My New Name!

This blog is now “Sometimes Twitchy”. I think it’s going to be a space where I discuss my mental health issues. Things that make me shake and shiver. And twitch.

What I want…

Is to understand why it is that Lucy/Richard from last night’s BBC 3 program thinks that being a woman is all about not wanting to do sports, wanting to put make-up on, have enormous breasts and not get stretchmarks. It confuses me.  I wasted an hour watching that program. Ilearned nothing useful about the psychology of MTF trans. However, I learned that having “A” cup breasts is pointless, because they are just “fuck all”. Enlightening.

Oh.

http://www.sallyclark.org.uk/

Sally Clark is dead.  I will spend some time today thinking about and raging about how our legal system treats women.  I will mourn this woman’s death.

Noooooo!

Third time’s a charm….(don’t mind me, I’m just housekeeping)

Why?

Can’t I post anything? What have I done now? Grrrr.

Oh I Am Down Today…

In the interests of knocking recent unpleasantness on the head before I keel over and die of exasperation complicated by ineffable sadness at the state of radical feminism today, I will apologise for printing e-mails in part and without permission. It was the wrong thing to do and I recognise this.

I am now politely asking certain people to leave this blog and my e-mail alone. I don’t need it and I don’t want it. I find that it is now becoming oppressive. I won’t be contacting you and I hope you can afford me the same courtesy.

I have modified and/or deleted all references in my posts to the entire situation. I have left comments alone, authors of said comments may feel free to ask me to delete them. Let’s move on.

This Week I Read…

My Mama’s Waltz: A book for adult daughters of alcoholic mothers. It was amazing. I have had therapy for many years and still never REALLY felt that anyone knew how I had grown up; I still felt alone. Not now!! Every story in this book touched a nerve with me. Every woman in this book has had some experience that ties in with mine. I understand now that it is normal to love and hate my mother at the same time and not get why it works like that. It just does, and it’s okay.

I feel understood. I feel validated. I feel comforted.

Writer’s Circle

Oh sometimes my hatred of masculine energy is overwhelming.  Here’s the background to the tale:  out of foolish optimism I joined a writer’s circle; a writer’s circle that includes men. A self-titled “Christian” writer’s circle no less. What was I thinking? I was seduced by a well-meaning friend who assured me that religion would not be an issue. When will I learn?

So the first meeting was yesterday (those of you who read t’other blog will spot the church connection) and it was NOT GOOD.  There were five of us in attendance, one of whom was male. Now, can any of you guess who got the most talk-time, unwarranted praise, ego-rubbing, requests for advice and then neatly dipped out of doing any washing up with the words “can I leave the clean up to you ladies?” ?  I think you can…

He sat there looking smug, reading his frankly atrocious peotry out loud, getting all sorts of hero worship from the other three women in the room. He shuffled his papers when ever anyone spoke about anything but his work. He waffled about how he came to Christ and started writing poetry as a result. He lectured pompously on “working the metaphor” but confused metaphor with simile. He was the only one not to bother writing down anyone else’s suggestions for further reading. He just sat with a knowing, self-satisfied smirk on his face. I could have flung my body over the table and strangled him.  I realise, and not for the first time, that my loathing of machismo and masculine privilege is never going to go away. It will not be stilled by Yoga, Quakerism, anti-depressants and the occasional feminist man.  I can only function well when I am in women’s space.  I believe that my membership of this group will be short lived. And hurrah for that.

Yesterday

I went back to church. I went for several reasons, one of which was the need to revisit the place of so many appalling and recurring nightmares. I had joined the Independent Methodists when I was a fresh-faced babe of about eight years old and I stayed through to my mid-teens. I left when I worked out that I was being scared into trying to feel emotions that I didn’t understand. I left because I felt frightened. The fears and oppression that I felt there have followed me ever since, rearing up at unexpected moments, stopping me in my tracks, terrifying me. So anyway, yesterday I faced my demons and I devoured them; I am no longer in fear of that building or the people who worship within it.

It was, in truth, somewhat of an anti-climax. I had anticipated an internal battle, a panic attack, a purple breathless struggle for self-control. In fact I felt confident, tall and proud and grounded. I sniffed round the building, looking in rooms that had previously seemed large, dark and unwelcoming. I looked up at the impossibly high windows and saw just winter sunshine. No vengeful, homophobic God peering in at me. I read through some of the tracts that lay on the tables and I felt sorry that I had ever been trapped in such a miserable woman-loathing religion. I felt gloriously radical and feminist and human! And I slept like a baby last night.

Aum

Oh I am loving my Yoga practice.  I sleep stretched out and loose. I curl up comfy and unsnagged.  I woke up twice last night, each time luxuriating in how sleepy and relaxed I felt.  This is still new to me. But I’m getting used to it!