Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Sometimes, I just have to whinge. Only the poor souls who have this blog on a feed reader will notice this post.

We moved on Saturday. Nothing bad happened, except it was much longer and stressful than anticipated, and ended up costing twice what I'd expected. Certainly hadn't expected it to take in excess of 6 hours. But that's Coogee for you. No parking access for movers, and nothing but tight twisty little stairs.

I had to be present the whole time, and sitting watching people you're paying move large heavy objects in the heat and stairs without assisting is awful. Even though I knew I couldn't do the same without doing damage to myself. Even though I'd specifically paid for these people so I would not have to.

I don't know if I will ever stop apologising for advocating for myself.

The new flat is small, which is fine, but until all furniture is assembled and in place, until the boxes are mostly unpacked and sorted, it's a horrible awkward maze. Cramped cluttered places make for tense little minds.

New location means far more traffic noise. And human noise. Quality of sleep isn't as good, but then, I've been so tired of late it probably hasn't mattered.

Toilet no longer a claustrophobic closet which enforces guilt re: my not having a lovely slender frame. We have an enormous old cast-iron freestanding bathtub which I know will come in very handy.

I'm tired. I'm just so tired. Tendonitis from shoving boxes around to get mildly unpacked. Shoulders and neck and wrists and elbows aflame. Exhaustion so that my bones feel as though they are made with lead and grief. The mental fog is thick as...nothing. Perhaps double cream is thick as cognitive fog.

Even Poppy is exhausted. She spent the first couple of days falling asleep on my laptop. Not playing, not preening. She simply didn't have the energy. Starting to come better now, but it just goes to show how hard an event like this hits a house.

I just.


I could be a fully able bodied.

And do these strenuous things our society requires of us.

I'm very tired.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

The Books of Yesterday, Messing With You. Still.

My desk is against some book cases, as if I can't have a window, a wall of books provides ample static life and colour. This time, I was looking at the spines of my olde Dragonlance books, omnibuses and anthologies, cracked from being reread more times than any other book I have ever owned.

And it just occurred to me, wondering if I related more to Kit or Laurana, that the reason these books caught me in the first place, more than the dragons or the fantastic and impossible landscapes, was Tanis Half-Elven. 

At first read, I had a significant crush on him. Because he was half-elven, and as a girl I wasn't immune to the glamour. He was also biracial, and bullied, discriminated against and ostracised for that, and I think that there is the first time I had seen my own story in fiction. 

I'm not twelve anymore, and Tanis is to me now one of the more irritating characters, suffering from an understandable overabundance of self-pity which never pays respect to the true complexity of an identity born of rejection and defined by what it is not. 

I could champion this as an example of how "inclusive" the speculative genres are, that I could find myself reflected in them as a child. But seriously, come on. As a twelve year old girl the only could-be-interpreted-as representation of myself I could find in all the books I devoured was a white older man of a made-up Uber-Aryan-Magic-Race, who wailed, found some dragons and then got intimate with eville gods. Then wailed some more. Seriously, Tanis is super annoying. 

Of course it wasn't a straight projection into Tanis, being as he was an older white man and as I was a hormone-struck straight child I was often torn between wanting to marry him and live happily ever after, and wanting to be him. Of course this meant that my relationship with his relationship with his "half-sister" and fully elven Laurana was equally as conflicted, being as I wasn't sure if I wanted to be her, in order to marry Tanis and live happily ever after, or loathe her utterly, for being fully elven, fully accepted and completely belonging to her elven culture and elven family and she was also a royal princess and she and Tanis weren't actually related by blood (much), and she was essentially everything I could never be as these were things that were set in motion at birth, and could not be altered. 

Conversely, my relationship with Kitiara, Tanis's eville human lover who was a bad influence and constantly led him astray and broke his heart, was fine. I admired her for being confident in herself, in what she wanted and how she was going to get it. She could do much better than Tanis, in my opinion, and did. (Dalamar is the subject for another post.) I was in awe of her, wanted to be her but knew that also wasn't ever going to be the case because dude, no one kicks that much arse unless they're fictional.

This rather binary dichotomy of the conflict between the two races in Tanis's blood being embodied by the conflict between his two rather polarised lovers is telling. There is never any suggestion of reconciliation and harmony; Tanis must chose one, and in doing so also align his morality. 

So Tanis gets his pure-blooded elven princess and Kitiara dies a horrible death and I wonder why sometimes my view of the world is a little off kilter.

I'm glad the biracial kids of today have the books of today. 

Represent and respect.

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.