Or not, as the case may be.
I realised something the other day. I overeat as a way of self-harming. When I hate myself, I eat. When someone/something pisses me off, I eat. I'll continue stuffing my face even when I feel sick because I DESERVE EVERY EXTRA INCH OF FAT I GAIN for being such a waste of space. I want to eat normally; but I can't, and wonder if I ever will. Because normal people can have the odd bit of chocolate or a takeaway and it's fine. I can't do that. I can't 'do' moderation, it's all or nothing. If only I hated myself enough to just stop eating altogether. No, I don't quite hate myself enough to punish myself with hunger. Which is a good thing I suppose. Under-eating is just as harmful as over-eating, only the Daily Mail don't wet themselves quite so much over the anorexics who are taking up valuable NHS resources (that could be spent on nice middle class people instead), preferring instead to concentrate on 'Look at this fat poor person! WE pay for their lardiness, leave 'em to rot in their own filth!' type stories instead. We don't get outraged by skinny people; I defy anyone to see someone painfully thin and not feel concern for them; yet someone as severely OVERweight would, by many, be met with revulsion. Some would even see fit to call them names. Total strangers. Going about their business. Because I'm sure if you're 25 stone and struggling to walk down the road, what you really need is some cunt calling you a fat bastard as you do so. I'm not that fat, by the way, and no stranger has ever remarked on my size. Not to my face, anyway.
Anyway, I digress. I wish my realisation was some kind of epiphany - a new dawn, the key to finally vanquishing my food demons once and for all - but no. I don't feel liberated by it, I just feel depressed by it. I thought my self-harming days were long behind me; truth is, they never ended. When I'm slim, I cut myself. When I'm not, I eat. One way or another, I find a way of taking out my anxiety on myself, and always have. I remember one incident, when I was about 13 or 14, where I had playfully prodded my Dad on the arm, during a conversation about something utterly banal and light-heartedly told him not to be such a misery for some sarky comment he'd made. In return, he punched me hard on my upper arm, and leaned right into my face and aggressively snarled at me to 'NEVER do that again'. If my husband ever did that to my daughter, I would be calling the police and throwing his belongings out of the door. My Mum just tutted something about him over-reacting and carried on staring at the TV. Naturally, I retreated to my room and scratched and stabbed myself repeatedly with a compass. The more I thought of his horrible fat, ugly, face thrust into mine, the harder I stabbed and the deeper I scratched. As a kid, the time between coming home from school, and my Mum getting in from work at 5.10pm was the worst part of my day. It would be just me, my Dad and my brother, both of whom I hated. I would long for her return, checking my bedroom window from 5pm onwards, to see if she was coming down the street yet. So I would fill this part of the day with food. I would buy as much chocolate/cake as I could with whatever money I had, and stuff my face with it in my bedroom. Every day. And then eat my tea, even though my stomach would usually be aching from all the crap I'd consumed previously. For the record, my Mum was never as pleased to see me as I was her. I was generally an annoyance to her most of the time. But hey ho. I'm cool with that; therapy is a wonderful thing.
Maybe this will be the start of a new, healthier me. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and think 'fuck this, I refuse to be a prisoner to my own insecurities and fucked up mind'. Who knows. Who knows.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
All that she wants...
I'm feeling broody. Really, really broody. I see pictures of newborn babies and I start to well up. When I see a baby out and about, I feel a mixture of sadness and warm fuzziness remembering the birth of my amazing little girl.
It was perfect. Exactly the birth I wanted. Everyone thinks this means I would be MORE likely to want another child; the opposite is in fact true. It could never be as amazing second time around. Something would go wrong, some complication would arise, and the memory of my incredible, perfect birthing experience would be tarnished forever.
Anyway, I digress. Today I am feeling particularly sad about the fact that I will never be pregnant again. We can't afford another child, financially or emotionally. We want to be able to give the child we already have every opportunity we can; these opportunities will be less if we have to be in a position to offer a sibling the same deal. Yes, if I found myself pregnant tomorrow, we would cope. But we don't want to just 'cope'. Our business wouldn't survive 'losing' me for another 6 weeks, let alone 6 months, and given that it looks as though Flo is going to be exceptionally gifted, it seems almost unfair to bring a sibling into the equation.
But I'm good at making babies. My parenting is about the only thing in my life I've ever felt confident about. I loved my body when I was pregnant too, for the first and only time in my whole life, adult or otherwise. I feel made for motherhood. I should've met my husband 10 years earlier, then maybe we'd have a whole tribe of kids by now. But circumstances dictate that we are destined to be a family of three. Most days I love this. We're a tight little team, and the rare days we get to spend all together are fantastic and I feel sure that our 'no more babies' decision is the right thing to do. Then every now and then, days like this come along and I just ache for another baby. I tell myself it's just biology, it'll pass, and it will. But so too will the days that I am able to make babies (probably sooner rather than later, if family history and recent goings-on are anything to go by, but I'll save the gory details of my cycle here I think) and then it will hit me hard. Very hard. Biology sucks.
It was perfect. Exactly the birth I wanted. Everyone thinks this means I would be MORE likely to want another child; the opposite is in fact true. It could never be as amazing second time around. Something would go wrong, some complication would arise, and the memory of my incredible, perfect birthing experience would be tarnished forever.
Anyway, I digress. Today I am feeling particularly sad about the fact that I will never be pregnant again. We can't afford another child, financially or emotionally. We want to be able to give the child we already have every opportunity we can; these opportunities will be less if we have to be in a position to offer a sibling the same deal. Yes, if I found myself pregnant tomorrow, we would cope. But we don't want to just 'cope'. Our business wouldn't survive 'losing' me for another 6 weeks, let alone 6 months, and given that it looks as though Flo is going to be exceptionally gifted, it seems almost unfair to bring a sibling into the equation.
But I'm good at making babies. My parenting is about the only thing in my life I've ever felt confident about. I loved my body when I was pregnant too, for the first and only time in my whole life, adult or otherwise. I feel made for motherhood. I should've met my husband 10 years earlier, then maybe we'd have a whole tribe of kids by now. But circumstances dictate that we are destined to be a family of three. Most days I love this. We're a tight little team, and the rare days we get to spend all together are fantastic and I feel sure that our 'no more babies' decision is the right thing to do. Then every now and then, days like this come along and I just ache for another baby. I tell myself it's just biology, it'll pass, and it will. But so too will the days that I am able to make babies (probably sooner rather than later, if family history and recent goings-on are anything to go by, but I'll save the gory details of my cycle here I think) and then it will hit me hard. Very hard. Biology sucks.
Friday, December 16, 2011
My Nana
Yesterday would've been my Nana's 85th birthday. She died 10 years ago.
The last few years of her life were lost to Alzheimer's, a cruel illness that kills you from the inside out, until you are just a shell of the person you once were. I only saw her a handful of times whilst she was ill, but it was like visiting a different person; not necessarily a stranger, but certainly not the Nana I once knew.
But enough about the end of her life. My grandmother was an amazing woman, one I wish I could've known better. I was only 23 when she died, and still at University when she first became ill. I never really knew her as an adult. I feel some amount of guilt about this. My Grandad died in 1994, when my Nana was only 68, and she basically gave up on life. Living in Bootle, just outside Liverpool, the nearest of her 5 offspring was my Mum. My Mum was in A Bad Place when my Grandad died, not least of all because she'd just lost her beloved father, and consequently rarely visited Nana. Her other children lived in Edinburgh, Reading, Norwich and Toronto, all with lives of their own to go about, so Nana mostly spent her life after Grandad died in total solitude. She stopped going to Church, Bingo, the Library; all the mainstays of her life as a wife, rather than a widow, she let go of.
I was only 17 when this happened. Looking After Nana never really struck me as something I should take some responsibility for, and even after I went to University in Manchester, a short hop away from her, I never once visited her. I wrote to her; the letters I sent she kept in a little box of keepsakes under her bed, it was discovered when her house was packed up after she became too ill to live alone, but I never actually jumped on a train and went to keep her company.
I would give anything to be able to do this for her now. To take her to the shops, do her hoovering for her, go to the bingo with her (I would've had to draw the line at Mass though) just BE there for her. I wonder if a bit more company might've helped her keep her faculties that bit longer. But I can't undo what's done. I can but look back and regret, pointless as it is.
Anyway, enough about me. Back to my Nana. To me and my cousins, Nana was very much the Iron Lady of the family. Grandad was the daft, cuddly, let-you-get-away-with-murder one, Nana was the tutting, eye-rolling, get-your-elbows-off-the-table one. Eeyore to Grandad's Tigger. She always seemed distant to me; unwilling or unable to ever really fully emotionally engage with people. When I learnt more about her past as I got older, that started to make sense, and in fact it makes even more sense now I'm a mother. Nana had her first child at the age of 22, and her last at the age of 34. During those 12 years, she was pregnant at least 9 times. 5 of those pregnancies resulted in my Aunt, Uncles and Mum. 1 resulted in a child who died at 12 hours old (a little girl called Norah) and the rest were late term miscarriages. I think she carried the sadness of those lost children with her to the end; well, almost to the end. In the last year or so before she died, Nana had reverted to an almost child-like persona. She would giggle, refuse to share the chocolates brought to her by visitors, and smile sweetly at anyone who made eye contact with her. Her speech was often quite hard to decipher at this point, but she never seemed... troubled, I guess is the word that best fits. There were moments, I'm told, of clarity for her, when she would cry and beg for help, and there is no doubt that there is little dignity in the horrible illness that consumed her, but the last time I ever saw her, her eyes lit up when her eyes met mine as I was leaving (even though she had no idea who I was) and she smiled a sweet smile, waving enthusiastically. I wish now I'd gone back and hugged her. Told her how much I loved her, but the moment passed, and a few weeks later, so did she.
In her younger years, she had been a singer. Just singing in the pubs around Bootle, but apparently she had an amazing voice, and was the sort of person who would light up any room; witty, vivacious and not to mention very beautiful to boot. I've seen photos of her, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, laughing hysterically with groups of unknown friends/relatives/god knows who and you can just tell she was the life and soul of the party. She certainly had a wicked sense of humour, was a master of sarcasm and dry wit, and I would've loved to have known her in her youth. Or even in her dotage. I never really knew her. Not properly. I miss her a lot.
Happy Birthday Nana x
The last few years of her life were lost to Alzheimer's, a cruel illness that kills you from the inside out, until you are just a shell of the person you once were. I only saw her a handful of times whilst she was ill, but it was like visiting a different person; not necessarily a stranger, but certainly not the Nana I once knew.
But enough about the end of her life. My grandmother was an amazing woman, one I wish I could've known better. I was only 23 when she died, and still at University when she first became ill. I never really knew her as an adult. I feel some amount of guilt about this. My Grandad died in 1994, when my Nana was only 68, and she basically gave up on life. Living in Bootle, just outside Liverpool, the nearest of her 5 offspring was my Mum. My Mum was in A Bad Place when my Grandad died, not least of all because she'd just lost her beloved father, and consequently rarely visited Nana. Her other children lived in Edinburgh, Reading, Norwich and Toronto, all with lives of their own to go about, so Nana mostly spent her life after Grandad died in total solitude. She stopped going to Church, Bingo, the Library; all the mainstays of her life as a wife, rather than a widow, she let go of.
I was only 17 when this happened. Looking After Nana never really struck me as something I should take some responsibility for, and even after I went to University in Manchester, a short hop away from her, I never once visited her. I wrote to her; the letters I sent she kept in a little box of keepsakes under her bed, it was discovered when her house was packed up after she became too ill to live alone, but I never actually jumped on a train and went to keep her company.
I would give anything to be able to do this for her now. To take her to the shops, do her hoovering for her, go to the bingo with her (I would've had to draw the line at Mass though) just BE there for her. I wonder if a bit more company might've helped her keep her faculties that bit longer. But I can't undo what's done. I can but look back and regret, pointless as it is.
Anyway, enough about me. Back to my Nana. To me and my cousins, Nana was very much the Iron Lady of the family. Grandad was the daft, cuddly, let-you-get-away-with-murder one, Nana was the tutting, eye-rolling, get-your-elbows-off-the-table one. Eeyore to Grandad's Tigger. She always seemed distant to me; unwilling or unable to ever really fully emotionally engage with people. When I learnt more about her past as I got older, that started to make sense, and in fact it makes even more sense now I'm a mother. Nana had her first child at the age of 22, and her last at the age of 34. During those 12 years, she was pregnant at least 9 times. 5 of those pregnancies resulted in my Aunt, Uncles and Mum. 1 resulted in a child who died at 12 hours old (a little girl called Norah) and the rest were late term miscarriages. I think she carried the sadness of those lost children with her to the end; well, almost to the end. In the last year or so before she died, Nana had reverted to an almost child-like persona. She would giggle, refuse to share the chocolates brought to her by visitors, and smile sweetly at anyone who made eye contact with her. Her speech was often quite hard to decipher at this point, but she never seemed... troubled, I guess is the word that best fits. There were moments, I'm told, of clarity for her, when she would cry and beg for help, and there is no doubt that there is little dignity in the horrible illness that consumed her, but the last time I ever saw her, her eyes lit up when her eyes met mine as I was leaving (even though she had no idea who I was) and she smiled a sweet smile, waving enthusiastically. I wish now I'd gone back and hugged her. Told her how much I loved her, but the moment passed, and a few weeks later, so did she.
In her younger years, she had been a singer. Just singing in the pubs around Bootle, but apparently she had an amazing voice, and was the sort of person who would light up any room; witty, vivacious and not to mention very beautiful to boot. I've seen photos of her, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, laughing hysterically with groups of unknown friends/relatives/god knows who and you can just tell she was the life and soul of the party. She certainly had a wicked sense of humour, was a master of sarcasm and dry wit, and I would've loved to have known her in her youth. Or even in her dotage. I never really knew her. Not properly. I miss her a lot.
Happy Birthday Nana x
Sunday, November 20, 2011
I am a feminist, OK?
Last night, I unfollowed someone on Twitter. She's pretty dull and self-obsessed, but the main reason is because she used the phrase 'I think it's safe to say I'm no feminist'. This royally pissed me off and ruined my Saturday evening (even more so than watching X-Factor had already done)
Why? I'll tell you why. This woman used to be a barrister, and now runs her own tech company (doing what I'm not sure) and has succeeded in two very male dominated areas.Without feminism, those opportunities just would not have been afforded to her. Feminism is, quite simply, the belief that women have the right to equality of opportunity, and not to be held back or looked over simply beause of their gender. Nothing more, nothing less. Any woman who declares themselves not to be a feminist is missing the point entirely. You might as well say, "actually I have no problem with earning less than my male colleagues for doing the same job, because, well, I'm only a girl!"
Feminism isn't about saying 'women can do any given thing as well as a man' as this simply isn't true. Pissing standing up is really messy if you're a girl, for one, and it's an undeniable fact of nature that men, in general terms, are physically stronger than women, so therefore better suited to certain tasks and occupations. The idea that feminism means wanting to work on a building, or getting offended at having the door held open for you is just total arsewipe, yet this is the opinion that a lot of women seem to have. You can be a stay at home mum and a feminist! You can enjoy being bought flowers and be a feminist! You can even wear dresses and look purdy and be a feminist! Hearing women slag off feminism just makes me sad, and far too many people take for granted what feminism has done for every woman and girl in the western world.
End of rant.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Who Am I?
Sounds like a daft question, but it's one I've been asking myself a lot lately.
I think it's something that the majority of mothers go through within the first few months and years of parenthood. All of a sudden, the entire focus of your life changes. You find yourself in a world where you'll leave the house with no make-up on, dried weetabix in your hair, and stained clothing. And that's to go to work. In truth, I'm finding it hard to have an identity other than that of 'Mummy'.'
There's a number of reasons for this, other than the appearance in the world of someone who takes precedence over all else in my life. The first few months of Flo's life were stressful, for reasons still too raw to really dwell on, let alone write about. I felt like a failure as a mother, and wondered if I was actually going insane. Consequently, I ate. A lot. I put on more in the first 6 months of Flo's life than I did in 9 months of pregnancy. Her first xmas, I weighed the same as I did 5 days before giving birth. So I look in the mirror and see a swollen, saggy version of the person I still am in my head. Which doesn't help matters.
Also, I have zero social life. Not even with my darling husband. We live too far away from any potential babysitters, or indeed, anywhere you'd want to go out to. In truth, I'm glad of the excuse not to have to go out and leave Flo in the care of someone else. During the day is no problem, but leaving her at night... I don't know, it just feels like a step I'm not ready for. She's 26 months old! I need to get a grip. I don't want my own 'abandonment issues', to give them their wank-speak moniker, to turn me into an overprotective parent though, so I need to address this sooner rather than later. Hopefully this will change soon, as we are moving back to civilisation. I can't wait.
But rediscovering myself isn't going to be easy. I don't know where to look. I was never particularly self-assured in the first place, and part of me probably likes being able to give myself a narrow definition; a set role to play. I just want to look in the mirror and recognise myself again.
Here ends the pointless waffle. As you were.
I think it's something that the majority of mothers go through within the first few months and years of parenthood. All of a sudden, the entire focus of your life changes. You find yourself in a world where you'll leave the house with no make-up on, dried weetabix in your hair, and stained clothing. And that's to go to work. In truth, I'm finding it hard to have an identity other than that of 'Mummy'.'
There's a number of reasons for this, other than the appearance in the world of someone who takes precedence over all else in my life. The first few months of Flo's life were stressful, for reasons still too raw to really dwell on, let alone write about. I felt like a failure as a mother, and wondered if I was actually going insane. Consequently, I ate. A lot. I put on more in the first 6 months of Flo's life than I did in 9 months of pregnancy. Her first xmas, I weighed the same as I did 5 days before giving birth. So I look in the mirror and see a swollen, saggy version of the person I still am in my head. Which doesn't help matters.
Also, I have zero social life. Not even with my darling husband. We live too far away from any potential babysitters, or indeed, anywhere you'd want to go out to. In truth, I'm glad of the excuse not to have to go out and leave Flo in the care of someone else. During the day is no problem, but leaving her at night... I don't know, it just feels like a step I'm not ready for. She's 26 months old! I need to get a grip. I don't want my own 'abandonment issues', to give them their wank-speak moniker, to turn me into an overprotective parent though, so I need to address this sooner rather than later. Hopefully this will change soon, as we are moving back to civilisation. I can't wait.
But rediscovering myself isn't going to be easy. I don't know where to look. I was never particularly self-assured in the first place, and part of me probably likes being able to give myself a narrow definition; a set role to play. I just want to look in the mirror and recognise myself again.
Here ends the pointless waffle. As you were.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Why does proud = smug?
I have a clever child.
There, I've said it. Cue metaphorical tumbleweed rolling across the blogosphere. It feels like an admission. Owning up to some kind of dirty secret; because for some reason, it is just not the done thing to say you have uncommonly bright offspring, let alone be proud of it. This makes me sad. It seems we can only be overtly proud of our kids when it comes to how much they eat or how well they sleep - anything more and you run the risk of being labelled 'smug' or worse, 'pushy'.
The latter was the accusation thrown at me a while ago. Not directly of course; oh no, behind my back. Our daughter, now aged 26 months, has shown an interest in 'knowing stuff' since she was old enough to support her own head and point at things. Before she could talk, her days consisted largely of pointing at things and going 'gah', then looking at you expectantly until you told her what it was. Words and letters have always been a favourite, and by the age of 20 months she recognised the entire alphabet, and could recite it by 22 months. It is almost impossible to quench her thirst for knowledge. By 12 months, asking her to point at things in a book ('where's the red car?' that kind of thing) was an easy peasy task for her, and by 15 months she could recognise and point out nearly 30 different species of bird (this now extends to umpteen species of dinosaur, more than I even knew existed, as well as insects, mammals and reptiles)
Apparently, 'not letting kids be kids' and 'forcing them to read text books', as we were so accused of doing is little short of child cruelty in some peoples minds, it seems. Just for the record, we have done neither of these things; we have only ever taken her lead and responded to her interests. Since a young age, I've been aware that Flo is going to be pretty intelligent, and have never really spoken much about her development, other than to her doting grandparents and uncles. But sometimes you're so proud of your little person, you can't help but share your awe. So to then hear that THAT is what folks have said about you is upsetting.
So, I rarely speak about her achievements any more. I have to keep my pride in check, and this saddens me. I take no credit for who she is and the aptitudes she has. She is her own person; I have merely passed on 50% or so of my genes to her; so when I want to tell the world how amazing I think she is, I'm not saying "hey, look at me, what GREAT parent I am!" I'm saying "How amazing is this little human being! I love her SO much!" All we have done as parents, is respond to that in which she had shown an interest, and 'knowing everything there is to know, as soon as is humanly possible' appears to be her aim. She is currently teaching herself to read (she already recognises quite a few logos and her own name) and will sit with a book whispering the letters in each word to herself, totally unaided by either of us. She can do basic subtraction too (she is VERY proud of herself when she does this!) yet despite this love for 'academic' pastimes, she is equally happy running, throwing, kicking, climbing, painting, drawing and pretend playing. We are letting her be a kid. The kid she wants to be; and if that means letting her be clever, then so be it.
Oh, and she's a great eater. And a pretty decent sleeper nowadays too, just in case you're interested in what really matters.
There, I've said it. Cue metaphorical tumbleweed rolling across the blogosphere. It feels like an admission. Owning up to some kind of dirty secret; because for some reason, it is just not the done thing to say you have uncommonly bright offspring, let alone be proud of it. This makes me sad. It seems we can only be overtly proud of our kids when it comes to how much they eat or how well they sleep - anything more and you run the risk of being labelled 'smug' or worse, 'pushy'.
The latter was the accusation thrown at me a while ago. Not directly of course; oh no, behind my back. Our daughter, now aged 26 months, has shown an interest in 'knowing stuff' since she was old enough to support her own head and point at things. Before she could talk, her days consisted largely of pointing at things and going 'gah', then looking at you expectantly until you told her what it was. Words and letters have always been a favourite, and by the age of 20 months she recognised the entire alphabet, and could recite it by 22 months. It is almost impossible to quench her thirst for knowledge. By 12 months, asking her to point at things in a book ('where's the red car?' that kind of thing) was an easy peasy task for her, and by 15 months she could recognise and point out nearly 30 different species of bird (this now extends to umpteen species of dinosaur, more than I even knew existed, as well as insects, mammals and reptiles)
Apparently, 'not letting kids be kids' and 'forcing them to read text books', as we were so accused of doing is little short of child cruelty in some peoples minds, it seems. Just for the record, we have done neither of these things; we have only ever taken her lead and responded to her interests. Since a young age, I've been aware that Flo is going to be pretty intelligent, and have never really spoken much about her development, other than to her doting grandparents and uncles. But sometimes you're so proud of your little person, you can't help but share your awe. So to then hear that THAT is what folks have said about you is upsetting.
So, I rarely speak about her achievements any more. I have to keep my pride in check, and this saddens me. I take no credit for who she is and the aptitudes she has. She is her own person; I have merely passed on 50% or so of my genes to her; so when I want to tell the world how amazing I think she is, I'm not saying "hey, look at me, what GREAT parent I am!" I'm saying "How amazing is this little human being! I love her SO much!" All we have done as parents, is respond to that in which she had shown an interest, and 'knowing everything there is to know, as soon as is humanly possible' appears to be her aim. She is currently teaching herself to read (she already recognises quite a few logos and her own name) and will sit with a book whispering the letters in each word to herself, totally unaided by either of us. She can do basic subtraction too (she is VERY proud of herself when she does this!) yet despite this love for 'academic' pastimes, she is equally happy running, throwing, kicking, climbing, painting, drawing and pretend playing. We are letting her be a kid. The kid she wants to be; and if that means letting her be clever, then so be it.
Oh, and she's a great eater. And a pretty decent sleeper nowadays too, just in case you're interested in what really matters.
Monday, September 12, 2011
New Look Blog
And here it is. Well, it's different from how it was, if a little fussy. I doubt any web designers are losing any sleep tonight, put it that way.
Normal blogging will resume imminently.
Normal blogging will resume imminently.
Work In Progress
My blog looks a bit odd at the moment (by 'odd' I mean 'rubbish') as I fancied a change.
However, I am rubbish with this kind of thing, so it's going to take a while to make it look pretty again. Sorry about that.
Once it's done though, I will be blogging more regularly - I average about 2 posts a year at the moment so that won't be difficult - but I mean properly, actually regularly. Ish.
However, I am rubbish with this kind of thing, so it's going to take a while to make it look pretty again. Sorry about that.
Once it's done though, I will be blogging more regularly - I average about 2 posts a year at the moment so that won't be difficult - but I mean properly, actually regularly. Ish.
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