When did our internal monologue suddenly adopt a no-nonsense, authoritarian approach rivalling the Wormwoods? Why do we become self-flagellating adults who berate themselves for every little misstep?
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When I got in the room I was told to sit down and then a couple of nurses came and got me. They pulled back the curtain that wrapped around the bed she lay in. I saw the redness of my partner’s face, the wet around her eyes. I asked ‘What’s happened. Did it hurt?’
And she said ‘no, but they think I have cancer.’
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When I became disabled, one of the things that I struggled the most with was just how much my life changed, practically overnight.
It wasn't just that I was adapting to no longer being a healthy, able-bodied person, but I was also suddenly transitioning from being able to do so much, so easily, to having a mountain of access needs that had to be fulfilled in order for me to do anything.
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You’ve been with your partner for a long time, but your sex life has been dwindling. Weeks turn into months of no sex and you’re starting to wonder what you’ve done wrong. I’m here to tell you that you’re not alone.
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The game slowly defrosted my hibernation and resuscitated my ‘spark’. It provided me a safe space to practise my speech, to train my ability to concentrate, remember details, and untangle the messy earphone cables of thought that made up my mind; to not think about what I couldn’t do but to test the limits of my imagination, which, as it turns out, now feels pretty limitless.
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Those first few weeks, even months, are so special. You and your partner are just in your own little bubble with this gorgeous little baby that you have spent months waiting for. Nothing can compete with those first moments; watching their hair grow, those first sparks of a personality. But what most aren't prepared for, like myself, is when ‘the bubble’ pops.
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Fast forward over all the trials and tribulations, failed efforts and false starts to me in my mid 50’s and I’m actually doing it. I’ve just completed two years at college studying HNC and HND photography and now I’m finally off to Bower Ashton to do a BA!
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Picture this: you’re finally pregnant and expecting your first child after years of people extolling the virtues of having children. Suddenly, the narrative is flipped, it’s no longer the best thing to ever happen to you. Unfortunately, you are now doomed to live a joyless life of servitude to said child. It almost feels as though you have been duped, scammed into some sort of parenthood pyramid scheme from which there is no escape.
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His stubbled cheek brushed lightly against mine as he moved his lips so close to my ear that they sent a shiver down my spine. With his deep, gravely voice, he whispered these endlessly romantic words: you’re pretty fuckable for a fat chick.
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Too old to work, too old to attract a mate, too old to bear children. Without realising it, I was getting ready to die. I was finished.
Except I wasn’t.
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Commenting on other people's bodies, or rather, refraining from doing so, is a topic increasingly circulating not only on image-heavy platforms like Instagram, but also in the collective consciousness. The more people I meet, the more I realise that attitudes are changing, or at least, some thought is being invested into what is and is not acceptable or appropriate to say to someone about how they look.
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There’s a quote from Jeremy Bentham – “Stretching his hand up to reach the stars, too often man forgets the flowers at his feet”. I think that this is true of many of us.
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It’s been about 14 years since we’ve been in touch. Why did we lose touch? I honestly don’t know. We were in our early 20s and had both graduated from separate universities, and were taking tentative steps into whatever came next. Neither of us knew what lay ahead but somehow, on the walk to get there, we moved at different speeds and drifted in different directions. I sent you texts every now and again, on birthdays and when you just popped into my head. But you didn’t respond.
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There were 5 people involved in the efforts to save my Dad, one of whom grabbed a snorkel and fins from his barge and went under the boats to try to rescue him putting his own life at risk. Incredible. Truly. It must have been so scary for them to have been witness to the shocking and fast moving drama that unfolded that day
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Straight Through Processing (STP) is used in almost all industries in the world and is used just as much as the internet. When a person pays for anything using a Credit or Debit card, they are using STP.
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Before, I was not a divided person. I took pride in my decisiveness, and my ability to dissect, understand and articulate my own feelings. That was until chronic illness split me down the middle, like a kitchen knife through an overripe avocado.
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A weird thing started happening to me a few years ago, I started to become invisible. It wasn’t everywhere or all of the time - in the private sphere of my life I was still very much solid, visible and three dimensional, but I started to notice it happening occasionally on the public stage, like some sort of glitch. Groups of teens and twenty-somethings would start looking through me as I walked along the street towards them. Or I’d stand waving a tenner at the front of a busy bar for what felt like hours whilst the staff served everyone to either side of me.
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At 15 months old I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. It gave my parents quite a fright to put it mildly. I almost died. So now I need to manually regulate my blood glucose levels. You can’t calculate the right dose of medicine if you don’t know where you’re starting from. That is where blood glucose monitors come in and they have come on such a long way in the 20 years I have been using them!
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Think about how much literal time is being spent unwell, to the point where you’re struggling with basic things such as work, the washing up, cooking, getting dressed and showered. Try to picture back to a time you were particularly unwell. Was it the flu, Covid, a broken bone? Consider how much longer all these basic actions took, or how much time passed before you could even do them? Unfortunately for chronically ill people, this is an everyday reality.
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My name’s Harriet and I'm an alcoholic. We’ve all heard this before, but I first said this in my early twenties when I tried a 12 step programme for the first time. A few years prior to this I asked my best friend if she thought I was an alcoholic, and after being told in no uncertain terms that I don't drink in the morning so I can't be, I pushed it to the back of my mind.
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