shop and wrestle with the big decision of what to purchase, he warned me when we got there (with that look in his eyes) that it could take ‘some time’. Sigh. So we agreed to meet up an hour later and see how he’d got on. In the meantime I went round the shop. I spent most of my time in philosophy and religion, but also swung by gender studies, erotic fiction, and the cookbook section. In the space of fifty five minutes, I went from Socrates to Jamie Oliver and back again. Then, on my way back to the DVD section to meet O, I noticed the psychology wall. Now, it’s been a while since I last browsed a well stocked psychology section and I have my reasons for that. But something caught my eye. One whole subsection, wall to floor, was covered in a particular kind of book.

You would know the kind if you saw it. They are always white, usually with a blurred picture of a child hunched over looking scared or teary. They have a jagged font and a punchy title. Quite eye catching, really. The craze was started by an autobiography called ‘A Child called It’ and by the looks of it there have now been literally hundreds of spin offs and copycats. I had no idea there was such a market for these hundreds of tales detailing bleak, graphic, horrific abuse. Yet I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. This trend is nothing new. We have always, as a nation, been a bit obsessed by the neglected child. In terms of literary history look at David Copperfield, Oliver Twist or the recent spate of gritty nostalgic biographies inspired by Angela’s Ashes. Even modern day Children’s heroes like Tracey beaker and Harry Potter are renowned for their hard lives and the books don’t skirt around issues of abuse, hardship and neglect. The books I read yesterday, though, take the obsession to another level. I looked at the wall to ceiling display and felt profoundly nauseous. There was something not quite right about all this, not right at all.

I read the back of one of the books. There was one of the most graphic descriptions of child abuse I have ever read. It was a boy having his face pushed in the fire and branded with a poker. Then I read another one, it was a creepy description of a girl about to be raped by her father. I read another; it was the story of a five year old child having their hand smashed with a hammer. I probably read about ten of these dust jackets, each to design to shock and horrify, and… titillate? Surely not. As I read the covers, I became aware of a sort of competitiveness that was going on between the books. There was a definite vying for top dog. Each was trying to be the most shocking, the most horrific, the most stomach turning. I got the distinct impression that the authors and publishers were appealing to a certain audience; the people who were reading these books were enjoying the shock.

When I, as a writer, examined the language, it was written to hook, to thrill, to entice. Of course these are books; commercial entities and the publishers need to sell copies. So there’s got to be some kind of emotional worm dangling as bait. But I think it goes deeper than that. All the while, I was just thinking to myself, this phenomenon is pornographic. Emotionally pornographic. People are getting big kicks out of this shit and not the legendary men in long coats who hide behind school bus shelters but middle aged women who knit jumpers for jumble sales and middle class students who read this stuff on the bus on the way to college. Maybe, I thought, trying to be generous, these books are serving a purpose in educating us about the horrors of child abuse. This is such a taboo that maybe I’m reacting to it in a funny way, maybe I’m seeing it as pornographic when it is just a highly charged emotional subject, one of the highest charged in this society and consequently I’m not being fair. After all, abuse is emotive. Hence the emotional packaging, right? Or maybe the intended readers of these books are the many millions of people who have lived through abuse themselves and reading such graphic descriptions might be, in the long run, cathartic and healing. They might help you to come to terms with the deep wounds and long lasting scars, safe in the knowledge that there are others who have been to hell and back.

I tried to be fair, I really did.

But none of my theories rang true. The display just seemed more and more horrific the more I looked at it. It stank of profiteering, not healing; it was one flea ridden cash cow right there in the middle of the bookshop. And people were lapping it up. Even at such a quiet time at least four or five people came and picked up one of these books in the time I was browsing. They were not reacting to these stories with solemnity and reflection on the evils of abuse and pedophilia, but responded to them like the soulless commodities they were; flicking through, reading the juicy bits, occasionally raising eyebrows, putting them down again.

Then, as I was turning away, one woman reader tutted to herself and shook her head.

And I just thought; 'that just bloody well sums it up, doesn’t it?' Yes, I accept that people read these books for a variety of reasons, but I believe many buy them to gain themselves a hollow victory. Through reading the hardback highs and lows of some poor bastard’s misfortune they attempt to salvage some posititivity about their own lives. People read these so they can be assured of their own morality and so called happiness. They think ‘Thank god my life is so much better than that. True my daughter may hate me and my husband drinks a bottle of wine a night and we hardly speak to each other. I may hate my life, but God, I never poked his eyes out with a nail gun and even though when my baby girl kept me up for two years straight I wanted to throw her out the window because I was so exhausted, I never did. I’m a good person. I’m a good person. I’m a good person.’

So we fall into the trap that the ruling parties and state apparatus (of which major publishing houses are a part) have set for us. We read, devour (and maybe collect) this emotional pornography rather than facing our own problems or examining the genuine injustices in the world and the systems and attitudes that make abuse such a common place thing in our society. We think poor sod and like the woman in the bookshop we shake our heads and say that’s terrible, maybe rant about it to our friends later. Maybe, in rare cases, we go and give ten quid to the NSPCC. We do this not out of a state of genuine compassion and empathy, but simply to make ourselves feel better, maybe even to make us feel something. After all, as any psychiatrist in the world will tell you; a lot of people go through life feeling emotionally numb and these books which use language so skillfully to drum up deep emotions are almost like drugs to some of us. That is why when I went on Amazon to examine some of these books again, I noticed in the reviews a trend; there are a lot of people out there who are reading a lot of these books. There are people who are ‘into’ the child abuse genre. These people are not sick or depraved; it is much more complex than that. They are just the extreme end of people who are addicted to this widespread emotional pornography and they need help.

As a society we need to learn to face our own genuine emotions, even when they are dark and scary. We need to learn to stop demonizing people and seeing the world in such black and white bipolar terms. Whilst this attitude may temporarily give us an ego boost, the I’m a good person effect, it doesn’t get to the root of the matter and leaves us genuinely unsatisfied. Emotions are deep, complex things. Pornography, by its very nature is surface based and fantastical. That is why emotional pornography is seductive, but ultimately is an empty promise. It never really grapples with the heart of the problem and is designed to always leave you wanting more: the next thrill, the next drama, the next more graphic book. It distorts the deepest truths of human existence and turns deep suffering into a simple commodity, to be sold as fixes to us, the numb dumb masses. We are junkies, plain and simple and as long as we are hooked on this shit, believing the lies, we will never know true compassion, or wisdom. To be happy both as a society and as individuals we need to kick the habit of emotional porn and start to wrestle with the huge complex grey areas of our existence. Human experience is rich in depth and intensity, encompassing a huge rang of emotions. How sad then that most of our focus is on the negative ones, such as sadness, anger, jealousy and endless, endless craving. We must learn to renounce this pornographic quick fix, see it for the trap that it is and settle for the real deal. We must come to terms with our own feelings and not be afraid to express our genuine thoughts. Just as a sexual pornography addict must learn how to enjoy genuine flesh on flesh contact again we also have to learn how to connect. Authentic emotions expressed within connected communities of interdependent people is the way out of this sad situation. Most of all, we must learn to face ourselves; otherwise if we’re not careful our inner lives will be reduced to the emotional equivalent of an unfulfilling and lonely mess in a tissue.

Buddhing Sexuality

Warning, friends of Jen, I am going to talk frankly about sex in the following article. If you think you might find this disturbing, look away now!

3. I undertake the precept to refrain from sexual misconduct (adultery, rape, exploitation, etc).

Number three, the way I interpret it is simple, and will, I think, be easy to keep. Buddha, if he was teaching now, however, might disagree. The way I see it though, I do refrain from sexual misconduct; I am a married woman and even when temptation has sometimes come along, I have never cheated on O and hopefully never will. I define cheating as sleeping with somebody else, or doing anything sexually (even kissing) with somebody else behind his back. As for the heavy stuff, I have never raped anyone, sold someone in to sex slavery, prostitution or supported someone who did. Just to clear that up! I don’t even watch porn very often, hardly at all. I think, sexually, I am reasonably ethical. I try to be a caring, considerate lover, in the bedroom and out. I put O's needs first, and am enthusiastic about making sure he is satisfied. Sure, there’s the whole lust thing. I have a (very) dirty mind and sometimes get the occasional crush on people other than O, and once or twice I’ve, hand on heart, got a bit too carried away; started wondering if I should propose a threesome to get it out of my system! But, at least so far, its all been strictly mental activity only. To be fair, I have always told O honestly about how I’m feeling and never tried to conceal anything from him. And he tells me when he has a silly crush himself, and I have always been understanding about that in return.

After all, we’re human, we have human urges, and I believe that a lot of problems happen in relationships when you start lying about those urges or pretending to yourself that they’re not happening. Even in the past when those urges have got a bit out of hand, I’m glad that I was honest about them rather than covering them up. So I guess that if I’m going to have a problem with any of this precept, it’s going to be if people start demanding that I’m mentally pure. Fuck that. I love O more than myself, he knows that, and we are going to be together forever, but, newsflash, it’s not only men who have problems keeping their eyes to themselves. I can’t help but notice the fit Rastafarian businessman who uses the pool at the same time as me. I can’t stop my eyes lingering over his body and pausing in certain interesting places. Call it weakness, call it nature, call it what you will, sometimes I simply can’t help myself.

As well as a wonderful, loving and exciting sex life with O, I also have a healthy relationship with my vibrator, and if Buddha is going to have a problem with that, then I might have a problem with him. Fantasy and imagination are a big part of my sexual drive, and masturbation plays a big role in that, and always has. And guess what? My sexual fantasies aren’t all big bunches of flowers and running through long grass being kissed under the old Oak tree by a tall dark stranger like Mills and Boon writers would have you believe. I do not, either, as Ann Summers suggests, fantasise about a stripper with an oiled chest, a 13” cock and an even bigger ego. These, in my experience are not what most women fantasise about. In reality we’re often a lot darker, a lot more twisted than that. As the title of a certain best selling book goes: ‘screw the roses, send me the thorns’, and I think a lot of women can relate to that.

You know what else? I’m unapologetic for this. I don’t feel guilt or shame, that’s one of the reasons I can post this on such a public forum. I think its part of a healthy, natural sexual life and part of being a liberated woman is allowing yourself to come to terms with these desires. I can’t imagine anything worse than the bland, missionary focused orgasm faking sex life that frankly, so many women in Britain have to endure on a daily basis. By having a sexual relationship with myself, as well as with my husband I am able to be more explorative, mentally and physically, and more satisfied as I know my own body better and how it works so well. I don’t know where Buddhism really stands on issues like this, but if he is foolish enough to attempt it, Buddha is going to have one hell of a time trying to separate me from my rabbit! So yes, precept three is very much a matter of interpretation. I suspect my concepts of sexuality may differ somewhat from the Buddha’s who did not live in an age of sex toys and pornography. However, I hope that if I were in conversation with him today, he could see that, in my sexual conduct, I do try to be ethical, loving, and respectful even if it’s not the way things have traditionally been done.

The Birthday Blues

Oh God, how much I love The Guardian. Or The Observer as it is called on this long soapy showering, real coffee drinking, should be eating hot buttery croissants (but actually eating lukewarm ready break) day of rest. And God, how much I love the fact that it is free for me to read on the internet. I truly hope it always stays that way. There are some thought provoking articles in there this Sunday, including this article about Prozac, which got me thinking:

Prozac is twenty years old this week. Somehow I didn’t think it was as old as that, but then don't listen to me, occasionally I still go to write 1999 when signing in the date box next to my name. Sometimes I think I might, on some level, not have fully left behind my A level years. Part of me, somewhere, still longs for a headspace free of responsibilities. I hark back to a time when I carried around volumes of my mispelt stoner poetry that, naturally, was on the verge of getting published. Back then, everything that was happening to me was the first time it had happened to anyone. I was so irresistible that my religious studies teacher was about to leave his much loved wife and kids for me. I just knew I could get straight A’s without doing any work. Of course I could single-handedly bring down conservative Christianity, Patriarchy, and Right wing politics in general just by reading Bukowski, Nietzsche’s ‘The Antichrist’ and Greer’s ‘The Female Eunuch’ like they had only just been published and were written for me alone. Back then, consuming Marlborough reds, tenner deals of petrol laced ‘rocky’ and whole bottles of Jack Daniels comprised the highlights of my tiny self absorbed existence. Delusion was piled upon delusion but I never quite managed to kid myself. Inside me a tornado whirled and consequently the year 1999, the last of my school career, was also the date I first got treated for depression.

The doctor’s appointment was short. That’s mostly what I remember. I was very nervous, my hands were shaking. I think, although I am embarrassed to admit it, it might have been the first time I had been to the doctors without one of my parents present and I was terrified. In hindsight now I know my symptoms were pretty mild. I wasn’t sleeping well, was feeling agitated and distracted, couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork and was off food. My thoughts, although often intense, had been getting darker and bleaker in nature. In short, I just wasn’t feeling my usual chirpy self. It was like I was trying to run a race with treacle on my shoes. I also was worrying a bit obsessively about some stuff that had gone on in the past, and this was manifesting itself in some ways even I knew were strange; like not being able to sleep unless I counted to a hundred twenty five times without missing a count and if I did then starting back at the beginning (hence the not sleeping). But in no way was I chronic. I was not suicidal, I did not self harm, I was functioning in my day to day life. I wasn’t crying non stop, my mood wasn’t all that low a lot of time, even my attentive parents hadn’t really noticed a dramatic change.

In other words, the weird counting thing aside, most of my symptoms could have just been put down to A’ level stress or teenage angst. Maybe in a different age they would have been. But there are three key details I remember about that doctor’s appointment:

a) There was a Prozac clock on the wall tick tocking away as we spoke.
b) The doctor was writing with an Eli Lilly pen.
c) Her coffee, which smelt nice, was contained in a mug that proudly displayed the word ‘Prozac’.

And less than five minutes later, I left her room, clutching a piece of paper in my hand that said words which amounted to the same thing: ‘Fluoxetine: 20 mg (one to be taken twice a day)’

Questions asked to me in that interview:

What’s the problem? (I told her the above symptoms)
Are you feeling suicidal (I laughed and said no)

Diagnosis after that literally three minute assessment:

Mild to moderate clinical depression. Possible obsessive compulsive disorder.

Treatment:

Prozac for six months to a year. Then come back and see me.

I don’t even think this is a bad diagnosis in terms of our health care system. Something wasn’t quite right with me and I think many psychiatrists and doctors up and down the country would have made the same call. As skeptical as I am about the psychiatric classification system you have to have some kind of guidelines for diagnosis, I suppose. The real beef I have is with the thoroughness and type of treatment that was offered to me and the care that was available. First of all, taking three minutes to diagnose someone with a mental illness, even if it is one of the milder so called common colds of the mental health spectrum is simply not good enough. The patient education and aftercare system was appalling, after being diagnosed with what to me was quite a significant problem, I was just left to get on with my life. Not even a fucking leaflet or a Samaritans phone number. This is worsened further by the fact that I was, technically at this time, a child. I had just turned seventeen years old and I was very confused about the whole thing. I was somewhat educated, I knew from reading bits and bobs on the internet and from knowing friends of the family with similar problems that having this diagnosis didn’t make me ‘nuts’. But no one, not even the doctor checked to make sure I knew that.

When I left that appointment, and for months afterwards, I felt dramatically more ill than I had done before I went in, simply because my symptoms had been given a name and had been categorically brought into the realm of ‘sickness’. It reminded me of when, as a kid, you went to the doctors with a sore throat thinking you might, if you’re lucky get given a day off school and then are told you have tonsillitis and need antibiotics. From that moment on, even if previously you had been feeling okish, for the next week it takes a crowbar to prise you from the sofa, you feel like you have swallowed sandpaper and all you can eat is ice cream and tomato soup. It's genuine, but it is also, to a certain extent, psychosomatic. Firstly, this is a very common reaction to being diagnosed with any illness, but especially mental illnesses, and someone should have been there to talk me through that. Secondly, I’m not saying my symptoms should have been ignored, but by medicalising them and giving me a diagnosis when I was so young, sending me into the wider world with a label (always a dangerous thing to give a teenager), rather than to a counsellor to talk about some of the stuff that was bothering me and thoroughly assessing my case, was, in my opinion, wrong. Also, unhealthy aspects of my life that I now know were having a massive impact on my mental health, such as my bad diet, my excessive alcohol and drug use and lack of exercise, were never even mentioned, let alone explored. If all the ‘common sense’ stuff had been dealt with before telling me I was sick and pouring Prozac down my neck, well things could have turned out very differently.

They talk about cannabis being a gateway drug for heroin and crack. Now, I don’t personally follow that logic, but if I did then I’d have to concede that Prozac was my psychiatric gateway drug. Since that day I got written the prescription, nearly a decade ago, I have not been off psychotropic drugs. In a typical dealer fashion, they have got harder and harder, pushed with more and more force and coercion. As my mental health deteriorated further over the years following that appointment, I moved from Prozac and Seroxat to Lithium and Valium to Risperdone, Stelazine, Beta Blockers, and dozens more. It’s got to the point now where I’m practically a drugs connoisseur.

There are, it seems, two ways of looking at this:

1) The official line. My episode, at the age of seventeen was clearly worrying, with the potential to develop into something disastrous. The experienced doctor who had seen this thing many times before was good to pick up on these signs and treat them accordingly. Drug treatment is the most quick acting and effective treatment for depression recommended by the NHS, and Prozac one of the most effective in this family of drugs, especially considering the OCD type symptoms I was displaying. The doctor followed what was the recommended course of action at the time. It was simply unfortunate that I was resistant to Prozac, and many of the other drugs she and subsequent doctors threw at me, My illness, now rediagnosed as the more chronic and lifelong bipolar disorder is notoriously difficult to treat, and with hindsight, it is unsurprising that a small dose of Prozac didn’t make me better. However, the doctor, not knowing those facts, acted correctly.

Or

2) My line. If I had been offered counseling in that first appointment which had been the course of action I wanted (I was, in fact astounded that it was that easy to get a prescription) rather than the tablets that the drug pushing companies pressure their GPs to prescribe, then I may have got to the root of the problem a lot quicker and never needed drugs. Also, If my symptoms had been treated as normal and teenage, rather than sick and mentally ill, at least in the first instance, then I may have thought of the situation in a whole different light and who knows where it would have ended up. I just have this nagging feeling in my head that without all the mind fucking chemicals that were relentlessly pumped in experimental cocktails and huge quantities into my head at such an early age, my brain could be a very different place right now. Also, from a psychological point of view, without all the confusing (and often conflicting) diagnostic labels being stuck on me like superglue, maybe I would have a better self image and be leading a healthier, happier life. There is something fundamentally damaging to be told your brain and personality isn’t working right before you even hit your eighteenth birthday. After all, self perception is of paramount importance. As a young woman to be told by those in authority that you are sick in the head, with all the stigma and implications of such a diagnosis, could be something that, in itself, makes you sicker. In other words, maybe I’d be better if I’d have never gone to the damn doctors in the first place.

I’ll never prove it of course. The establishment will always argue that I needed the medicine, that it has been good for me, that without it I might even be dead. And maybe they’re right. But I will never forget that doctor sipping from the Prozac mug, and the way she didn’t even pause for thought before signing the brain of a child away to a chemical that, I later learnt, was surrounded even back then by controversy and doubt. So happy birthday, Prozac. You may have saved a lot of lives, but you’ve also helped trivialize and oversimplify a complex and dehabilitating illness, and have changed the face of psychiatry to one dominated by branding, advertisements, and false, false promises. Once, back in 1999, I believed them. Now I can’t help but feel a little bitter. Forgive me if I don’t sing whilst you blow out your candles.

Love and Theft

I undertake the precept to refrain from stealing. (lit. "taking what is not offered")

When I first read this Buddhist precept my reaction was: “That’s easy peasy. I’m not a thief. “

Then I started thinking.

The first thing that sprang to mind is that I have stolen things, at least in my early life, mostly shoplifting when I was a teenager. This was mostly due to the peer pressure of some rebellious ‘friends’ I was trying to impress at the time who thought that kind of thing was cool. I didn’t, but was sick of being bullied and needed some allies so I went along with the crowd. This lack of conviction and deep suspicion that what I was doing was wrong meant that I was never very good at it. During our illicit sprees at Meadowhall shopping centre I would turn bright red and shake when I was doing it (always very clumsily), look incredibly suspicious when I was leaving the shop (looking over my shoulder every two seconds with a look of blind panic on my face then stumbling towards the exit). Afterwards, I would feel so guilty I would worry all the way home on bus and then go straight up to my bedroom and cry myself to sleep. Once I actually went back the next day and put the thing back on the shelf.

Then there’s the stealing from my parents. As I have mentioned before, I smoked for many years of my life. I mostly funded this by part time work, but when my own money ran out it was not unknown for me to, in the midst of a morning craving, dip into my parent’s money pot. They trustingly left it on the table for transport, food and essential things but I would often help myself to a couple of quid for a packet of Marlborough reds. I felt guilty about this too, very guilty, but I would justify it by telling myself that I would put the money back, one day, when I was richer. It was just a loan, a secret loan, granted, but it wasn’t stealing, not from my own parents. Anyway, I thought, if the bastards hadn’t have stopped my allowance (when they discovered I was smoking) then I wouldn’t have had to borrow the money. Needless to say, to this day I haven’t put the money (which probably amounts to several hundred pounds) back, although I fully intend to, when I am rich. Who knows if I will though. I haven’t stolen from my parents since I left home, nearly eight years ago. However, I still feel bad about this betrayal of trust. I know its something that most teenagers do at some point or other, especially if they have a semi serious nicotine and pot habit to feed, but still, I feel bad.

In more recent times I have stopped such blatant stealing, in such black and white terms but there are still instances I can think of where I frequently take what’s not offered. Recently me and O had a huge argument because he discovered I was eating chocolate bars and pasties when I was out in town, despite an agreement we had that junk food is off limits for both of us. It was made doubly bad because it’s him who is earning all the money and working hard paying for things like my gym membership so I can lose this damn weight. Hardly ethical living there, Jen.

Then you get onto the very, very, very difficult issue of downloading and copyright. A lot of our music is pirated and to some extent I agree with O’s strong views on the stupidity and unjustness of the copyright laws. Downloading has made me way more knowledgeable about the music industry than I could have ever afforded to be if I was actually paying for my tunes. I know more artists, am more experimental with my tastes and less taken in by hype and packaging. Still, I have never felt that easy about doing it. It is technically theft, even though nearly all of my generation do it at some point in their lives. It is undoubtedly, from a Buddhist point of view, taking what is not offered, therefore if I were to take the precepts, I guess I would have to stop.
This is where it all gets a bit tricky in my head.

1. I like music and don’t want to have no access to it. Especially since I have no money to pay for it.

2. I believe that by buying music from major record labels you are supporting a corporation rather than an artist. I also believe that most of the major corporate record labels have actually done more harm than good to the music industry. It’s better, if you want to actually support the artist, to go and see them live as much more of your money will go straight to their pocket.

3. However, since I have chosen him to be the primary moral guide in my life, based on my knowledge of his actions and his teachings, it is important to ask:

Q: Would Buddha, if teaching now, have used Limewire?

A: Probably not.

Which leads me to:

4. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a kleptomaniac, but considering I have indulged in stealing, albeit guiltily, for a large part of my life, do I actually believe that all theft is wrong? Am I at one with the Buddha on this, or are we at loggerheads? After all, my absolute childhood hero (apart from Just William) was Robin Hood, who, as the legend goes, ripped off the rich to feed the poor. Part of me still loves that idea. There is so much injustice in the world. Why not take from those who have screwed you and your beloved planet over? Why not get the corporate fatcats where it hurts?

But when I say these words, I get the same feeling I do when I was talking to the rebellious kids in Meadowhall shopping centre. I start to feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed by that sense of over justification and lack of real conviction. Despite it being the so called radical thing to say, this is not what I really believe.

Blame it on a childhood overdose on Jesus if you want, but in my heart of hearts I think theft is wrong. I don’t feel proud of all the stealing I’ve done in my life, in fact, quite the opposite. I can’t simply make myself feel at ease with it all by saying to myself :‘all property is theft’. At the end of the day, I think stealing is a negative action, and when you steal someone always ends up getting hurt. It may not be the person you think and the pain could be financial, emotional, psychological or physical. I believe that inflicting pain is wrong, whoever you inflict it upon. There is no such thing as a person who deserves pain or deserves to suffer. Even if they by their actions have harmed other people, this wrong is not solved by harming them. At the end of the day one of the Buddha’s central guiding teachings is that you should treat all beings equally and do harm to none. In my eyes theft is a harmful action, and so should be avoided.

I also believe in treating other people how I would like to be treated myself, (that old chestnut) and the times I have been stolen from have hurt me. The pain ranged from panic and rage when I had my wallet stolen to just vague annoyance that people in my halls of residence had been at my milk again. Whatever the depth of your reaction though, being stolen from is never a pleasant experience. When I think of my own stealing, of my parents maybe not being able to afford a meal out because I had swiped the last tenner, when talented bands I love lose their record contract because of declining sales, when Owen can’t have that book he wanted because I spent 3 pounds on a bacon and sausage sandwich, I think you selfish selfish bitch. That’s the crux of the matter for me, stealing is a very self centered act where you put your own desires over those of another being. In doing so you are, at least in Buddhist terms, not acting in the spirit of compassion and generosity but in terms of your own ego’s hoarding and selfishness.

Once again though, as with many of these precepts, it’s put your money where your mouth is time. Am I really ready to make the commitment and turn my back on free downloads? Am I really sure I’m sure? Its one thing believing and quite another to do. I am very attached to music and the music scene and the idea of going without it not only scares me but goes against the grain as well.

So you see, thinking about these precepts is really challenging me. O thinks the whole concept of subscribing to a formula of set precepts is outdated and ridiculous, but that’s an entry for another time. For now, its just good to be thinking these things through, and wrestling with moral issues, which, if I’m honest, I had been avoiding doing since leaving the church all those years ago.

(Not) Killing in the Name Of....

Despite my username, I am not a Buddhist. At least, not officially. If anything I would call me more Bud-curious. I am still very much at the exploratory stage of my journey and whilst a lot of my interaction with Buddhist teaching has had a positive effect on my life, constantly challenging me to act with more compassion and wisdom on a daily level, I do not feel ready to commit to the path and take refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. I especially do not feel ready to undertake the five precepts that all Buddhists must promise to keep. I take these things very seriously and if I made the commitment it would turn my tiny world, as I know it now, upside down. I thought over the next month or so I would like to occasionally do a short blog on each one of the precepts so I can start to work through what they mean to me. So today, here are my reflections on precept number one.

For those of you who don’t know, the five Buddhist precepts are:

1. I undertake the precept to refrain from taking the life (killing) of living beings.

2. I undertake the precept to refrain from stealing. (lit. "taking what is not offered")

3. I undertake the precept to refrain from sexual misconduct (adultery, rape, exploitation, etc).

4. I undertake the precept to refrain from false speech (lying).

5. I undertake the precept to refrain from intoxicants which lead to heedlessness.

They don’t look like a big deal on the surface really, do they? Logical good advice just like the Ten Commandments but actually quite lenient because there are only five to keep! However, the more I think about them the more radical they are and the more a sincere commitment to stick to them, in spirit as well as in letter, would absolutely transform me as a person. Let’s examine the implications of the first precept:

I take this precept to mean I must not intentionally harm, as well as simply kill other creatures. The most significant thing this means to me is that I can no longer kill wasps or snakes or another creature that causes me annoyance or worse, danger. This to me is huge. I couldn’t get through a summer without my fly swat; such is my phobia of wasps and bees. To voluntarily take away that power I have over other creatures, to vow not to kill even if my own life was in danger breaks me out in a cold sweat. It means, in practical terms, that if a wasp lands on my arm I just have to let it be. I have to sit there and let the black and yellow evil fucker clamber all over me, stinging at will. If a spider crawls up my leg I have to be still and calm. If a snake runs over my foot I can’t attack it to protect myself. Man, this is rich panic attack territory, right here. I’d like it put on the record that I think I do at least agree with this precept, in principle at least. I think it goes without saying that a lot of harm has been done to this planet by the whole monotheistic Adam and Eve garden bullshit. Giving us hierarchical superiority over the other animals like that was always a bad idea in my book and it has been used throughout history to justify the most horrific of abuses of power. In taking the vow it’s just the practice that I know I’d really struggle with.

In terms of eating animals, in Buddhist circles opinion is really divided on this one. Some traditions eat meat, some don’t. Personally speaking if I took this precept I probably would become vegetarian. I know killing for food is different ethically than killing for other reasons, but it somehow doesn’t sit right with me to be all serious about compassion for living beings, and then tucking in to my Turkey roast on a Sunday enjoying the crackly skin of a bird that has had a shit life, a horrible death when at the end of the day it is possible to have a healthy vegetarian diet. However, and this is where the selfish part comes in, I love meat. I love its taste and texture, its flavour and smell. I just don’t know if I’m ready to turn my back on spare ribs and king prawns. Is that so bad?

Humans are obviously living beings too, and in reality are much more of a threat than any silly little spider. To me taking this precept would eliminate me from harming another human, even in self defense. Even if that person is doing harmful deeds; like hurting my family or friends. It would involve being absolutely committed to a life of non violence in a violent world. This is massive in its implications. I honestly don’t know if I would be able to stick to it.

As well as avoiding direct harm of people and animals in your own personal actions I think this precept calls implicitly for avoidance of industries and products that cause harm and destruction to people and planet. This is your basic ethical living that is very fashionable to talk about now (less so to actually do, I feel) and includes avoiding investing in or buying from companies that are involved in the arms trade, pillaging of natural world resources, exploitative labour, animal cruelty or anything that causes harm or loss of life to another living being. I try hard now to live as ethically as possible, but if I took this precept I would have to make a lot more changes from where I shop to the bank I’m with to the food I eat. I would have to think a lot more and have a lot more integrity about these kinds of issues, rather than pay lip service to them and then still buy nestle coffee because it’s on 2 for 1 in Sainsbury’s.

There’s much more that could be said about precept number 1, I have no doubt. I am sure books have been written about books on the subject. This is just meant to be a quick sketch from my point of view. If I ever do take these vows, I want to mean them, all of them, and to be clear about the implications that they will have in my life. Thinking about them is a good starting point, but I’m still a long way off from getting up there and making a public commitment to such radical changes in my life and world view. Right now, I’m at the stage of thinking the think and talking the talk. It is going to take a lot of bravery and hefty decisions before I finally get my rucksack on my back, pull my cagool on tight and set off on the rocky winding path of walking the Buddhist walk.

Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Kid

This week I have read quite a lot of blogs from the US, and obviously the Virginia Tech massacre seems to have brought the gun control issue to a head, as you would expect.

So I want to talk about guns. Not a subject I am hugely knowledgeable about, do not read the following blog for lots of statistical analysis or personal anecdotes. I have never held a gun. I have never, therefore, fired a gun. I have never had a gun fired at me. In fact, my only real experiences of guns are the fact that I have traveled in Gaza where I frequently heard gun battles, but they were usually a long way in the distance (still scary though). The only other time is spending a few minutes in an air gun shop with my brother in law (he made a few Beavis and Butthead noises to himself "cool…uh huh….awesome….") and then we moved on for a cream tea with extra strawberry jam at the nice shop at the end of the road. Hardly life in the ‘hood.

So I guess some people would think that it makes me very under-qualified to talk about the subject. I don’t agree.

I may not be knowledgeable enough to do an in depth analysis of the world gun trade, but I would just like it to be put on the record that, from my perspective, life without guns is fabulous.

I attended a state comprehensive school. It wasn’t the worst in the country but it wasn’t so far off the bottom of the league tables. It was enough having to cope with the hair pulling and verbal abuse I received at the hands of the other students. I am so glad that I was able to partake in my classes without hearing rumours along the grapevine that so and so has a gun in their bag and is waiting for you after school. I am so glad that there whilst there was undeniably a culture of violence at the comp, it never did and never has ended in a fatality.

The school was in a working class town. It wasn’t the safest place to live. People got beaten up for standing out, there were a lot of drugs and gangs. Despite that, I still managed to have a happy childhood where I was allowed to roam most of the streets, my life was not characterised by fear and danger. I feel that without the strict gun control we have in the UK this would not have been the same. I’m not saying I would have got shot. I’m just saying that with all the gun crime on top of everything else, my neurotic mother wouldn’t have let me leave the back garden and a lot of my fun childhood memories would have been stolen from me. I wouldn’t have been the only one. The lives of me and my friends would have been spent in front of computers and TV’s rather than walking through the woods behind the old pit or running through the fields on the common. I may have sometimes walked the long way home to avoid the bigger boys who shouted lewd things after me and my twelve year old girl friends, but imagine the power those bigger boys would have had with their dads stolen gun in their pocket. Guns are not just used to kill, but to cajole, to threaten, to rape. The bigger boys in my home town just had catapults and the real psychos had knives. But I’d rather take my chances with a man and a knife than a man and a gun, although neither, admittedly, is something I’d put on my wish list.

Finally, and this issue feels a lot closer to where I’m standing now: if guns were legal in the UK, I would be dead. I say this sincerely and honestly. Every depressive who has wrestled with the big one has a preferred method. A single, simple gunshot wound has always been mine. Less than a six months ago, I was so fucked up that had guns been legal I can say with certainty that I would have bought one, pulled the trigger and hey presto, exited the planet. 1 in 4 people in this country suffers from a mental illness at some point in their life. I don’t know the exact statistics relating to methods but I do know that studies have shown that in countries with guns, suicide rates tend to be higher as many more attempts are successful. I’m not saying that gunshot wounds are the only way to kill yourself, far from it, but it my own case, the method I was forced to use was much less effective and therefore there was time for me to be rescued by the paramedics and then time for me to be saved in hospital. If I had found easy access to a gun, I simply wouldn’t be here writing this now.

So, people, from where I’m standing, I say: fight to keep Britain as gun free as possible. Those in other countries who own a weapon: know that you are 41% more likely to be murdered if you have a firearm in your house, which to me would be as cold a comfort as the hard metal casing you so foolishly caress under your pillow. Let us not forget that guns are designed for one thing, and it’s not protection. Guns are made to kill. They tear apart communities, wreck lives, mame, wound and torture. I’m pleased to say that today I haven’t been one of the approximately 1000 people who died because of a gun. I hope I never will be.

Look at it this way: today I have been able to walk through my city’s streets unattended, carefree, feeling safe. For billions of people all over the world, because of the threat of the bullet there is so such feeling, no such freedom. I know you’re all going to laugh and call me a sucker idealist but for me there will never be any peace in the world until the firearms trade, both legal and illegal is dismantled. So why stop at Britain? Lets fight for the belief that the only place that people should to see guns in the whole world is stuck behind a glass cabinet, in an armory museum. Sure, it’s not a guarantee against the human violence (both headline grabbing and unreported) that dominates our planet, but it sure would be a step in the right direction.

Grandma

I have spent a lot of today thinking about old age. My grandma died at around about this time of year (such a dutiful granddaughter: I can’t remember the date/month/year), but I’m pretty sure it was in the spring, with the daffodils just about to die. So she has been playing on my mind for the last few days. She died in an old peoples home as the family couldn’t cope with her severe, aggressive dementia. Within eighteen months she went from being my lovely cuddly grandma to a husk of a woman. Being witness to the journey she underwent; the accelerated decaying process that left her unable to remember her own name or the name of her husband, children or, well… me… it was one of the most influential things that has happened to me. You just don’t forget shit like that. I was walking the walls of the city, and memories of her last months floated back into my conciousness: the smell of the pine air freshener that she had to breathe all day and the fish tank in the home's hallway with the moldy goldfish that swam in tiny circles. The guest’s "sign in" book that recorded our weekly visit and the tragedy of the fact that on more than one occasion there were no other names in the book to separate our Sunday signatures.

I have always hated old peoples homes. With a passion. I used to work at one, I know the shit that goes on there. People, good people who have given so much to their families and their communities are just left in high backed chairs to rot. There is no respect for the intelligence, individuality, history or needs of that person. Yes, they will get fed, even if it is the same tinned grapefruit or stewed prunes every day. Yes, they will be dressed, if they no longer can for themselves. Yes, they will get toileted once every couple of hours. Unless the staff forget, and then they have to physically sit in their own piss and shit for hours on end. In these places, there is no dignity. None. Most people in old peoples homes are not really people at all, in my experience, they are just empty shells waiting for their next 10 minute family visit, or if they have no relatives, they sit there and look forward to the day they finally stop breathing.

Now, call me silly if you will, but to me that’s no way for even one life to end. And for thousands upon thousands of these broken people to be abandoned, (not just by their families but by their communities), exploited of their hard earned life savings, neglected, drugged beyond recognition until they finally lose the will to live and croak…well….to me it is beyond dubious. This is abuse, plain and simple. Abuse of a whole generation, abuse of the most vulnerable group in our society. This is happening now, every day and it’s a fucking travesty. The friends and the relatives of people who have had to go through these systems and have seen our mums and dads, grandmas and granddads, friends and even enemies destroyed by them should be screaming about this abuse through megaphones outside polling stations and TV stations. We should be burning the places to the ground. We should be suing the corrupt owners of these establishments who bleed their residents dry. We should be going into the thick of it and helping those poor bastards who after all did much more than fight in the much toted wars; they raised us, read us stories, fed us home cooked meals, made sacrifice after sacrifice for both this country and our communities and our own families. This is the thanks they get? We should be so ashamed.

Yet I am not talking from a holier than thou perspective. My immediate family committed my grandma to one of these places. It made her worse and she died. We have that on our consciences forever. However, like many people in that situation we believed all the shit the system told us, that we couldn’t manage her at home, that she’d be better there, that she was a danger to herself and others, that she was unsafe in the community. We acted with the best of intentions. So do so many of us. But I think most of us know, I think in my heart of hearts we knew, that we acted with blood on our hands. Who hasn’t been to an old folks home and retched at the barely disguised smell of cabbage and piss? Who hasn’t noticed the woman in the corner with her dress on back to front and her teeth hanging out? And who hasn’t looked around at all the vacant expressions staring at countdown on the telly and thought; "shoot me, please, before I get to this stage"?

There is a cancer at the heart of our society. Maybe one of the reasons we’re all so obsessed with botox and anti wrinkle cream is because we know what’s waiting for us at the end of the line. It's not the thought of endless bingo nights and tepid institution food that creates the horror of the situation, it's the fact that these things are, in an old people's home, life's highlights.

News flash, people. We’re all gonna die. You won’t avoid it however hard you try. Science isn’t going to find a miracle cure, you’ll be pushing up daisies before you’ve even really had a chance to realise the implications of being alive. And when you do die you will probably be in a lot of pain and very scared. Dying well and dying bravely is one of the hardest things there is to do. Trust me on this. Wouldn’t it be nice, then, if our very last years were spent with our families, or if not with them, then in places that valued us and our wisdom, where we were treated with respect and compassion rather than as if we were nuisances at best, simple commodities at worst? Wouldn’t it be good if, even on our death beds, we were still being asked; "What can you teach us?" A dying person has access to some of life’s most potent wisdom, yet he is dosed up with morphine and goes screaming into the night surrounded by people who don’t know how to help, or have been taught, for professional reasons, not to get too involved.

My grandma died four years ago, almost to the day. I don’t know how yet but I don’t want her to have died in vain. I tried writing a play about it, one day I will try to write, or do, something else.

For today this little blog will have to do.

Body Image- (To Joan)

I loved your fat,
handfuls of it.
Breasts so big
they flattened me against
the wall in the hallway.
A scuffed knee,
a broken toy,
a sore throat;
all my worries
ran to your open arms.
Clasped to your chest:
rising and falling,
rising and falling.
Your heart beat
a tribal drum
that spoke to me
in ways your
stubby tongue
and cracked lips
could not.
Your clothes bursting
with rolls of blubber.
Wild eyes
and double chin.
No lipstick,

a faint moustache,

false teeth.

I had yet to encounter
Miss World on her
callous catwalk.
To me you were
woman,
old woman
in all her glory
and I was proud
to sit beside you
on the bus.