This week has been tiring. I’ve been incredibly busy but, at the same time, I feel like I’ve got very little done. My mother came for a visit and I had trouble keeping up with her, even though she’s in her 70s and it’s only about 6 months since she fell down and broke both arms. It’s kind of depressing that I was exhausted following round a frail old woman. It’s slightly less depressing if I refer to her as a septuagenarian cyborg.
My mother persuaded me to join her on a trip to Falkland Palace. It was very interesting and I recommend it to anyone who’s interested in history, or architecture, or tapestry. I learned stuff that I didn’t know about Scottish history and that doesn’t happen often (not because I know a huge ammoutn but because I already know most of the bits of Scottish history that most historical places cover).
I’m glad I went but it was also a really bad idea. The Palace is all stairs. There’s not much in the way of disabled access. Even though I was on painkillers the whole day I still hit a 9 out of 10 on the pain scale in the evening. It took so much out of me that I missed a chance to see my niece just a couple of days later. I’m still exhausted. I’m actively falling asleep as I write this.
Maybe it’s time to admit to myself that there’s stuff that I just shouldn’t do, even if it’s stuff that I can (in the short term) do. Should I really be going round historic buildings that aren’t accessible to disabled people? It might be interesting at the time but is it really worth it if it means spending hours in agony and being completely useless for days afterwards.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m still falling into the trap of imagining myself to be able bodied. In the back of my mind there’s still this underlying assumption that the things that are wrong with me are temporary. On some level I still expect that I’ll be able to get back into working out or that I’ll find some other trick to improve my body. But I don’t think that it’s going to improve. Every attempt I make to exercise just makes things worse. I’ve been assuming that if I could just find the right thing to do that I’d be able to make my body behave itself. But maybe there isn’t anything. Maybe I need to invest more time and attention into adapting my life to fit my body and less into trying to force my body to fit the life I think that I ought to have.
I’m going to leave that subject alone for now and concentrate on work. Which I have done virtually none of. I haven’t written much, I haven’t read much, I’ve done a little bit of thinking about my work in progress but I don’t think I’ve solved any of the problems. I haven’t moved towards self publishing or learned any new skills. Next week I must do better.
Last Wednesday I had an incredibly shitty day and I wrote about it here. This Wednesday I spent the day in crippling pain. The kind of stabbed-in-the-hip-with-a-rusty-breadknife, 50-point-IQ-drop, can-barely-spare-the-brain-cells-to-speak sort of pain that people really don’t want to hear about when they ask you how you are. It was the kind of pain where sitting hurts, standing hurts worse, and laying down is by turns either much better or much worse.
And then my chair broke. My writing chair. The only chair in the house from which I can type and put my feet up. I was too tired and sore to work out what was wrong with it so I went to bed. This morning my other half tried to fix it and found out (by sitting on it) that the central post it swivelled on was completely sheared off.
So my writing chair is broken beyond repair. I have no money for a replacement. It’s NaNoWriMo in five days. I don’t even know anyone I could borrow the money from. I can’t ask my mother. She’s still in hospital and she’s gong to have to spend thousands on handrails and a stairlift so she can go home.
The most annoying thing is that I should have a chair. Local Councils are supposed to supply equipment to disabled people who need them. I used to have a rise and recline chair that was perfect for my needs but I had to give it back to the Council when I moved. In my new area there are so many people who need them that the Council only lends them to people undergoing end of life care at home. You need to be literally dying to get a comfy chair.
If you’re wondering why I don’t just go and buy one of these fancy chairs it’s because the kind I need starts at £1800. That’s why I had to pay for a cheap and shitty one that lasted just under two years and now I can’t even afford a cheap and shitty replacement.
So here’s my Ko-fi link. But don’t feel bad about not clicking it. Even if every single reader clicked through and donated the cost of a cup of coffee I still wouldn’t have enough to buy a new chair. I’m only doing this so that when I complain and people ask me if I’ve tried asking for money on the internet I’ll be able to say yes.
This week a character in my current novel revealed a completely new ability which is very interesting but it’s kind of late in the day now that I’m most of the way through the third draft. I suppose I could cut it out but it’s such a good ability that I’m mostly pissed off I didn’t think of it sooner.
As regular readers will know my mother is currently recovering from surgery after breaking both arms. I live too far away to do much for her so I’ve been crocheting ponchos because they’re easier for her to put on and take off now that she has trouble getting her arms into sleeves. I finished the first one last Sunday and then made a triangle scarf with the leftover yarn on Monday and posted them both on Tuesday. She seems pretty pleased with them. I’m already working on another poncho.
This week my trip outside the house was to see the wonderful wildlife cameraman Doug Allan talk about his life and work. For a man who mostly works behind the camera he’s a surprisingly charismatic speaker. He has that energetic enthusiasm that it’s hard to resist being charmed by and he’s also funny and smart. The talk was fascinating and entertaining but also compelling. As a professional diver who taught himself to be a camera operator after a chance meeting with David Attenborough he makes an excellent argument for having the courage to do new things. He’s also a powerful science communicator. I don’t think that anyone could walk away from his talk in any doubt about global warming.
Until this week I’d never had cause to go to any of the local theatres so I didn’t know how reasonably priced they are. Also, because of my disability, I qualify for a concession ticket price and a free ticket for a carer. The visit was more fun than I was expecting and I will definitely be going back.
And finally, Doctor Who is back on TV and I am delighted. I watched the first episode of the new series with the new Doctor, Jodie Whittaker, and I loved it. Showrunner Chris Chibnal made some very interesting choices that I would never have made and over the course of the series they could come back to bite him in the arse but over a single episode they seem to have paid off.
I look forward to the right wing press frothing about the female lead, the diversity of the cast and the fact that it was set in the North of England. I predict that they will attempt to simultaneously complain that the show is childish and also too violent and tragic for a kids’ show. I can’t wait to see the next episode.
It’s still Sunday so this is not late.
This week I have mainly been consuming media. Which makes it about the same as every other week, come to think of it. I finished listening to the audiobook of High Rise by JG Ballard which will definitely be getting a blog post. I finally got round to watching the first Kingsman movie, which might also be getting a blog post. I have been playing a lot of Destiny 2 which will, again, be getting its own blog post.
I also got out of the house. I went all the way to Edinburgh for a milkshake. Which might seem an odd choice given that I’m lactose intolerant but in my defense it had rum in it and I was consuming it in the presence of a friend. That friend gave me a birthday gift, a copy of Art Matters by Neil Gaiman, illustrated by Chris Riddell. And a reminder that at least three people care if I finish my current novel.
Yes it was my birthday this week. I am a year older and supposedly a year wiser. Not that I’ve ever claimed to be wise. I’d settle for being slightly less foolish but I am doubtful that it applies.
My mother continues to recover from her injuries. Regular readers will remember that my mother fell over her front steps and broke both arms. She broke her left forearm and wrist and her right shoulder. She already had an operation to pin her left arm back together. She’s recovering well from the first surgery.
The doctors took much longer to decide what to do about the other arm because she’d broken the top of the humerus bone, she has osteoporosis and they thought she might need a shoulder replacement. She had the shoulder replacement op this week and the break turned out to be worse than they thought. The top of the bone was shattered and she needed a different kind of replacement than they’d been expecting. She is recovering well from this new operation but it’s going to be a while before she’s back to full health and she’s going to need additional support.
It’s frustrating that there’s very little I can do to help. She can’t move back into her own home until her shoulder has healed. She can’t stay with me because my house is no more suitable than her own. It’s the same problem with the rest of the family but at least they can help to adapt her house or clear it for sale so she can move somewhere more suitable. I’m just stuck here too far away to help and too broke and disabled to travel there regularly. All I can do is maybe crochet her some ponchos and that doesn’t seem like enough.
Recently on Twitter much fun was had with the idea of women writing ourselves as a male author would. I couldn’t join in because I’m a disabled fat middle aged women and that means I’m invisible to most male authors. And actually a lot of female authors. And when they do write us it’s as comic relief.
I did get to join in with the “write yourself as you would write you” challenge but that left me wondering why I write so few fat characters. I think the truth is that I don’t trust myself to write fat characters. I’m worried that my own body image issues will creep through and I don’t want to put any more fatphobia in the world.
Perhaps I’m also subconsciously feeling like I’m the wrong person to write that kind of acceptance and diversity. I shouldn’t write positively about fat women because I’m a fat woman so it doesn’t count. But if I don’t do it then who will? There’s not a lot of skinny people queueing up to write warmly about fat people. Able bodied people tend not to write about the disabled, particularly not those with chronic pain. And neurotypical people are really bad at writing neurodiverse characters.
But then there’s a part of me that resists that. Don’t I get to write my fantasies of a life without pain, a life of full mobility, a life where I don’t have to spend every waking moment justifying the space I take up? I deal with that shit all day every day and now I have to write about it too? How is that fair?
If you’re the kind of masochist that enjoyed reading this rant why not buy me a coffee.
I have gained 200g. That’s the same less than statistically insignificant 200g that I lost last week. This week I’m menstruating so it could easily be that.
I am thoroughly pissed off with this diet. It’s partly because I’m not happy with my attitude to food right now and partly because the “Beast from the East” is making it impossible to properly plan my shopping.
I’m disabled so I rely on food deliveries to get the bulk of my groceries. I get a few things locally but my condition is variable so I can’t rely on being able to get out to the shops. So I can get a bit intense when Sainsbury decide to cancel deliveries with no notice or warning. Not even an email to say “No food for you. Soz,” with a handy ‘reschedule for a day when the weather isn’t trying to kill us all’ link to click on.
My options now are to come off the diet and eat all the store cupboard stuff that doesn’t really fit it until I can get a delivery or to go on the ‘I can’t eat anything because Sainsbury is run by bastards’ diet. Or find out how many of the local takeaway delivery drivers are nuts enough to be driving in this weather.
Wish me luck.
Every day the first thing that I do is to fight with my compression tights. And also my self image and my failing body. I say it’s the first thing but really the first thing I do is to wake up and curse the fact that I am awake and alive and that my life is still like this. Then I muster my limited mental resources for the act of will necessary to get out of bed. Then I fight.
It makes me so fucking angry. Getting up every day to fight a losing battle against the Lipoedema that will eventually turn me into a blob in a wheelchair. Being faced with the reality that I’m not strong enough to get my fucking tights on properly. Knowing that if I can’t master compression garments I won’t even get on the waiting list for the surgery that is the only lasting treatment.
Spending the next hour with weak arms and shaking hands because I’m not getting any better at this. Unable to go anywhere because I can’t get the tights to stay up while I’m walking. Fighting the urge to stab myself. To hack at the useless, lumpy flesh that’s destroying my joints.
And then I spend the rest of the day surrounded by the evidence of the chores that I can’t do because I’m too exhausted from my battle.
I’m trying to get better. I diet even though I hate it and I know it won’t fix the lipoedema. I try to exercise even though that hurts and so far actually seems to be making things worse. I’ve been trying the 100 squat challenge. It took me 3 days to get up to 100 squats but I haven’t managed it since because my right knee hurts too much. The knee pain woke me up this morning.
And the absolute worst is the feeling that it’s all worthless. What’s the point of all this fighting? All it does it makes me angry and tired. I’m giving up the ability to get stuff done now for the chance to be able to do more in the future. But that’s just not going to happen. I don’t get that lucky. This fight is doomed to failure and by fighting I’m making everything worse right now.
If you have enjoyed this post then why not buy me a coffee with Ko-Fi?
This one inspires more character development every time I listen to it. In part it’s a song about disability and co-dependance which are major themes in the story.
Like most songs by the Correspondents the lyrics seem both personal and specific. Their songs tend to get stuck in my head and send my imagination in all kinds of directions.
If you’re writing and you’re devoid of inspiration just look at a bunch of their videos on YouTube and if the music and the lyrics don’t get you going the visuals will.
For more of this go to the Playlist Page
After a very active weekend during which I had a couple of days where I ate less than half my allotted calories I have lost a whole 400g (just under a pound). And I’m in agony. And feeling like shit.
But at least I survived a 3 days of my Mum insisting that I should have a biscuit because they’re only small. She did make sure to tell me that she’s super proud of me for losing weight. It’s nice of her to say so but it doesn’t change the fact that the weight loss is meaningless.
Tomorrow (as I write this it’ll be yesterday by the time it posts) I have an appointment at the leg ulcer clinic. I don’t have a leg ulcer. I assume this is my Doctor trying to get me compression wraps. I predict that I will yet again be sent home with nothing but we shall see.
[Edit: I was not sent away with nothing. I got an actually useful referral. Yay!]
Last update. Diet Page
I realised a strange thing this week. Through the power of the internet I saw a Nazi go from blustering about his power to weeping in fear that police might shoot him. The comment section was full of people holding him up as an example of the fundamental weakness of Nazis as a group. Something about it seemed familiar. A also saw a young man who marched with Nazis and thinks that multiculturalism is cancer but swears he isn’t a Nazi complaining about getting death threats over the internet. Something about that seemed familiar too.
I realised that they were experiencing what it’s like to belong to a minority. They’ve been saying for years that white men are the ones who are really oppressed and now they get to find out what that’s actually like. You see when a woman fails she fails on behalf of all women. When a person of colour breaks the law the reaction is disproportionately harsh. When any member of a minority sticks their head above the metaphorical parapet someone will try to shoot it off. One needs privilege to survive mediocrity and incompetence.
I have no illusions that it will last. Either things are going to get very dark or the Natzis will climb back into their holes for a while and people will forget that there are still Natzis in the world. Very soon it will again be possible for white people to espouse the beliefs that sent millions to the gas chambers and plunged the world into war and other white people will pretend that they don’t really mean it.
But for a while perhaps thost of us who really do face discrimination and oppression are allowed a little schadenfreude at the idea of Natzis finding out what it’s like. They really don’t seem to have the constitution for it.
Well suck it up, buttercup. This is what life is like for everyone who isn’t an able-bodied, cis-gendered, heterosexual white man. This is what the rest of us put up with while you’re whining on the internet about how women oppress you by refusing your advances or sleeping with men you don’t approve of. While you’re blaming immigrants for depressed wages and affirmative action for keeping you out of your ‘rightful’ job the rest of us have been working twice as hard for half as much and being told that we should be grateful for it.