Sunday, December 23, 2018

I'd rather write this Christmas (than play board games)

Over on Academic Twitter I've a tweet that's getting a bit of attention.



What started (as most good things do) as a good old fashioned subtweet has come to sumarise some of my feelings about the season. And created a few more.

The point of the tweet was that many academics (and creatives for that matter) will be spending part of Christmas working in some capacity. Many of us will be working at our 'Day jobs' in retail or hospitality, or indeed at our 'real jobs' in the theatre for some of it. Whether it's for money or creativity, well done, and may the Christmas asshats be few (I'll be running the gallery Christmas eve, and grateful this year it's unlikely I'll get shouted at by customers on Christmas eve).

But many of us will be working elsewhere over the break as well. Many will be reading, writing, editing beavering away on projects because the Christmas break gives them some downtime, and more importantly headspace to do that.

The flip side: if you need Christmas off to totally switch off and recharge, then come back at it in the New Year. Crack on! you do you.

Of course the 'You need a break, it's bad working practice to work over the break' neglects a key factor: many academics (and creatives) have a job outside their 'real work' to pay the bills. So the shut down over Christmas is a rare and ideal time to do some 'real work' when the rest of the world has stopped for a couple of weeks. It's actually a privilege to have that 'You must have a real break' mentality. And maybe some people need to remember that, and check their privilege before they tell others how to manage their time, run their lives or their careers.

Oh also the minor detail perhaps that not all academics (or creatives) are Christian....or celebrate Christmas in any way. And as I said in a follow up tweet, I'm not suggesting anyone references over Christmas dinner, but by 27th December when it's pissing down with rain and there's nothing good on TV...well a few hours writing sound like utter bliss to many of us.

Because here's the other thing, this 'take a break for Christmas' assumes everyone has a log-burning-on-the-fire-families-playing-games Christmas.

And that's the other side of what I've been thinking a lot this year.

I'm sick of feeling second-rate because I don't play board games at Christmas.

Firstly, board games are fairly hard to play when you're an only child and it's just you and your Mum. Secondly, the board games playing, no TV on Christmas, presents after lunch...seems like a weird Middle Class parallel world that looks nothing like my Christmases past or present.

More importantly the frankly nauseating refrain of 'Christmas being about family' but meaning a very specific version of 'family' that involves large gatherings of extended family makes people like me, with no real extended family to speak of, feel a bit...well flat inside.

So while I might joke that Christmas involves drinking gin and watching crap telly with Mum because I'm common as muck. But also you can't help but feel like not having a family to sing carols with in some pseudo Dickensian manner around a tree is somehow a personal failing.

Add to that the being a certain age and not running around with partner, kids etc of my own. And my Hallmark Christmas gets viewed as more and more tragic. I don't know what it is this year, but because I'm not 'driving home for Christmas' being so excited to see a plethora of extended family or celebrating with a picture perfect family, but instead staying where I always do, contemplating what work I can get done in the quiet time...I feel like I'm failing at Christmas.

None of that is to judge anyone who does, and genuinely enjoys that kind of Christmas. That's great, and truly I'm happy for whatever makes any of us happy. But I know there's loads of us out there with weird mixed up families, people we'd rather not spend time with. Odd traditions, no traditions. And all those who've lost people they wish were here. This is all for you. Just because your Christmas doesn't look like a film. Just because you do your own thing (maybe you go to the pub, eat Chinese food, celebrate a day early or late). This one's for you. Let's all do us.

More importantly I'm sick of feeling a bit rubbish and sad because Christmas for me doesn't look like it 'should'.  Honestly? Christmas films don't do it for me. I'm not big on Christmas parties. I'm not big on family (having never really had one of those big family-type families). You know what I'm big on? making and eating a metric shit tonne of food. Hanging out with my Mum. Watching crap telly. Drinking. All of these things bring me actual joy.

And on Boxing Day, if I feel like doing some writing, rather than sitting there feeling guilty about wasted time. I bloody well will. Because in the long term that'll make me happy too. In the short term as well. Because there's only so much shit TV I can watch.


Friday, December 14, 2018

'Just write it' and other stupid/sensible advice



This is a blog about how writing a book is so much more than sitting your arse down and writing (though that helps).

In recent weeks (months?) every single night without fail, at around 9pm until sometimes Midnight I've had a tightening in my chest and a sense of being paralysed with panic, for not writing the book. No matter if I had (rarely) worked on the book that day. No matter how flat out I'd been with other things. No matter if I was too ill to be working (but had anyway). I went to bed each night utterly gripped with the fear of failure- and that I'd brought it on myself.

This totally came to a head last week, which was the anniversary of getting the contract. I've had to ask for several extensions. It should have been done long ago, and I still don't know if it'll be done in time for this deadline.

Everything I say sounds like a million excuses. Which they are.  But while writing a book is sitting your arse down and writing, it's also a million other things. It's earning a living first and foremost. Unless you're very privileged. It's living life day to day- buying food and walking the dog. It's also keeping a social life, self care, whatever else you want to call it. Because you need to stay sane. Especially if it's a subject that needs a little bit of your heart and soul.

And all the above has been a struggle in the last 12 months. Everything has frankly been a struggle. I  feel like I've been ground into the ground by this year. The truth of the matter is the book has been bumped off time and time again, because there's always something else.

But the truth is also, you can't give something like this the attention it deserves if your head isn't functioning as it should. For me the biggest cause of mental health issues is job related stress- more accurately lack of job related stress. This year was a year of it. And so in January this year there was the murder-admin job, that destroyed my confidence, and very much messed with my head. Then came months of temping in the Hospital. Only this week, a friend reminded me he'd told me to quit, because of what it was doing to me, but I couldn't. And so the book wasn't getting written. As much as unemployment should serve writing, it doesn't when you worry how you're going to pay the next bill.

It me, despairing over the state of things

And then there's the creative projects. Two plays, which I couldn't say no to. But I found out in the summer, that there isn't enough room in my head for two intense plays and an equally intense book. Luckily after one spectacular breakdown, my incredibly understanding producer let me shelve our project for a bit. And as a brilliant friend, every time I try and pick it up reminds me that the book comes first now, for a bit.

But that's the panic, in this world, that we can't let a single opportunity pass us by. So I kept saying yes to everything else, every opportunity, because we're all conditioned to not let anything pass us by, lest that was our 'ticket' to the thing we wanted.

But the thing was all that was distracting me from the thing I wanted, which I already had: the book. But because I think nobody will care, because I think everyone thinks the more important thing is to get a real job, to get back on the prescribed career path, be a proper grown up, I kept sacrificing the one thing I wanted, for everything else. Which then left me awake at night, paralysed with fear and guilt about not doing it.

Someone said to me this week, maybe I'm scared to finish because I don't know what's next. And while that's not wrong- I've been living with this in one way or another for so long, being without it is a scary thought. It's more than that. I think some people build to the big thing, the thing that's most important to them. And it feels like, for now, and the foreseeable future, there won't be anything like this for me. And that's a scary thing. It's a scary thing to think about being over yes, but it's also about the pressure to get it right. The sense of having got this far, and then royally fucking it up is really what's terrifying me, what's holding me back.

It's also, as my friend pointed out today, a result of the damage caused by m academic experience. That work- the first half of the book at least- is directly from my PhD. It's all the work that time and time again I was told wasn't good enough. Told that I wasn't good enough. Because also, contrary to what some people think criticising the work is and always will be personal, if it's done badly. Which it was. It's no secret that my PhD broke me. I know now that I was better than they let me be, I know that my work is better than they ever gave me credit for. But undoing that level of systematic bringing down, well it's hard.


And because, despite it all, I love it. I love it so much. And it is so ridiculous, and so difficult to explain to anyone. I love these plays. I love the productions (yes even the one with the penis). I love that sitting through and writing about a Kushner play is a particular kind of self inflicted torture.  I love every stupid thing Andrew Garfield said to the press over two years. I love James McArdle (obviously). I love the stupid rain machine I've dedicated far too many words to. I love pulling together my love of Cold War Politics and theatre. I love screaming 'Have you no decency'. I love my group of fangirls and boys who know exactly what I mean by that. I love Marianne Elliott just for all of it.

And I want to do this work right, by all of the above. (Even bloody Tony.)



I don't know what I'd be without this play. But I also feel like I've got a lot to prove with this work. But to pull those two together, I just have to write it like I love it. Because that's all I can do.

My friend Kirsty gave me the greatest Christmas gift this week- she got me to come and stay with her and her family for a few days, and work on the book. Now I didn't bash out 1000s of words, locked away in a room like in a 'proper' writing retreat. That wasn't the point. What I got was far more valuable. I got two full days of just sitting and working on the book- but with someone in the room to a) make sure I did, and didn't just do another thing b) someone to talk to about it who understands. More important than that, really, was taking me out of my everyday life for a bit. I haven't had a break this year, and stopping, being in another place, having kids to entertain and gin to drink (not at once honest) and just stepping back for a second.

It is about sitting your arse down and writing. And I have, having counted today 139, 000 words of the book (way more than I need). I have done work. It is there. It will be there. But it's so much more than just sitting down and writing. And it takes a village to do that.

And as it's Christmas. As it's been a year, a big thank you to everyone who has listened to the writing of the book (or indeed the not writing). And everyone who has believed in it so far. Every time one person tells me they want to read it, I think it's worth it. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one.




Friday, December 7, 2018

Coming out - Ulcerative Colitis (or my body hates me sometimes)

It's Crohn's and Colitis awareness week, and I decided fairly last minute to put this blog out there. It feels like coming out of the, as Joey Tribiani would say 'non gay closet'. And actually harder. I'm happy being a raging Queer. Not quite so happy sharing the sometimes disgusting ways my body has betrayed me in the last five years.

I have Ulcerative Colitis. I don't even get the cooler older sister Crohns that people have actually I don't know, heard of. So I don't even get to name it mostly, I just say 'it's a condition like Crohns'. Diagnosed five years ago, and something of a dirty secret of mine since then. It's not, let's face it, a particularly sexy disease is it?

What is it? well this blog here explains it better than I do in medical terms. But basically it's an inflammatory bowel disease and autoimmune condition. Incurable, if treatable with a whole host of secondary symptoms that make life super duper fun. And of course it's about stomaches, and let's face it, poo. And nobody likes talking about that.

Funny that I spend my professional life shouting people should talk about HIV and sex, but my own illness, I hide in the non-gay closet over. It still very much feels like 'nice girls shouldn't talk about that' but well, since when have I been a nice girl anyway?

So yes, I have Ulcerative Colitis. It's a big old bag of not fun. But it's also a hidden chronic illness, which comes with a whole bag of issues. Including if I'm honest a sense of shame about it. That because I usually function fairly well, that I'm not ill 'enough' to claim chronic illness. That if it doesn't totally disable me then I'm not impacted enough to talk about it. But of course it does, I've just adapted, and of course there's the looming possibility of what it might do to me in the future.

My diagnosis was awful. From about 9 months going back and forth to GPs (not their fault, even when they know what it is they have to 'prove' they've tried enough before referring). I was on peppermint pills for months. Because it settles a stomach. They do nothing, funny enough for autoimmune disease.

It's a terrifying illness pre-diagnosis. Mainly because your body offers up a vast array of symptoms that make no sense in isolation, or indeed together. The most terrifying of course is bleeding. Yes. You bleed when you poo (I said this was going to be honest). I don't really have to explain how this is terrifying right? Also often accompanied by excruciating pain. Let's be real about this, this set of symptoms, especially if like me, you come from a family where everyone dies of Cancer, you pretty much think that's what you're going to get. Added to this around the same time I got pulled in for a dreaded second Cervical Smear, and I remember saying 'I always knew I'd get Cancer I just thought I had a bit longer than 30 before I did.' It was a terrible time. And didn't get much better with diagnosis.

And oh the story of my diagnosis. I went to the hospital. I got poked in ways I will spare you. The one Doctor called in another (always a reassuring sign, right?) and muttered 'UC right?' before the other left. He gave me a cursory account of the condition, packed me off to X Ray and out the door.

Bad enough.

It gets worse.

The next day I'd gone to London, to see a show. I'd gone straight to lunch with a friend and didn't pick up my phone until about 3. I had a message from the Consultant that boiled down to 'You need to come back in' Well that's not a message you want right? Right. Between my Mum, his wonderful Secretary and I we spent a couple of hours chasing phone messages. He'd left no indication of what, why or how urgent. And the longer it went on the more panicked I became. Did I say all this was taking place in Paddington Station? at one point I was crying so hard a woman walked past, walked into a Pret, and brought me back some tissues.

Long story short, the last time I saw The Drowned Man I spent much of it convinced I was dying (but hey what a way to go...)

Anyway it turned out there was an issue with clarity on an X Ray. Which you know, would have been nice to know. But the nightmare didn't stop there. Which treatment to have varies wildly from Doctor to Doctor, and I was on a personal mission to avoid being put straight on Steroids. The ins and outs (pun intended) are not important. But eventually we settled on one of the milder medications, and a 'wait and see' attitude.

And so it's been five years, and that's where we still are. Things are no worse overall, though it's an illness that flares, so some days, weeks and months are worse than others. I'm on asacol, a form of mesalazine, which, well let's face it I don't know what it does but for now it works ok. Since the first year went ok I was moved to nurse led treatment, which is a dream. I go in, she remembers me, and as long as nothing much as changed we carry on as we are. I love my IBD Nurse for that attitude. When it needs interference, we'll interfere.

That's not to say it's plain sailing. Others with chronic illnesses will recongise maybe the difficulty in taking medication daily. Especially when it's for an illness you can't alway 'see' or 'feel' you think you can come off them, you don't need them. There's a sense of shame, about taking them. About being broken. So you go off, you get ill, you make things worse. Chronic illness diagnosis is a mental health impact as much as a physical one, and it's taken me five long years, and no support on that side to figure that out.

And physically too, there are times when it's, frankly horrendous.  Not only does my digestive system decide to wage war against me, in many disgusting and painful ways, but there's a multitude of other symptoms that go hand in hand with autoimmune diseases. Tiredness. I often wonder why I'm so exhausted, and it turns out to be a bout of chronic illness related fatigue. Muscle and joint aches are another one. Side effects from medication. My migraines also. It's all a wonderful disgusting mish-mash.

And then there's the fear. The fear looking forward. Yes there's the increased risk of bowel Cancer, though actually with regular screenings and *Shudder* more colonoscopies than I'd wish on my worse enemy, it's likely anything of that nature would be caught far sooner, so hey maybe I'm lucky!?

But then there's the very real likelihood of having an ileostomy or colostomy. Fun times right? (basically removal of large chunks of the bowel and having to, well have a bag to do all that stuff attached to you, depending on how it's done). I'd be lying if I said I never thought about it, or it didn't scare me. But it is what it is. And in the last year, watching Youtuber Hannah Witton go through it, a bit younger than I am, and cope, gives me hope it'll be alright- if not easy then alright- if/when it happens to me.

In fact for anyone curious about all of that, I highly recommend her videos:



And so that's it. That's my dirty little health secret. One that's harder to admit than coming out of the closet. One that doesn't affect me, yet affects my daily life constantly. As well as my mental health. But it's worth being able to talk about. To say that maybe cancelling plans last minute isn't because I'm a ditz (sometimes it is) sometimes it's because my body just doesn't want to play. And it's worth sharing for that hypothetical day in the future where it all goes really wrong. Or to help someone else out there too.