Voices

Do you talk to yourself? I do (shocker). I mutter away to myself, replaying conversations I’ve had, role-playing conversations I should have had and tell myself out loud and often that I am an idiot (I’m clumsy – I drop things/burn myself/walk into things/trip over things. I also have a tendency to say things that pop into my brain without thinking them through first. Hence, I’m regularly, a self-proclaimed idiot). My children are often asking me “who are you talking to?”

I even talk to myself using my own name. “Aw, ffs Jennifer, what is wrong with you?” (as I had a wee snackcident 10 minutes ago). And it occured to me (as I explained to myself “I know, I know, but *shrugs shoulders* I’m a snack bitch”) that, perhaps, this is something that not everyone does. But I hope they do.

I’ve chatted to myself my whole life. I remember distinctly doing it as a child, sorting out 5 year old problems  with a wee chat in my bedroom, head cocked to the side, nodding, waving air traffic controllers hands (still got them) at the clear, invisible image of myself I sat face-to-face with, while I sucked on my bottom lip (which would later require a wee surgical procedure as a result of all the pondering). I always clearly trusted my own judgement. And I don’t remember calling myself an idiot as a child.

At some point, you become self-conscious that talking to yourself isn’t something you’re really supposed to do. Well, not in public anyway. So we develop our inner voice instead and we internally question and wrestle with things in a much more acceptable manner than having a wee public chat with yourself in The Top Shop mirror about your thighs or what kind of bra you need with that top (strapless probably).

But we don’t just use our inner voice to solve underwear problems. It talks to us in a way our external voice doesn’t (well…mine does). It is brutal. I’ve thought a lot about this recently (my inner voice has had an awful lot to say) and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not just a voice. It’s voices.

But where did they all come from? And why are there so many of them inside my average-sized head?

You know that expression “the voice of experience”? Well I think (a theory based on zero science, just adding this disclaimer here) that the various voices are just that: they are what’s left behind from the people we have experienced. The bigger the impact, the louder their voice in your head.

But it’s your head, so surely you control the inner voice? No. Have you ever seen ‘Wheel of Fortune’? I imagine all the voices in my head are on a big colourful carnival wheel and, when I appear to be living my life somehow, my brain, with it’s wee clever pink fingers, gives it a spin. Cue great excitement and suspense to see what voice it will land on, what voice has something to offer…and…fuck… it’s that ex who told you repeatedly that you embarrassed him in public and you should only speak when spoken to…

Not all the inner voices are negative but, in my experience, they are definitely the loudest. Those wee whispers of doubt, the quiet voice of an insensitive dance teacher who tells you your place is to stay at the back behind all the other (so petite and pretty) ballerinas, or the faint droll of a (female) Fitness Academy Ambassador who declared, in a meeting room full of people, that your BMI calculation can’t be right “because obviously you know you’re carrying a lot of fat on your hips and backside…”, which somehow drowns out the loud voices of reasoning as you’re exposed in tight-fitting lycra in a gym class telling you “it’s ok, you belong here.” Whisper, whisper, whisper…

But it’s not only the voice of teacher, who declared you were so useless that you couldn’t be taught and that you weren’t worthy of his time (and made you sit at the back of the class, refusing to acknowedge your existence for the remainder of the year) you hear. There are, of course, the most wonderfully positive voices of experience on the wheel and sometimes, you win the jackpot, the voice that commands silence from all the others. Sometimes, it’ll be so loud, the voices encouraging the self-doubt, telling you to give up, reminding you that you’ve never been very good at anything, that you’re average at best stop to listen too as, amid the noise, your mum’s patience settles the rabble and you are reminded of learning how to use a sewing machine and hand stitch clothing; how to “knit one, purl one”; of making rafia mats in the back of a car as a pre-schooler and proudly unsettling the local librarian as a 5 year old with a Great White Shark Obsession who demanded “more shark books please”. Her reassuring voice reminds you how you overcame teenage heartbreak, friendship fall-outs, anorexia and car crashes (literal and metaphorical). “You can do this Jennifer. Just take your time, think it through logically and remember why you’re doing it” (my nana nodding loudly in agreement, while setting up the chess board she taught me to use aged 4).

But we struggle to control where the wheel stops. And my wheel of (mis)fortune has been spinning out of control over the last few months.

So I think that, when we have a wee chat with ourselves, unashamedly and out loud, it prevents the spinning; stops the inner voices hissing doubt as the wheel click click clicks to a stop. There’s an old saying: ” talking to yourself is the first sign of madness”. I disagree. I think that talking to yourself is a healthy part of a thought process. When you are having a conversation with someone else, one where you are invested and engaged, your mind is focussed and there is little time for wheel spinning, for the voices, for the whispers of insecurity. What’s different about talking to yourself? Sometimes I need to hear things out loud for it to make sense to me, away from all the other stuff banging around in my head. Talking out loud creates silence.

So have a conversation with yourself in Top Shop about bras (and purchase a nude strapless one), shrug your shoulders in the supermarket and roll your eyes at your indecisiveness about dinner. When you’re running and the wee voice creeps in telling you to stop, that you can’t go on, shout ” I AM FUCKING FORREST GUMP!” Tell yourself loudly every single day that you are worthy. Remind yourself of all the things you have achieved up until this point (“Jennifer, you could beat adults at gin rummy when you were 5, you can absolutely beat this bad day. You’ve got this” ). Celebrate loudly the wonderful people who have been a positive experience in your life – talk to them, even if they are no longer here, as they really are life’s jackpot. But don’t let the bad experiences you’ve had play a part in your future decisions. Don’t listen to the voices. Don’t gamble with the wheel.

Is This Thing on?

It’s good to talk. We all know that – there’s even a handy hashtag that says so.

And it really is good to talk. It’s so good in fact. I LOVE talking. Always have. Every school report, alongside the various “must try harder/could do better” comments described my talkative nature in various forms: “chatty”; “sociable”; “friendly”; “has much to say”; “needs to talk less”; “cannot be quiet”; “infuriating, incessant chatter…”

This has never really left me. I am the living embodiment of Billy Connolly’s philosophy – a stranger is just a friend you haven’t made yet. If you’re standing near me, we’re talking, whether you want to or not (course you do – it’s good to talk, remember?) In queues, in shops, in pubs, at the gym, at gigs…there’s me, all “hiya” followed by some attempt at humour to engage you in conversation. Why? I don’t know. I just like talking. I like talking to people, to strangers, having 3 minute conversations that make you smile and laugh then walking away, thinking, “they were nice. I’d be friends with them if, you know, it wasn’t for the fact that I won’t ever see them again”. Because you can’t ask for a strangers number like, “here, you’re funny. Wanty be pals?” (Although this did happen once at a concert – hi Jane if you’re reading this).

But me talking to (at) someone’s gran in the queue of the Post Office is not really what the hashtag is driving at (although I do think we should ALWAYS talk to older people in queues, or at the very least acknowledge and smile at them). ‘It’s Good to Talk’, once the words of the advertising campaign from BT with the glorious Maureen Lipman (I’ll come back to this!) is now, of course, recognised as sound advice for anyone struggling mentally, internally, emotionally. Don’t keep things bottled up. Talk.

It is inspiring to see so many recognisable people publicly share things that, a generation ago, would never have been discussed in private, never mind in public. This, especially from men in the public eye, is so important when we consider that: male suicide rates are far higher than women (around 75% of suicides in the UK are men); males are much more likely to experience some sort of physical trauma in their lifetime, which we know causes emotional stress; there is the pressure of the societal norms of “how men should be”- traditionally, men don’t like to talk and are actively encouraged to suppress emotion, to “man the fuck up”. So I applaud (loudly) people like Freddie Flintoff talking about his battle with bulimia, Michael Maisey discussing his life as a deeply troubled youth and seeking out chaos as a means of coping (approximately 95% of all prisoners are men). When people share their own experiences, it helps us to relate and maybe open up a wee bit. The Jesy Nelson documentary should be shown in all schools (thanks to a great colleague, it was in mine, and those kids recognised their own behaviour and the effects).

So people are talking, sharing, opening up. And it’s amazing. Talking about your emotions is no longer seen as a weakness, it’s recognised as a strength. No bother for someone like me, someone who incessantly chats to anyone who will listen…

But we talk in so many ways now that, so often, we are not actually communicating our emotions. Maureen Lipman (icon) told us all, before the age of mobile phones, that it was “good to talk”, suggesting there was nothing better than a good old chat on the telephone. But how often do people do that now – especially anyone under 30? We text, toneless, emotionless texts, telling people we’re crying with laughter through the use of an emoji, answering “how are you?” texts with “yeah, I’m fine thanks, how are you?”. Texts that communicate no tone of voice, no teary, strangled whimper or the low mumble of someone who is so depressed, speaking is as much of an effort as running a marathon. So, Maureen Lipman and BT were on to something.

We also communicate through our actions. Silence is generally a pretty good indicator that something is not right with someone. But we live in such times, where “well I text her and she never text me back, so…” seems reasonable; times where our Instagram feed is flooded hourly with thousands of images, so the unusual absence of someone we know on social media can often go unnoticed and unrecognised; Times where actual talking is becoming quite novel. Sometimes the silence is the loudest form of communication. It is for a talker like me.

And do we really want to listen? Do we really have the time in our busy lives? When you pass someone in the corridor at work and you ask them, while still walking, “how you doing?” the rules universally acknowledged are that they are supposed to respond with “good/fine/ok” before returning the question, while still walking, to your faraway down the corridor response of “good/fine/ok”. Good chat. So what if one of you stops walking and replies “actually I’m so glad you asked. I’m not great actually…”, communicates what you’re actually feeling, breaks the rules? Do we really want that? And then there’s social media. The eye-rolling at someone posting status after status, Tweet after Tweet and sad quotes that imply they don’t feel enough, that they are struggling. They are “attention seekers” (I hate this term – we ALL seek attention, it’s human nature). They are communicating.

And once someone is gone, their subtle communication unheard, leaving them with what they feel is their only option, then people listen, communicate, write on their walls about how loved they were, scouring for memories to share along with everyone else and saying how missed they’ll be. But it’s too late. They were missed while they were still here.

So, yes, it’s good to talk. It’s great. But it’s good to listen, to observe, to make time, to empathise, to see.

Because it’s not just good to talk. It’s good to communicate. And communication is changing. Therefore, so must we.

A Roadblock

It has been a year since I wrote a blog.

Well, that’s not true actually.  I’ve written lots.  Lots of incoherent guff about Queens, feminism, inequality, family, love, sadness, superheroes, shoes…

But I can never really get to the point.  I go round in circles, getting dizzy and wondering where the beginning and the end is. So it’s all in a folder entitled ‘shite’ on my PC.

Is there a point though?  Is there a point to this so-called blogging that I sort of do?  To all this sharing, this ‘self-indulgence’, this stream of consciousness, diatribe of my inner-most thoughts?

“Doubtful” would be my current answer.

But why then have not deleted all of my half-written, half-arsed musings on symbiotes, on Harvey Weinstein and on my lightbulb moment of the fact that all over the world, humans compare other humans to various species of birds?

Because I’m scared to I think.   I’m scared because writing stuff down has always been my outlet – because I don’t really share the thoughts in my head verbally.  If you know me, you might think I’m a sharer but, in reality, you have NO FUCKING IDEA what is going in between my ears (sadly, I don’t think the cast of ‘Inside Out’  are in there but it sounds like the sea…).  I’m scared that if I write stuff down and then delete it, I’m adding weight to the idea that I’m not good enough.

I would never have ripped pages out of my diary (and, believe me, I wrote a LOT of shit about nothing – even more so than now) but now I am SO glad I wrote everything down all those years ago.    I learn so much about myself retrospectively and revisit my old diaries regularly.  It is fascinating in a way that typing is not.  Yes, you can change the font but handwriting gives so much away.  When in the throes of first love, of teenage parties and discovery, my writing is large, wide and in a joyful variety of colourful bic biros. As the path became less about discovery and I became more lost, my writing is always black biro, gradually getting smaller, tighter, curlier with every passing week.  Until it stops completely for a while.  A bit like my ‘blog’.

I thought when I started writing this, it was for me.  I thought it might be a helpful way to not feel completely alone in how I feel sometimes.  But it often makes the people I am close to uncomfortable.  And it exposes me in a way that even Anastasia Steel thinks is too much.  So, for the past year, I have furiously typed, hand-written and talked to Alexa (So basically MI6 and the CIA) about how I feel.  Because I felt as if people would think I thought (stay with me here) I ‘was’ someone by sharing.  That people would feel sorry for me by thinking anyone was interested enough to read the shit that I wrote.  That if anyone read it, it would be out of pity and that they would be cringing the whole time, with their head cocked to the side and saying “awww, bless, she’s written a wee blog”. *certificate for merit for trying*

But I AM someone.  And whether anyone is remotely interested in reading the shite I write or not, it is cathartic in so many ways.  My year has been a difficult one. Very difficult in fact.  But maybe if I had been, not only writing, but sharing, it would have been easier.  Perhaps if I had shared how hopeless and helpless I was feeling, it may have resonated with someone out there and it would have opened up the channels of communication.

Around a year or so ago, I was a woman at a red light.  I became a woman at a stop sign; a roadblock; a diversion; a dead-end.  A total blackout.

But there is always space for a U-Turn. Even if it takes a 72 point turn.

I appreciate this is not much of a blog.  It is not much of anything to be honest other than a load of confusing and vague imagery.  It is meaningless to everyone but me.  But I needed to do something.  To take back some power from the road works, the diversions and the temporary traffic lights in my way.

So I’m turning round and taking a different road.  And if I’m on it alone, I’m ok with that. If anyone wants to share too, I’m happy to be on the dual carriageway that is better lit than the single track roads.  But I will be embracing every red light along the way.  Because they are just a temporary pause.  Red lights are always followed by amber and green.   They have to be.  Or what is the point?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Illusion

I have used the expression “I’m so sorry to be a let down, I’ll make it up to you” twice in two days.  But really, it is probably my most commonly used phrase (other than “I love you”, “turn it down” and “will you just get your shoes on…”)  And this is a real problem for me.  Because I hate letting people down. But seem to do it on an hourly basis.  And, as I promise to make it up to the people I am so grateful to have in my life, there is a little voice in my head snort-laughing, asking “eh…and when exactly are you going to make it up to them – 2042?”

I see so many people on my little hand-held screen, living the life that seems impossible to me.  Nights out, nights away, girlie weekends, cocktails, romantic breaks…holidays – God, the holidays and hot dog leg photos that kill me a little inside, as my own pasty skin turns a shade of green – and of perfectly happy children, clean and content, eating meals in fancy restaurants that I want to go to, of teenagers spending happy quality time with their mums having girly lunches, mocktails, manicures and memories.  And I just think “how do they do it?”

Because I just can’t seem to.  I’m not at all a jealous person. It is not that I yearn for extravagance on a monetary scale.  But I would like the extravagance of time.  I used to compare myself to other people in terms of their age and their perceived wealth: the size of their house, the car they drove, the clothes they wore – where were they at their stage in life compared to where I was?  Why was I not where they were? I felt unworthy of friendship where I was unequal financially.  But not any more.  That’s a self-poisoning approach.  The size of your house and the car you drive has no bearing on my life at all.  If we’re friends and you live in a dream house, then I can guarantee that I’m still more delighted for our friendship than for your house, beautiful as it may be, while secretly being grateful that I don’t have 4 bathrooms to clean   – seriously, how do you do that?

Because I just can’t seem to.  (And I only have one bathroom).  I can’t seem to keep on top of anything.  But it occurred to me that, from the outside looking in, my life might look different through someone else’s little hand-held screen.  The fact that I feel so lacking in most areas in life, especially the things I do with my kids at weekends, during school holidays, the fact that they moan about me “promising to take them swimming, to the trampoline park, to the cinema, paint pictures, tie dye t-shirts, bake cakes…*infinity*” but don’t, means that whenever I do manage to leave the house with them, do something with them,  I feel that pressure of ‘checking in’ and hashtagging in a moment of self-indulgent “hurrah, I am winning at motherhood today, look what I achieved.”  The same goes for the rarest of nights out with my partner, my family, my friends.  So rare these victorious moments of life seem to me that they are celebrated on social media.  “Look, I can do it too – do you see me smiling…?” But they are illusions of reality.  They don’t show the piles of washing, of folded clothes lying in wait of a cupboard or a floor (or a return to the washing basket still folded in some cases), the unemptied dishwasher and queue of patient plates on the sink waiting for their turn to be clean; pink mould (guarantee you’ll never hold a Dulux colour chart containing the spectrum of pink to discover a small rectangle entitled ‘pink shower mould’ and think “aha, that’s the very colour for the nursery…”). I used to feel like I was doing just about the bare minimum to get by. Now I’m not even managing that. 

The victory of ‘life’ for a few hours is always at the sacrifice of something else: work,  my mum’s free time to provide childcare for me, ‘quality’ time with the children, a clean toilet; sleep.  Cleanliness.

But, what will my kids remember – the pink mould in the shower or the impromptu “fuck it” outings?  I’m actually not sure because I don’t have any comparison.  I grew up in a house quite often referred to by others as ‘The Waltons’ – something I always hated and didn’t appreciate until later just how lucky I was.  But I think I may have actually been some distant relative, acquired from some wayward aunt somewhere that nobody spoke of.    Because I am definitely not of Walton descent.   I grew up in an immaculate home, where my mum wallpapered, could apply specialist plaster effects to the walls and ceilings, baked, cooked, made ball gowns, bridesmaid dresses, knitted, painted masterpieces, threw dinner parties and never once – not once – produced a meal that was ready prepared or pre-cut in any way, shape or form.  Not even her shortbread for the coffee was shop-bought.  All while running a business, going to college and being the sole housekeeper, magic kisses provider, confidant and having dinner on the table every night for my dad coming home from work at 5:33pm.  There was never anything out of place, never a time when someone could knock in the front door unexpectedly and it not be ok for them to come in.

And now there’s me.

I couldn’t actually tell you the last time my house was worthy of entertainment (other than for the summer ants who enjoy my kitchen annually), the last time I cooked joyfully or enthusiastically and not for speed and necessity  (which is a real shame as I actually love to cook), the last time I made anything by hand (which is also a shame as Halloween used to be my favourite time, a time to be creative and expressive), the last time I spent time with someone and didn’t look at my watch regularly because I have 38 other places to be;  The last time I cleaned pink mould off the grout in the shower.  The last time I didn’t sacrifice something important to me because something else was ‘more important’.

We are sold the dream that it is possible to have your cake and eat it – but, in reality, it is only possible if you stop off at Marks on the way home from work for a lemon drizzle and eat the crumbs off the plate left by your children as you wipe the worktop and shut the dishwasher with your foot.  For me anyway.  I can’t have it all – the career, the idyllic family life with a healthy dose of ‘me’ time.  It is just not possible. Maybe, if you have an even split of domesticity, extended family to help with the children, a large network of friends to share running around to all the clubs, the hobbies, the discos and the parties, then maybe there is more eating of cake and less crumbs.

But when you work all the time, you don’t meet the other parents often, so the network is small.  Extended family is different for everyone – if you have it, cherish it.  You are the lucky ones.  And as for domesticity, well, I suspect I’m not alone here but, the house, the kids and all that goes with it is still primarily the main concern of the female – not in all cases, I know this.  I also know that I have created my own cake-eating monster here by creating the allusion of being a crappier version of Nigella Lawson some 15 years ago when I met me partner, who was the very embodiment of a workaholic.  But a version of Nigella that was good enough to eat cake with…and now? Well now I am more desperate housewife, scooshing bleach on a toilet and promising myself that I’ll see to that mould in the shower once I’ve cooked dinner and done some work…

And something has to give.  The illusion that we create, that I have created.  It is not sustainable.  We cover the reality so often of just how hard it is to be everything to everyone (I know how dramatic this sounds – I am not everything to anyone really.  But I do my best for the 6 people in my life who I share blood with and love fiercely).  But we don’t share with everyone how difficult it is.  We smile and relish an escape from reality.   But sometimes the reality seems to be that everyone else is coping with the things you are not;  other people don’t have the life you have;  some people tell you “I don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t work full time” when, well you do, and you joke laugh that “ha, you should see my washing pile” while dying a little inside.   Some people tell you that their men do all the cooking/ironing/ kids activities, that they spilt everything in the house, and I think (100% genuinely) “that’s lovely” while silently knowing that my partner will put in 70 hours this week and I’ll just be happy if he doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel coming home to me.  Sometimes, the reality is that you see friends become ‘old friends’ because you couldn’t ever return their evening of being a host, the afternoon of having everyone round for coffee and cake with all the kids, and you know that you can’t possibly accept another invitation when you haven’t had your turn.  Because your partner has worked 70 hours this week and Friday night on the couch looms invitingly, and not handing him a hoover nozzle,  while shrieking hysterically about the time, about the pink mould and the fact that I forgot to get tonic, when he walks in the door.  All to create the illusion of the woman who can have it all.

And over the last month or so, I have accepted that I can’t have it all.  And something did have to give.  It’s just that I’ve realised it is not one thing, but a little bit of everything.  It is my smile being a little less full around the edges;  spending less time – real time, not lip-service – to the people I truly and whole-heartedly love;   my friendships being a little less of a presence and more of a promise for the future;  my house being a little (a lot) more of a Channel 4 documentary; my secrecy, as my children become regular witnesses of silent, stressed tears blobbing onto work surfaces and steering wheels; my passion for a job I love; my life.  I have effectively skimmed out of every piggy bank in my house, left everybody short-changed then realised that I still don’t have enough for what I needed in the first place.

So, as I fed my children their dinner out of tin trays in the back seat of the car tonight as I drove them to basketball having come home from work late (which they loved and I told them it was just like being on an aeroplane), I realised just how extremely grateful for the people in my life who accept, without words, the lack of invitation, the lack of communication for large periods, the mood swings , accompanied by intermittent wailing, amateur dramatics and lightbulb moments of running off with the circus and learning a new skill while travelling the world in a caravan (caravans and travelling seemed glamorous in ‘Riders’…) The people who accept my reality.

And for the realisation that reality is always better than illusion.  Illusion is a trick and, once you know how it was done, never seems just quite as special.  Surviving reality sometimes is a much cleverer trick.

Princess Syndrome

If I was going to be controversial and isolate myself from the few people who genuinely enjoy reading what I write about, then this, this could be the very blog to do it.

I want to talk about princesses. I debated whether or not the word should be given a capital ‘P’…but lower case.  Definitely lower case.   It has occurred to me that princesses are no longer a thing of fairy tales and fantasies.  Princesses now walk among us every day: at school, at work, in Top Shop changing room…literally everywhere.  And I don’t remember it being like that 20 years ago.  The only princesses I remember 20 years ago were Lady Diana and Princess Anne.  And they certainly didn’t walk among us.  Even Disney princesses weren’t really a ‘thing’.  But now?  Now everyone is a fucking princess.   Not like Princess Diana or Princess Anne though.   No.  Modern day ‘princesses’ would have kicked them out of the princess society for wearing floral smocks and jodhpurs, and for driving a mini metro, regardless of their credentials.

For the people who know me fairly well, they will know that I regularly refer to ‘Princess Syndrome’ (I’m copywriting and patenting it) . The belief that they don’t have to play by the rules because they are beautiful; special; different; gifted.   I just don’t know when it started.  I don’t ever remember my mum referring to me as a princess.  I was encouraged to get dirty, ride bikes in jeans, skin my knees in roller skates and dig up worms with my hands.  Dresses of taffeta and frills were a rare occurrence for Christmas parties and family gatherings. When I had my own daughter 18 years ago, she was never my Princess.  She didn’t wear a dress until she was 1 – life was too short to force little legs into tights and I was 22 and definitely not displaying any sort of Queen-like,mother-of-a-princess behaviour.  If I or my daughter had been a princess though, we would have been my very favourite one in the whole world:  The Little Princess (Only ever to be uttered in the wonderfully northern accent of Jane Horrocks).

But I am faced with it daily now.  And Something I saw the other day posted by a young person I know forced an involuntary sound of despair out of my mouth:

“My parents treated me like a princess my whole life, you think I’m expecting less from a man?”

So, this could be empowering. But I don’t see it like that – and I have thought a lot about Princesses over the last couple of years.  And it is not the real, living breathing princesses that girls are brought up believing they could be  – nobody really wants to be Kate Middleton, travelling the world, silently supportive of her husband, doing as she’s told by her immortal queen and the world press.  Pippa?  Pippa yes.  Kate, no.

So who do we refer to when we tell our girls that they are princesses?  The beautiful creations of Disney, with their bouncy blow-drys, perfectly clear skin, 18 inch waists and tuneful voices? Yes, I think that is exactly who we refer to.  Has anyone in the history of the world ever clutched their chest at the sight of a beautiful young woman dressed for their wedding day, held their breath and tearfully declared “You are just as beautiful as Princess Michael of Kent”? Hmmmm.  What about Cinderella? Belle?  Snow White…?

But here’s the thing.  Why do we tell them that they are princesses?   What are we actually telling them?  That they are beautiful; that they are special; that they deserve the best; that they sre entitled; they are better than other girls because they are a princess? Yes, it can be empowering.  But also it can be limiting.  Girls absolutely should believe that they are deserving, that they are worthy of the very best.  But they also should believe that they are in control of their own success, their own destiny, regardless of appearance or privilege.

And I have an issue with fairy tale princesses.  They are just so predictably weak.  Almost always they require some sort of rescue by a man, who is both devastatingly handsome and in a position of power.  A man to break a spell, a charm, a mishap that the little, tiny-brained princess couldn’t see the danger in for herself.  Oh please.  In the real world, while Snow White is sleeping, the football is on Sky Sports and the kids are eating jam out a jar for their dinner.  He’ll give her a kiss when he feels frisky, she’ll wake up on high alert and poised to perform, while wondering how she is going to get that fucking jam off the ceiling.

Not only are princesses weak, they are defined by their beauty, as if that is the most important quality there is. As if Rapunzel would have been rescued by the ‘handsome prince’ had she heaved her giant blonde fishtail over the tower walls, only to reveal a terrible dose of acne, glasses and a flat chest. Why should our girls be defined by societies perceptions of beauty as a tool for success and achievement?  And, worse than that, as a reason to look down on their sisters who don’t possess the stereotypical good looks of Disney.   Why are we teaching them that their ‘prince’ will only come if they are perfectly coiffed and prom-ready 24/7?

Why are we teaching them that they need a handsome prince at all?        

Because they are princesses.  And princesses hold no power without a prince.  And this is the fundamental mistake with Princess Syndrome.  Have you ever noticed who the most powerful characters in fairy tales are?  The women.  Always the women.  The Queens; the witches; the step-mothers.  Power and magic.  Too powerful, too clever and too mystical for the Kings, the princes, the wizards – the queens and witches reign.  The Queens are often presented as being beautiful…but old and jealous of the youthful and more beautiful princesses, which makes them bitter and ugly at heart.  No mention of how every man in the Kingdom seemed suddenly interested in fetching berries for the bouncy blonde with the bee-stung lips, while she mends your trousers on the spindle…

But I digress.  Power.  The queens and witches in fairy tales were always my favourite characters.  I could never form any sort of attachment to the hapless princesses (or their silly fathers for making deals with witches over stealing cabbages without first discussing it with their  wives).  They always seemed so transparent to me. I wanted to know the back story of the witches; of the ‘wicked queens’.  Who drove them to wickedness? What happened to them?  Did they graduate with first class Bio-medical Chemistry degrees but they had warts and a big nose so success wasn’t an option?  Because chemistry seems like a more valuable virtue than identifying a pea under 20 mattresses and 20 eider-downs…

But if you look at the history of a lot of the Disney princesses, they are often a softened version of very Grimm and gory tales of woe and of male empowerment and betrayal.  Take ‘Maleficent’ for example.   In the earliest versions of 17th Century ‘Snow White’ the queen is not a villain but, in fact, a queen betrayed by her husband, who leaves her for the younger (and therefore more beautiful) Talia.  ‘Petty’ jealousy and vanity is the reason for her cruelty; In later versions, bitterness ensued by old age and replacement by youth and beauty in the guise of princesses are recurring themes.  But when Angelina Jolie took on the role in 2014, her beauty (and ability to wear rubber while still gaining the film a child-friendly rating), her poise and grace provided a different back story; A story of a misunderstood guardian, betrayal by her love in favour of power and the literal clipping of her wings. But it is the wronged woman; the clipped, yet resourceful, woman, who defies her fate, saves the princess and lives happily ever after without her prince.  The King and the Prince conspired and lied, but she survived with her dignity and regained her power and identity.

And we could all learn a lot from Maleficent (not least how to make Halloween fetish-season). Especially the Aurora’s of this world.  Why would you be Aurora when you could be Maleficent?  Why would you be Anna when you could be Elsa? Powerful, magical and with no desire to marry the first man who finishes your…sandwiches (that’s what I was gonna say!)

And what about our boys?  How are our boys ever meant to live up to the fairy tale expectations of the princes, who will rescue beautiful damsels in distress and promise to treat them like princesses all their lives? Don’t we want to raise our boys to believe that women are their equals, that women are strong and powerful and independent and that they should ALWAYS look beyond the exterior, encouraging and supporting them to achieve their own success?

But times are changing for princesses in the world of fairy tales and Disney. No longer is the depiction of strong, powerful women such an ugly negative trait.  So it is time to change the perception of princesses for the future generation of girls.  Why be a princess, who requires marriage and the power of someone else to validate who you are as a person, give you what you think you deserve out of life, when you can be a Queen, holding all the power, being in control of your destiny, your own kingdom and answerable to no-one.

I’ll always hold a special place in my heart for Snow White, who was diverse, kind and accepting, but I’ll always be a little pissed off that she allowed the men, who had been shunned by every other human in society until she came along, to treat her like their own personal slave.  In her favour though is her resourcefulness to convince forest creatures to help her clean. What a gal. I can’t pay people who love me to help clean a toilet, so the fact that she got Bambi, Thumper and co to hang out a washing is testament to her wavering power.  The unfortunate incident of her being duped by an apple on their watch, however, suggests that maybe they weren’t as psyched about it as she thought.

Don’t raise princesses, raise Queens.  Not all princesses become Queens.  And nobody messes with a queen.

The Sound of Silence

This blog has taken me a while to write. I have had so little to say for a while now, feeling unable to dig deep down into the darkness of my soul to retrieve a necessary voice for any occasion.  Because we do have that don’t we?  We have our polite “hellos” with the faces we see on our routine journeys every day – people we don’t know but feel, after some time, that we do on some level.  We get to know their dogs that they walk at the same time every morning, their children that they are taking to school and nursery, their work patterns, their moods, their football preferences. We gauge our own time by them.  Those people we encounter daily, from passing them in the car to seeing them at the bus stop,  they become quite significant in our own routines; We have our varying degrees of familiarity in the workplace, ranging from polite chat to raucous laughter and everything in between; we have the various roles of friendships – with some friends our role is to listen and soothe, with others it is to talk;  then there is the complexity of family relationships and the familiarity this brings, the allowance to ‘be yourself’ (if you’re lucky).  We have voices for them all, few of them the same. A simple “hello” or “good morning” may be all that is required.  But sometimes that seems difficult.  You try and say it but it comes out so choked and painful that you might as well have lit a flair

I am never sure where it starts or why, but I have come to recognise the signs of gathering clouds and have grown faintly aware of a disconnection between my brain and my mouth as I struggle to contribute to conversations.  What happens on the journey through my nasal canal to the voice of Jen? Storms are coming.  Evacuate. And I am so very aware of the silence – in my head and in the room.

I sometimes think that this recognition is progress.  I don’t have the clouds I used to when I was younger.  For a long time in my life there was only one season (and it was never summer). Now it’s definitely more “sunshine with a chance of showers.”  But, although it is not the constant low-cloud of my youth, when the clouds come, it is Cumulonimbus.

But hey, I’m from the West of Scotland – I can live without sunshine and embrace the weather.  What I cannot live without though is my voice. I talk.  It is what I do – whether it be on a keyboard, to strangers in random queues, workmates, family, friends, animals.  I never stop talking.  I fill every silence.  I even talk in my sleep.  So when the silence comes, it is audible.

And this is when the clouds gather.  When I become so painfully aware that the silence is too loud.  I wrack my brain for a contribution about my weekend, some sharp witty comment about something mundane, but nothing comes.  I literally have no words.  And I feel so empty; I feel like someone has scooped all of me out with a spoon, like an avocado husk but without even the stone heart, just nothing at all; an empty shell.  I always think about a Tom Petty video I saw when I was young, where they cut up and ate Alice in Wonderland while she is still alive but made of sponge cake  (it disturbed me deeply).  But it always comes back to me when my voice is gone.  The image of the frustrated Alice lying down, drumming her fingers on the floor as Tom and his Heartbreakers  cut into her and she can do nothing about it but watch them and wait for it to end. (I haven’t watched this video in a long time, apologies if my memories are skewed…)

So, like Alice, I wait for it to end.  And (luckily for me – I know) it does.  It becomes less exhausting trying to find the words from somewhere; I find myself looking less at the ceiling trying to find the words that must surely be floating up there somewhere or less at my feet where eyes and words don’t live.  I feel connected again.  I unconsciously and naturally make a joke, share a mundanity about my weekend. I feel the return of the stone to the husk.

Sometimes these rays of light mark a change of season; sometimes they are a happy mistake in the forecast and to be enjoyed in the moment for what they are.  I remember too many years ago when I worked in an office in the city centre and one of my colleagues telling me a story that has stuck with me.  I was around 19 or 20, she was 25 and going through an awful divorce having married her childhood sweetheart at 18.  She told me that, prior to the separation, she was so desperately unhappy, lost and living with an emotionally degrading and abusive husband.  She had been thoroughly scooped dry.  She drove the same route to work every day and every single day cried her heart out, from the minute she left the house, to the minute she arrived at work, where she gathered herself, applied her make up and found her voice for the day.  Every single day, she sat at a red light opposite the same woman in her car.  And, after a while, she became aware that the woman was offering her recognition through the windscreen: a smile, a concerned tilt of the head, which led in time to the mouthing of “are you ok”, which eventually led to a daily exchange as they passed each other with their windows down.  After months of this, the woman wasn’t there one morning.  She was devastated.  She realised that this stranger at a red light was her one source of compassion and understanding.  After a week, the woman was back and this time, mutual concern was exchanged, along with phone numbers, through an open window on the opposite journeys to work.  They became so important to each other for years to come.  She left, she got divorced and met the true love of her life.  And the silence did that.  For so long, they had a silent understanding.  And it was more important than any of the other voices.

So my voice is returning. My voice for the outside world is at least being heard.  But until I am caught singing on the way to work by the white BMW 3 series in Myrtle Avenue at 8:23am, or completely lose myself to the Vaccines in the shower, I know the clouds are lurking.  I will always be a woman at a red light, it just varies what direction I am going in.

 

Hector Dougan (the Wonder Hamster)

I appreciate that the majority of people I know (and don’t know) will roll their eyes and give this blog a miss.  It is, after all, about a hamster.

But Hector Dougan the Wonder Hamster became much more than that to us.

Two years ago, my 16 year old was broken in many ways.  She couldn’t cope with school, with peers, with life, with her emotions and we struggled to cope as a family.  We were all individually and separately limping along amidst the sadness and disparity that was our family life, all silently un-coping.

And then one day, Hector found us.

It had been a bad day.  Arran had, after months of me nagging her, joined my Taekwon Do club.  It was transformative – she fitted; she succeeded; she smiled.  Then one day, it didn’t work.  It should have been a happy day, celebrating medal wins and companionship.  But she couldn’t go in; she couldn’t  hold it together; she wobbled; she cried; she panicked. She broke.

She wailed like the lone survivor of a freak accident, full of shock and doubling inexplicable pain all the way home, while me and her brothers  silently communicated via the rear-view mirror.  Transformative was short-lived. I was helpless and hopeless once again.

And then Hector found us.

We stopped at the local pet shop to pick up some straw on the way home – my youngest son (5 at the time) came into the tiny shop while the other two sat right outside the door in the car.  We didn’t see him, but he saw us and knew we were his.  We were aware of a noise coming from the back corner of the shop and, as I wandered off to investigate, I found him.  He was the weirdest looking hamster I had ever seen.  He was hanging from the roof of his cage, quacking like a duck and gazing right into my soul.  My son joined me at my side and we just stared at this little creature, transfixed and temporarily soothed by his presence.

I walked away.  I could not, under any circumstances, take a(nother) pet home on a whim.  But I walked back again and repeated the process several times before I heard myself say to my son (who had not moved a muscle since he had laid eyes on this hanging, quacking soul-gazer) “Will we take him home? Go and get your brother and sister out the car.” I knew (when my daughter stood sobbing in the pet shop as we introduced her to our new dysfunctional family member) that this was  good decision.

And so, Hector Dougan the Wonder Hamster joined the family (My youngest son insisted ‘Dougan’ be his last name as it made him sound important). And, despite the fact that I was in the hamster-sized dog house for a week (I remember uttering the words to someone “I think my relationship might be over because I bought a hamster”) he really was much more than any of us were expecting.

To put it into context, I am an animal nut.  What we really want is a dog but it’s just not possible.  I’d fill my house and garden with waifs and strays if I could and the thought of a wee animal being bought in a shop and not given a good home keeps me awake at night.  So I take them home to ‘save’ them.  But I think now that Hector saved us in a lot of ways.

My other half, having lost his shit at the appearance of a plastic townhouse with tubes and tunnels, midnight mileage on a squeaky wheel and a wooden hamster-sized swing park (yep), very quickly softened.  And, before long, he was baby-talking to a black and white ball of fur and regularly using the expression “are you coming to your dad wee man?” when Hector sensed his presence and came out to see him.

My daughter, when at her darkest, would take his house upstairs and he would soothe her sadness and do all manner of cute and adorable dysfunctional hamster stuff that they agreed would be just between them.  I would lie in bed and hear her talking to him through strangled tears.  And then I’d hear a smile in her voice.

He was especially gentle and careful with the boys as they hand fed him, and allowed them to trust him as he trusted them. They knew he would never bite them and he knew they would never mistreat him.  They were responsible, they learned what he liked and didn’t like and, together, they all worked it out.

He filled silences on hard days.  When the lines of communication were closed once the children were asleep, that’s when he made the most noise  – so much noise – until he was lifted onto my lap and crawled between me and Alan on the couch, bridging the gap that, at times, seemed unreachable for us.

And, as we said goodbye to our beloved little hamster this week, I realised that we have a lot to thank Hector Dougan for.  He was not simply a nocturnal little rodent with a short life-expectancy.  He was a sentient and astute little member of our family whose presence made a real difference for 2 years in a way that I’m actually not sure a dog could have done. He represented something different for each of us,  all remembering the time that he entered our lives and how fragmented our lives were back then. 

He unified my 3 children when he came into the family, gave them a common interest, and he unified them again in grief as they supported and cared for each other compassionately when he died.

He convinced my daughter to be gentle, to let go of anger and to love and  – most importantly – that love and trust is rewarded.

My partner cried openly at the death of our wee hamster, in front of me in private as we lifted his wee body out of his bed and placed him in a box, and in front of the children as we buried him.  Hector allowed my children to see that it is ok for a man to show emotion, it is ok to be sad and it is absolutely ok for big boys to cry (I especially thank Hector for this).

He taught the boys that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

He gave my eldest son the chance to show me and his dad what a truly wonderful human being he is turning into by giving a heart-felt speech about Hector’s best qualities, as we covered his wee grave with earth and his words comforted us all.

He taught the boys that no living thing is replaceable.  Nobody wants a new hamster.  It won’t be Hector Dougan the Wonder Hamster. He was a one-off and it is ok to be sad that he is gone. 

When he arrived 2 years ago, we had hit rock bottom as a family. When we started to think back, we realised just how much had changed in the 2 years since his arrival.

The Mary Poppins of hamsters.  His work here is done.

 

Summer goals v Summer reality

​Being a teacher is lovely. There are lots of lovely things about it. The biggest perk, without a doubt, is the holidays. 6 and half weeks this year to spend during the ‘summer’ months of Scotland with my children.  Bliss.

But it has occurred to me that I start off the holidays with a huuuuuge list of things I’m going to do. Such as: 

I’m going to completely redecorate, clear out and transform my house;

I’m going to spend SO much time catching up with friends and family;

I’m going to get up before the kids each day and work out, returning to work after 6 weeks looking like Tanya ‘The Machine’ (I’m a little obsessed with Tanya…); 

I’m going to read 2 or 3 books a week; 

I’m going to write. (Arsey, I know, I know. There’s no way take less eye-rollingly arsey. I’ve tried). 

I’m going to make the most of every day. 

This year I have achieved not one item in my list. Not one. Instead, this is a summary of what I’ve done:

I’ve picked up wet/dirty/clean but worn for half an hour and wanted to change clothes off the floor and washed/folded/repeated process;

I’ve catered continously for bottomless stomachs and cries of “muuum, am I allowed something?” (Followed quickly by “Muuum, he ate the last one…”) 

I’ve refereed. Hourly. Expertly and corruptly. I’m Stephanie McMahon;

I’ve read 3 fairly average books;

I’ve written 1 fairly average blog (not including this mundanity);

I’ve outgrown every single zip and button fastening item of clothing I own (and not through muscle building. Through red wine, bread, pasta and anything else that wasn’t nailed down) For example, this morning, while everyone was asleep, I considered getting up to do some shredding with Jillian Michaels.  Instead I got a cup of tea, some Wispa bites and took them both back to bed while watching funny animal videos on the Internet…and it was awesome;

I’ve become a recluse and seen approximately 3 people in 6 weeks;

I’ve made a big mess clearing out bedrooms that I’ve given up trying to fix and the house is a bigger mess than it was before I started (predictably) and actually said last night “I can sort that during the October holidays”…

I’ve learned lots about my children. All 3 of them. They are changing and growing. They are wonderful. They are helpful. They are caring. They are grateful. They are responsible. (They are whiny. They are confrontational. They are irresponsible. They are ungrateful). 

So, one week left to read some books, catch up with some people, reintroduce myself to Shaun, Tanya, Jillian and step away from the red wine and Wispa bites. Well. Maybe.  Don’t want to be overly ambitious. 

BFFs (ish)

It has occurred to me over the past few years that friendship is a funny thing. And not in the amusing sense (especially if you are female) If you’re lucky, you’ll meet your forever best friend early on in life and you’re good to go for the next 70 odd years.  Bridesmaid, godparent, wingman…check, check and check.  Sometimes you meet a group of friends and you are all best friends forever – Although, in my (limited) experience and observations, there are often still pairings in the group (which is a bummer if the number is odd).

 

But what if you haven’t met your best friend for life aged 5 on your first day of primary school?  What then?   Because I didn’t and I’ve always felt a little inferior because if it.

Social media celebrates every aspect of life, but in particular it celebrates the relationships people have with other people.  People publicly thank those closest to them for the Saturday night, for the support, for the gifts, for the laughter; For being their “best friend in the whole world.”  But at what point does someone earn this accolade and what effect does this decision, choosing this one person, have on life?  You don’t propose forever friendship the way you propose marriage, so when does it happen that two people just decide that, yup, we’re besties?

Once it has been decided that two people are ‘best friends’, it is more binding than marriage – with no consideration or option of divorce.   In reality, the relationship between ‘best friends’ can be more influential and significant than the relationship between a couple, with staunch loyalty and unquestionable defence, the idea that you can fix anything and that you’re in everything together.  People seem to be more tolerant and supportive of their best friend than of their significant other – for example, if your best friend told you she was giving up her job to go travelling (who cares if she is 40 and has a mortgage to pay) you’d encourage this and defend this decision to anyone who dared question it.  You’ll miss her but you’ll be right there waiting for her when she returns.  Your partner suggests the same?  Shit. Storm.

I think I’ve pretty much spent my whole life trying to make a best friend.  It seemed essential (everyone else had one, I wanted one…) But this in itself is an entirely flawed approach and the reason I always had friends, but not a best friend just for me; forever.  By the time I arrived at the table, groups and friendships were established and I seemed to spend most of my childhood flitting from group to group, friends with everyone in the group but on the outskirts of the best friends within.  Don’t get me wrong, I realise there were many reasons for this (self-awareness is a curse) and I know I was a pain in the ass as a child (ahem…and as an adult at various points, buts that a different story…)  But what if I had been born 2 months later and been in a different year at school?  Not moved house aged 5 and gone to a different school?  Would I be siting here celebrating 35 years of friendship with one person like so many others I know?

And what would it mean if I was. What would it mean for all the other friendships I’ve had throughout my life – would I still have had them?  Because, in my experience, groups of best friends or pairs of best friends don’t really need to make new friends, so often don’t make as many friendships with other people outside ‘the group’ and almost definitely never give other friendships priority.  But, and here’s the thing, what happens when a situation forces a change in the forever friendship?  What then?

Because things undoubtedly change.  LIFE happens.  And life doesn’t always go the same way for best friends and all the commonalities can become differences.  When one person falls in love, the dynamics of a friendship will change – the pair of best friends who were never seen apart will become tested as one half of the pair is left to watch the love story unfold, questioning their role;  the group of best friends becomes problematic for the person in love as the group will pull tighter together in their absence.  But, hopefully, after some initial licking of wounds, the friendship survives.  But what if you love someone your friends hate?  Or what if the someone you love hates your friends…?

I am generally in awe of people who have maintained these firm bonds of friendships through the years.  But I’ve realised lately, quite by accident, that I no longer crave what I once did.  Throughout my life, putting a label on a friendship was the kiss of death for me.  I would become jealous of other friends that came along, would get hurt when plans were made that didn’t include me and I would gradually withdraw, missing out on so much because of my own insecurities.

And in realising this, it has allowed me to realise all sorts of things about friendship (and myself).  Some friendships will just never stand the test of time.  Different paths will always be taken and there are so many reasons why friends drift.  But the important thing is that they happened in the first place.  When you have a baby, you might spend every waking minute with someone else in the same position as you (clueless and wondering what happened to your life…) The closest of friendships can be built at this time and new mums are often drawn to each other, sussing out who seems to be their level of ‘coping/not coping/afternoon drinking’. But, sadly, not all these friendships last. Maternity leave comes to an end, the children become little people of their own with their own interests and you realise that maybe you were always from very different backgrounds and on different paths. But you cherish that special time when you helped each other survive life with small children, when background, financial  status and hair and make up standards were happily immaterial.

Drifting from a friendship always happens for many reasons.  But before the internet, house phones and, latterly, mobile phones were all we had.  Drifting was inevitable after school.  Social media removes that option now and has, quite wonderfully for me, reunited me with so many people I knew when I was younger. But what is more wonderful still is when someone drifts into your life, or back into your life, without the internet.   And this is the case for the most significant friendships that I have (and have had).  We weren’t brought together because Facebook suggested them as someone I may know.  We were brought together – drifted to each other – because we were just meant to be in each others life.

And in the week where I’ve seen a women I love get married, and absorb the news that someone I spent more time with when I was younger than anyone probably knows about, shared a 100% plutonic relationship with, and loved with all my heart in my youth is at the end of his very cruel, unjust and short journey with cancer, well, I’ve thought a lot about friendship and fate. I’ve thought a lot about the term ‘best friend’ and all the times I’ve used it or heard it.  And I think actually that the term is limiting.  Some people go beyond being a ‘best friend’  Some people become family; part of you.  And that’s pretty cool.

I’d like to say that every friendship will last forever but, with the best will in the world, sometimes the people you spend every waking minute will become strangers. Sometimes they will become enemies.  But they will all be memories and these are yours forever. Someone once told me I was “the most expendible person” they’d ever met. And I carried that wirh me for years, letting it define me. But more portant ly, letting it define my friendships. But not any more. Because memories are not expendible. 

So this is what I think. If you were single and you happened across someone that you liked, you’d ask them out, take a chance, go on a date and see what happens.  We don’t do this enough with friends.  How many times have you met someone and thought “They’re brilliant, I’d love to be their friend”? Do it.  Obviously, you don’t do this if you’re in a relationship but be more open in your friendships.  Make as many friends as possible.  You just don’t know where life will take you – or them; Don’t take time or friendship for granted.  Temporary or permanent, make it count; make memories that last a lifetime even if the friendship doesn’t. And make peace with yourself about the ones that didn’t last.  You’ll be a better friend if you do.