Saturday, August 30, 2014

Swings & Roundabouts

One thing both fatigue and depression do exceptionally well, individually, is negate my ability to love. If there is an off switch, they're the only things that have access to it. There are plenty of days I step outside knowing I'll have to go through the motions because I trust – I must – that it will return. Let none of my relationships suffer for what is the consequence of an internal battle.
As a result, one of the best heralds of an upswing is that switch being flicked again, and the love gushes out everywhere. It smothers that damn budgie, leaves J mewling on the couch and me sitting here, looking at the ordinary lives into which I'm allowed to view on social media, and just loving you. There are so many extraordinary people in my world, I've a bounty no thief can steal.
So, let me love you, now, while the ability is with me and my heart beats strong. To be alive is a gift and a torture, but it is you who make it worth living. 

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

$30 for 20 minutes

The memory washed in with the warmth; first through my nose, down my throat to rest cozy in my lungs. My cheeks are next, as the only thing that can be done with arms full of clean washing fresh from the dryer is to bury my face into that soft, comfortable warm pile, and hug it to my chest. Let it warm my bones.

It was getting last night's tea towels out of the dryer that was my first waypoint for a standard housekeeper's day in Ullapool. First came the cleaning of toilets, wiping of windows, incessant mopping and buffing; interspersed by dashes to the laundry in the little country garden out back to switch the loads over. Most of the time it was bloody cold, because a Highland summer is a wonderful thing, but not a particularly searing one. After having my hands immersed in cold waters, grabbing all the towels out and flomping myself over a bench and them was the purest of delights. I was overly fond of them, in a weird way. After all the weird stretching and bending and scrubbing, being able to stand still and methodically fold the same square of fabric in the same fashion until the pile before you is a pile no more was peaceful. It did not involve other people's bodily fluids or uncomfortable strenuous activity. Just nice warm hands. The folding of the tea towels also indicated breakfast time. We'd fold them, have them sorted into their colours, and drop them into the kitchen on our way to the staff hut. Lovely cup of tea with the sound of the village waking up and the first ferry coming in from Stornoway.

I don't miss housekeeping. But I do miss Scotland. 

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Self-care in Social Justice; Ableism in Activism

I started writing this post a couple of days ago. Enough has happened in the world in those hours between then and now for my approach to go from one of calm and hopefully usefulness, to fury.

Some people can sustain rage. I'm not one of them. Anger lights me up like a burning oil slick, and the smoke fills my lungs and clouds my eyes. Anger consumes me from within, and unfortunately comes with pronounced physical deterioration as well as emotional. It could, with some stringent control, be channeled into some sort of constructive output, but most of the time I do not have that control, and it's probable that I never will. It simply isn't the relationship that anger and I have.

Which is a roundabout way of saying I need this post. So, onward, Here is the mild introduction I had already composed:

A year ago, maybe more, I was trapped in the endless scroll that is the tumblr dashboard. You know; your finger is starting to hurt from all the scrolling past endless pictures of owls and sharks but there just might be something really good coming up next, it just doesn't end, so you keep scrolling. In amid all the pretty dross was a small text post. I thought I'd bookmarked it, but apparently not. I can't remember who the author was, and they've probably changed their tumblr handle by now. 

It was a small, simple thing, simply commenting that the author felt there wasn't enough advice or resources to promote mental self-care for people just beginning to dip their toes into the world of social justice and activism. That first foray can be galvanising, but at the same time incredibly disheartening. Learning of all the wrong in the world, that exists in our ordinary mundane lives, is crushing. Comprehending how much struggle there is, and how much more there needs to be, and how little change has come about can make everything seem futile. 

And I thought, "Yes." 

It was a thought that had been circling the upper stratosphere of my mind, not yet any thing more than a few confused wisps, nothing I could articulate even to myself until this small post gave me the words I was seeking. 

I thought I was the weak one. 

And here is the continuation, no longer mild, written in rage.

The world is a horrible place full of injustice, cruelty, intolerance and wilful ignorance. If you choose to exercise compassion and empathy, if you choose to care about the world beyond your own sphere, then you will get hurt. It's unavoidable. If you choose to invest yourself into improving the world, you'll learn how deeply entrenched the inequality is, how invested in maintaining the status quo your opponents are, and your hope will take a battering.

You'll end up becoming intimately acquainted with despair.

How deeply you're affected will depend on your position in society, your own methods for processing stress, and myriad other diverse factors, but you will still feel it.

It never stops. The victories in social justice a few and far between whereas the demonstrations of inequity are countless. Your initial enthusiasm and passion will wane and wilt, and along with despair you will also come to understand helplessness.

If you're at all like me -- having been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder being just the beginning -- then you're going to burnout and burnout fast.

I look at the people who are engaged in the same fight, who have been fighting for longer than I have, and fight harder, and give so much more of themselves - engaging total strangers in a debate which is aggravating and upsetting if only because it might, later, teach them something. Putting themselves out into the public sphere and taking all the slamming that comes with that. Their anger sustains them, is fuel for the pyre they're building for this broken biased system. Protests, rallies, marches, petitions, High Court injuctions, volunteering, public speaking, fundraising, cold calling--

And I, I have to flee from social media because the noise of the news is soul-destroying.

If I don't, then depression will take over and do away with me anyway.

Suey Park is an Asian American activist I particularly admire, and has spoken much upon the topic of ableism in activism. So much that I'm not going to find any direct quotes, you can just check out her twitter account. She has often pointed out that the industry (for lack of better word) of activism is based upon the principles of labour laid out by a patriarchal and imperial system, the same system we are trying to dismantle. The value and worth of the work you do is measured against external criteria determined by what is best for the economy; not the individual.

I have to admit, after comparing my efforts to those I follow and admire, there's a wonderful feedback loop of inadequacy that I find myself tiredly trotting around. I can't go to a rally, it'd knock me flat for a week. I can only extremely rarely engage strangers in debate because it drains me intellectually and emotionally to the point of, again, being incapacitated. I can't even work a full time job without falling apart. It's not hard to see why I find Suey's stance appealing. She works with such diligence, with the long game in mind, and knows that the harder she works, the more people will target her with abuse and vilification. Yet she manages to keep on because she advocates for herself, managing her own anxiety and respecting her own borders, and working to meet her own benchmark, not what activist culture holds as 'enough'.

These years of illness have been good practice at advocating for myself and my own wellbeing, but it is still an act that does not come naturally. I could not stand up and say, "It's okay to step back, take a break, and recharge. It's okay." Someone else had to go first, so that I could follow. You may not agree with all of Suey's views, I don't, but the fact is that she constantly highlights the ableism in activism, which led to me giving myself permission to take care of my mental health.

In my case, that means no longer berating myself for not doing more physically, nor nurturing the idea of failure that skirts around me when I shy away from the conversation in order to simply make it through the day. It means I watch the people around me, and do what I can to enable them to take care of themselves, regardless of their situation.

Ironically and disappointingly, this means drastically turning down the volume on what news of bigotry or theories on social justice to which I am exposed. I can't follow Suey on twitter. A day is enough for me to admire her insight and intelligence and determination while completely undermining and overwhelming me with all the fronts of the battle she's engaged in. I recently had to do an immense cull on twitter, moving too many important voices into a keeplist before unfollowing. I need to be able to function as a person before wading in to battle. We all do.

Ultimately, only you know if you are making excuses in order to bury your head in the ground and rest on your privilege – and we all have some form of privilege – or if you need to step back for your own well being.

Similarly, only you know if you are making excuses to keep on pushing past your tolerance point and into the realm of damage. Don't measure the worth of your actions by standards that do not take into consideration the context of your life.

The change I seek will be a long time in coming. I doubt I will see it in my lifetime. This is a long, long game.

Pace yourself.

Thursday, August 07, 2014

Pu'er Tea & 甘

Yesterday, I bought some pu'er tea. I haven't been able to find my original jar of pu'er since moving, and it had been too long. Pu'er is my favourite tea, of all teas. I may treat English Breakfast with milk as the default 'cuppa', but I actively adore pu'er.

I don't know if T2 can be said to purvey the finest specimens of this tea, but it's good enough for me. That lovely whole and upward-rising flavour, the beautiful clarity of the liquor; I love to disturb the water, and watch skeins of red tea rise up in the glass.

This led to me, unsurprisingly, reading the wikipedia article on pu'er. Pu'er is indeed a unique tea among all teas, and the measuring and production of it appears to be more complex than brewing of beer. Especially considering good pu'er is considered to be aged at least 10 years. Yunnan has always been high on my list of places to go, but after reading that article, oh. I want to visit the tea factories and the Six Great Tea Mountains of old, and see the 'feral tea plantations'.

As you can see, I was having a jolly good time educating myself on the basics of pu'er production, when I came to the following:


甘 is my family name. That is my family seal.

I have never, in 33 years of reading, learning, experiencing and communicating, never, not once, encountered our name beyond the scope of our family. The fact that I can't read Chinese contributes to that, regardless, I haven't even met anyone who shares our name in pinyin. 'Gān' is Mandarin; our name is Cantonese, or Hakka, but that is the character.

I forgot how to breathe, and then promptly broke down crying. I can't articulate why. I'd guess that, somewhere in the sub-levels of my subconscious, is a plaintive and desperate need to belong. To something. Let me stake a tiny claim in any culture that predates my own experience.

And it's tea terminology. It's something I love without obligation.

I'm crying again.

ETA: The lovely Charles Tan brought this site to my attention.  It provides examples of pronunciation and accent for 甘. The variations in regional accents and dialects is obvious, even without examples from all Chinese languages. 

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Nothing in this blog post will be news.

Fuck, you know, I've tried to fucking "sculpt" an opening paragraph three times now. This isn't going to be a technically skilled piece of writing. It isn't going to have a structure that means anything to anyone but me.

Last night was not so much a breaking point as a an unexpected bubble making it to the surface. The tearstorm came out of nowhere. A conversation about devops suddenly careened into empathy and then I found myself sobbing into my hands and blubbering all over J. Which, being someone with depressive issues, isn't actually that out of character, but I hadn't spotted it coming. In fact I'd had a good day, was feeling fine. I thought I was.

Originally I'd been working 11 till 4. My own confidence growing and some crunch time at work led to an extension of my hours and my joining the 9-5 crowd for a week. Only one week. Not counting Wednesday. That's all I lasted. On Wednesday I slept until 3pm. On the weekend I did the same. Right now I'm using a mouse only with my left hand, because the increased hours simply resulted in me doing myself an injury. With a computer mouse. To my right intercostal. Which affects everything I do, including breathing.

It's a pattern established over six years. Change my work routine and set up, and something inside me will break. When I was a House Elf I had tendonitis from scrubbing the fucking showers in the bed & breakfast. At FOI I had to go part-time. Before that at my data-entry role, my body...broke. And I had to just leave and get another job. Actually that's what I did with FOI as well: I left the country, became a House Elf, and failed differently. Six years of failing, and being in pain for trying.

This time I'm in a completely new organisation, and it feels like having a fresh audience. In front of which I am failing. Again.

How can I plan for my future when I can't even control my capabilities in the present? I'm coasting along on the goodwill of others, and that's what my future requires, and it isn't something that can be taken for granted.

I'm just so tired of this. A positive frame of mind doesn't even come into it. I'm happy if I can keep my mind quiet, because it takes so little for all my frustrations and anguish to stir and stampede. It all just feeds my depression until I just look at the massive beast it has become and shrug.

There's no way out but through.

ETA: I think it's especially sharp-edged this time as my current work environment is amazing. A small comfortable office in which everyone actually does their job and gives a shit, and few people actually complain. I want to live up to that. And I all my aches and pains mean I have to make decisions which ensure that I can't. I don't want to be dead weight.

Today I also discovered that typing, not just using the mouse, aggravates my injury. This cuts into my editing work. Nowhere is safe. 

Monday, July 07, 2014

Chronic

A dear friend of mine recently brought two articles to my attention. The first I read, Women with Fibromyalgia Have A Real Pathology Among Nerve Endings to Blood Vessels in the Skin, (pdf) is a concise description of an actual, recognisable, testable THING relating to fibromyalgia. The first. Ever. It's also the first time I've read something discussing the symptoms of fibromyalgia and had it gel with my own experiences. It explains my awful tenderness, which seems to be the longest lasting of my symptoms. When I think back to where I was living when my pain levels were at their worst - a one-bedroom flat with no insulation, no heating and windows that didn't seal - I can't help but wonder if perhaps there is not only some correlation, but causation.

A moderate climate would go a long way toward explaining my current state of wellbeing. 'Wellbeing', that is, not merely 'being'. Although I've deteriorated somewhat since it has become too cold to swim regularly (I took a dip not two days ago and fuck me I won't be doing that again), I have not done so nearly as much as I'd anticipated. I still feel pretty good. My energy levels are mostly in the green.

Definitely something to keep in mind next time we move.

The second article is What is Wrong With Me? (pdf), and it is written by someone with a chronic condition, for people with chronic conditions. It's a story we are all familiar with. Some peculiar flex in my guts forced me to stop reading when O'Rourke stated the years it took to get a diagnosis, which is a statistical average. She goes on to acknowledge the particular conflict a person with a chronic condition must contain within their being, in that we must advocate for our illnesses while at the same time be resistant to conflagrating these same illnesses. She acknowledges the resistance to a shifting baseline.

It was something I needed to read. It's probably something I'll need to read time and again. I encourage all who have any chronic condition to read this article. 

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Captured on the 373 on longline

It's not necessarily summer, but the season is at home on this remote shore. We've made the trek from the distant road side, through the lazy sand dunes with half-buried grasses and rushes bowing before and eternal breeze. There is no path, and our feet sink into the fine dry sand with every set, our balance already compromised by blue eskies and beach chairs and umbrellas. There are no trees for miles so we must bring our own shelter.

It is not a vigorous beach, nor an overly safe one. The waves, a deep jade in the shallows falling into a brittle blue darkness limning the horizon, wash the beach with amiable indifference. Marring the wet sand is a chaotic mess of gull prints, the gulls themselves long gone.

The light is timeless. The concept of night has no place in the noon world. We dig in, alone for hours in all directions, the clinkhiss of open beers sounding before the chairs have been set up. Someone has brought along good speakers, and we dance as we toss picnic blankets and towels down, fumbling for oil-drenched olives in jars with too narrow a mouth and tearing apart fresh crusty loaves to slather with rich chunky dips and chutneys. We are so free here, there aren't even planes in the sky to remind us of the rest of the world.

Our picnic is a feast and we graze heartily. Some of us play beach cricket, badly. Some of us swim out past the break of the waves and paddle quietly, rolling with the fluid surface and seeing no shadows in the water. We wander distant among the dunes, unconcerned about losing each other, finding tiny treasures hidden in the tussocks. Beneath our umbrellas - a bouquet of enormous flowers discarded on the shore for us to hide in - we doze, cradled and nuzzled by the warm, loving air, our dreams lined with salt.

Later, when the long afternoon has tilted gently and drunkenly into an equally prolonged evening, with a sunset shy about the colours it paints with, we fall silent, eyes to that featureless horizon, and wait.

It begins with a flash of light which does not diminish, but grows with a sense of intent, small yet determined, just on the curve of the Earth. It's bright, brighter than any of us, and ponderously slow, it begins to lift from the ground. Watching it struggle, we are aware of gravity as we have never been before, and strain with the rocket to break free, to rise, rise, rise leaving a wake of smoke and lighting up the ocean for miles. Now the sound has finally reached us, a grumble and moan that feel completely unrelated to the miracle before us. This rising star paints the cloud underbelly with a light golden glow before punching through, filling the belly itself with an internal fire, quickly extinguished as the rocket leaves our sky and our world and never once looks back.

It is the first of many. It will be a long night.