‘Cos I’m guilty, guilty as a girl can be.

So sang Bananarama in their 1987 hit Love in the First Degree.  Do you know it only got to number 3 in the charts; it was beaten to number 1 by Pump Up the Volume.  A classic no doubt, but my pocket money went on the ‘Rama. How can you not love the ‘Rama?  Anyways, I digress.  I was 10 in 1987, my clothes came from Tammy Girl and C&A, I fervently believed my toys came alive when I left the room and I had an almighty crush on Phillip Schofield who had broken my heart by leaving the Broom Cupboard.   I was also well on the way to developing the guilt complex I carry around with me every day. Poor 10 year old Bearface.

I feel guilty about everything.  Really, everything. I feel guilty about the books on my shelf that are shoved to the back, never seeing the light of day because I have to double them up because I have more books than shelf space, I feel guilty about the sweet cat that’s taken to frequenting my balcony in the mornings, even though she is clearly well fed and looked after, I feel guilty about the old people who now have to walk a bit further down the road to the temporary bus stop that’s outside my house.  I recognise these are ridiculous things to feel guilty about, and yet feel guilty I do.

Never mind how I feel about the people I know and the things I do, or don’t do.  This is where my guilt complex really takes over.  I feel terrible that I have let down a number of friends whilst I’ve been in my depressive slump.  Not that anyone has said “You’ve let me down, Bearface” – well one has but that’s a whole other story – but I feel like I have.  I feel like I’ve been a bad friend, selfish and self-obsessed.  I have a huge amount of guilt about my mum, that I didn’t do enough to support her through the last months and weeks of her life, that I didn’t love her enough to put her first.  I feel guilty that I don’t do enough to help my siblings cope with our rather difficult father.   For fuck’s sake I feel guilty when I see people arguing in the street and don’t intervene, when clearly it’s got bugger all to do with me! See?  Guilty about everything.

Now it hasn’t escaped my notice that in a certain light this could be viewed as entirely narcissistic – it’s all about me. But guess what? Yes!  I feel guilty about that too.  My therapist and I are going to be exploring all this guilt, where it comes from and how I can stop it from controlling my thoughts and behaviour.  It’s pretty easy for me to trace where it comes from but it’s a vicious circle which I need to break free of.

Right this second I am feeling guilty about the face that in the opening paragraph of this post I expressed a preference for Love in the First Degree over Pump Up the Volume.  Yeah, this really has to stop!

I guess I’m not in Singledom anymore.

I have a boyfriend. 

This is weird. Good weird, but weird nonetheless.

I haven’t had a boyfriend for three years; I liked being single and being in control of my own destiny, with only myself to please, and it was definitely by choice. Oh, alright, and also partly because my man radar was way off kilter and anyone I’ve got involved with has turned out to be highly unsuitable for one reason or another (or, just not that into me. We’ll ignore that).

Anyway, Mr Bearface as he is now known – I am nothing if not original – has odd interests. Odd to me as they are entirely outside my experience, that is. He does skateboarding and snowboarding and is as passionate about them as I am about singing and cheese, which is to say, very.   Given my complete lack of co-ordination and ingrained fear of anything approaching extreme sports it is unlikely I will ever be tempted to join him in either of these things.  I love that he has passions in life and feels like he’s come home when he does them, however, I must confess that on going to a skate park with him recently I did feel rather like his mum. Do I clap? Do I kiss it better if he grazes his knee? Do I sew up the patches in the jeans he only bought recently (fancy skating in them, young Bearface Esq) that have ripped from doing some kind of ‘move’?  I am really interested in the world surrounding his interests and the philosophies that accompany it, but I do feel slightly at a loss as I can’t contribute. I remember a girl I knew getting hold of a book like Rugby for Dummies or something and genning up on the rules, manoeuvres and positions of the game – it served her well, she made it with most of the rugby team as I recall. I, however, can’t quite bring myself to ferret out a similar book because I’d sound like a prick, suddenly spouting stuff about how to ‘ollie’ (I’m cringing right now)  so it’s a good thing I like listening to Mr Bearface enthusing; perhaps I’ll pick stuff up along the way.  It’ll be RAD.

Another weird thing is he’s a vegetarian.  And eats fake meat.  I’ll say it again. FAKE MEAT. I’ll be honest, I don’t see the point. Some of it does actually taste alright but I reckon that even as a carnivorous meat hound, I eat more vegetables than he does. I like meat.  I love meat. MEAT. That is all.

So from meat to flesh. Say hello to personal hygiene and grooming, everyone. Given that in the last year my ability to shower on a daily basis has been severely compromised by that fucker called Depression – seriously, getting out of bed to go to the toilet can be a seven hour process sometimes never mind actually washing – it is nothing less than extraordinary to find myself showering AND moisturising every single day. No one likes a smelly bear, after all.  Also (men, look away now lest you have all your illusions shattered) remembering to pluck those random granny hairs from your chin so that he doesn’t get stubble rash from kissing you; that’s a right old pain and yet I do it because I want to look good for him and for me and it’s been a while since I wanted to look good for anyone, least of all myself.

And oh how we laugh!  At nothing.  At each other. Laughing without even having to explain what I’m laughing at because he just knows.  I haven’t done this much laughing in such a long time and whilst I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s the best medicine (I am all about the SSRI’s and therapy) it is certainly making my smile, a lot, which after the bastard that was 2011 is no mean feat.   Anyone who says when they see me in my shitty old-man style striped and faded pyjamas “I don’t know if they have a brand* but if they did it would be ‘Convalescence’…” is getting the funnies right in my book.

Probably the weirdest thing about it all is the fact that I’m used to being the strong one in a relationship. The one who picks up the pieces, gives the advice and encouragement, grits teeth when said advice is duly ignored.  I do the looking after and admitting I might need some looking after in return is difficult and frankly, makes me nervous.  I wasn’t sure I’d manage being the one who needed propping up but do you know what, I sort of don’t mind and I know I need it.  I like not having to be the only one navigating the good ship ’Us’ through the tumultuous waters of life; I like knowing that there’s another hand on the tiller, helping to guide us to calmer shores. 

2012 is going to be a difficult year for me, lots of challenges with health, work and finances are threatening to send me toppling over the edge, but knowing that I’ve started the year laughing so much with someone who isn’t freaked out by my mentalism and situation is definitely a properly good beginning.  Weird, but good.

*Primark, seeing as you asked.

The Twitter Days of Christmas

My Christmas Follow Fridays.  

This lot have been amazing to me this year and I couldn't have got through it without them.  Much love to everyone who has supported me through this year.  Merry Christmas!

*sings lustily*

On the first day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @PrincessofVP

On the second day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @AndyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the third day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @AntiJanner, @AndyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the fourth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the fifth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the sixth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the seventh day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @ijclark, @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the eighth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @nosweetnothings @ijclark, @SharonGOONer@EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the ninth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @Miss_alaynius, @nosweetnothings  @ijclark, @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the tenth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @AliB68, @Miss_alaynius, @nosweetnothings  @ijclark, @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the eleventh day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @PantherPants, @AliB68, @Miss_alaynius, @nosweetnothings  @ijclark, @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

On the twelfth day of Christmas my Twitter gave to me @PJMardy, @PantherPants, @AliB68, @Miss_alaynius, @nosweetnothings  @ijclark, @SharonGOONer @EllaSimone @Aitchess @AntiJanner, @andyJamesHicks and @PrincessofVP

Last night a bookshop and a choir saved my life

Actually, they’ve been saving my life for the majority of this year, but last night saw my favourite choir singing carols in my favourite bookshop and having them both together gave me tingles and a warm love-filled glow.

I won’t dwell on it too much, but what with Stalker from Hell (AKA The Person) a work investigation into my mental health, the worst and most elongated episode of depression I’ve ever had and the heart-breaking, mind-fucking  consequences of it all, 2011 has been one heck of a bastard year.

Tottenham Community Choir has been a mainstay in my life for over two years but this year I have needed it more than ever.  Knowing that no matter how dreadful I am feeling, there are 70-plus friends who don’t judge or poke their noses in, who just care and want to enjoy singing with you has been a huge motivator in helping me come to terms with being afflicted with depression and has also been a massive reason to get out of bed.  I can’t even begin to express how much I owe the choir, even though the circumstances that led to The Person blighting my life are so intimately connected with them.  I feel I truly belong.

As for The Big Green Bookshop, I don’t think Tim and Simon have any idea just what they’ve done for me.  My weekly trip to have a natter, a cuppa and a mooch around the bookshelves were not just the random visits of a supposedly poorly girl who couldn’t be arsed going to work (as The Person suggested to my work), they were goals.  I set myself tasks to try and re-integrate myself with the real world. “Come on Bearface, put some clean clothes on and see if you can get as far as the bookshop” has been my mantra for months now.  I’ve also made some fantastic friends through the shop.  It’s such a community hub that you just can’t fail to meet people you connect with and I’ve been lucky enough to become part of that community, which is full of understanding, funny and supportive people.

People need people.  It’s easy to feel alone, isolated and unworthy of other people’s attention when you’re depressed.  Knowing that you are surrounded by those who just accept you as you are, listen when you need them to and make you laugh when nothing else can is a wonderful thing and I feel privileged to count choir and bookshop folk as my friends. I hope I can be there for them if they need me.

I don’t make new year’s resolutions as the pessimist in me thinks it’s just setting yourself up to fail, but I will make this one as it will be a piece of cake to keep; in 2012 I will sing songs with Tottenham Community Choir, read books from The Big Green Bookshop and nurture and cherish the friendships I have made in both.

Stigma

This weekend Stan Collymore took the brave step of tweeting about his experience of depression which struck a cord with many people, not least with me.  He writes eloquently and honestly and I found it a painful thing to read, chiming as it does with my own ongoing health.

Speaking up about mental health is frightening for anyone, especially as you anticipate there might be a negative reaction from some people, but I can’t imagine how it must feel if you've got well-documented incidence of adultery and domestic violence attached to your name.  

Not being a football fan, I have to admit these incidences passed me by, or at least I don’t remember the press coverage from 1998 and 2004, so when I tweeted earlier today “I might love Stan Collymore” I was taken aback to discover these things in his past and the subsequent implication that because of these things I ought to think differently about what Stan is doing. It made me pause. Can I really respect a man who cheated on his wife and beat up his girlfriend? Well yes, I can.  I’m not condoning what he did, of course I’m not, but do I have faith in the idea that people can change, regret and repent for their actions? Of course I do. What kind of a world would we be in if our entire personality and moral code was based on the very worst examples of them?  I doubt any of us would come up smelling of roses.  Just because you’ve done bad things in your past doesn’t mean you should not be valued and supported for the good things you do in the future.

To publically discuss your depression on  TalkSport radio and write about it when right in the middle of a bout is hugely commendable and an important step forward in the public comprehension of such a prolific and misunderstood illness.  

The overwhelming majority of people I see tweeting about what Stan wrote are people who either have suffered depression themselves or know someone who has, and this gives me real hope that with time, and the bravery of fellow sufferers famous or otherwise, we will someday reach a point where mental health is no longer stigmatised and we who suffer are given the compassion  we warrant and deserve. 

The Man and The Mouse

22:32
He laughed at the brazen mouse, poking his head above the parapet of the platform.  The other people stood waiting for the High Barnet-bound train turned their judgemental eyes towards him and looked not at all at the mouse.

22:33
The mouse sniffed, looked about him and disappeared. The Edgware train roared into the platform and paused, for breath.  He hoped the mouse was not caught beneath its wheels.

22:34
The mouse shook.  The ache and grind of the the monster's wheels never ceased to scare him.  He was a sham of an underground mouse. Hardy, fearless, thumbing his nose at the Big People - the mouse had never been that mouse.  He revelled in the "art of the tube" posters, he gorged on the 1930s prints of London attractions gone by. If he'd have known what it meant, he would have described himself as an Arts mouse, an aesthetic mouse, a mouse destined to appreciate greater things.

22:35
The man on the platform shuddered slightly as he watched the mouse scuttle across the tracks, fearless and brazen;  the people on the platform entirely disregarded by the mouse.  Suddenly the mouse poked his small, inquisitive nose above the platform edge.  The man jumped back and involuntarily emitted a scared squeak of his own.   Ashamed, he glanced about him.  His fellow platform dwellers feigned disinterest. What, he wondered, is worse? Disparagement or studied indifference?

Sing, even when you're not winning

My earliest memories are of my mum singing. She sang doing the washing up, she sang doing the hoovering, she sang all the time and it’s something that’s rubbed off on me. Unfortunately I don’t have anything like the voice she had – she had the chance of a recording contract in her late teens but never followed it up; marriage, kids, life got in the way – but the love of it has always been with me.

I stopped singing when I auditioned for my sixth form production of Sweet Charity. I’d never sung on my own in front of anyone except my family and I was beyond nervous. Consequently the noise that came out of my voice was more akin to an elephant passing wind through a badly tuned bagpipe than Shirley Maclaine and I ran from the room, mortified and crippled with embarrassment, vowing never to sing in front of anyone ever again.

Fast forward a decade and the confidence that comes from a few too many teamed with a karaoke night in the local led to me occasionally getting up and belting out a bit of Patsy Cline to the late night stragglers propping up the bar. One of said stragglers was my then partner who, for whatever reason, found my getting up and singing in front of a bunch of drunks incredibly shameful and he’d often storm out in a mood.

Then in 2009 that relationship ended and my love affair with singing was re-kindled. I ventured along to a rehearsal of a new local choir. You didn’t have to audition, or be able to read music, or even think you could sing, perfect for an unconfident, shy and emotionally bruised woman such as I. The joy I felt on hearing and actually being part of a group of people singing together in harmony is one I’d never experienced before – falling in love, sex, getting my degree, becoming an aunty, nothing came close to the all-encompassing feeling of pure uplifting happiness I felt. I left that rehearsal feeling like I’d come home.

As someone with a long-term history of depression I can honestly say singing is good for your soul. No matter how bad I am feeling (and if you’ve read any of my other posts you’ll know that how I’ve been feeling over the past eight months or so is pretty fucking dreadful) two hours in the comforting, motherly arms of my choir on a Tuesday night is a balm to my aching, frayed mind.

When I sing now I still get the same sense of joy I felt at that first rehearsal even when I am feeling isolated, melancholy and crippled with fear. I’d love to syphon off that feeling, decant it into those old-fashioned blue-glass bottles and give one to everyone I know.