Tuesday, 3 January 2017

The First Rule of Feminism:

To seek equality for all.

Inherent in this is an individuals right to autonomy, both of the body and of the mind, and expressions of and opportunity to such.

Criticisms: devils advocate, common form of posed debate qs to antagonise friction and lend to argument of annihilation or subversive support of patriarchy.

The cost of silencing. Broad perspective vs limited/hyper focus. Ignorance reviles, silence perpetuates.

Trans issues within feminism
the external, personal liberty, rights to be free from violence and subdigation, to be held equal in the law and day to day life. Toilets!

The internal: gender theory, labeling, socialisation vs biology, stereotypes.

Intersectionality not only allies to overlap in harms for different labeled sectors of minorities, but also to how injustices are enacted within society via law, politics, media and opinion.

Every thing is a shit for an awful lot of people, rise of the far right and nationalist attitudes.

key areas
Education; more about pretty little league tables than actually educating children and ya in politics, un-biased history and the relevant sciences, on how to formulate and write an argument without embracing the modern mode of snark and quick, dismissive, one liners.


Another random snippit found, written in an insomniac haze, after reading a letter in the guardian relating to free speech and trans rights. There was a lot of drama at the time and it rather annoyed me. Equality is equality. We have far to go and biting each others throats helps none.

Interestingly since this there has been a small but steadily growing awareness and acceptance of those who identify as trans* particularly in schools. These stories have reached main media, with an awful lot of hate too, but there is education. My son, when he was about six, really enjoyed a documentary style show on cbeebies. He was admittedly a bit miffed that anyone would have an issue with such a child at all, and quite admired his haircut. It just kinda made sense to him at that age when all children are thinking about simple ways to express their forming identity.

We adults understand that it is more complex than that, there is a long history to overcome. And yet it is also that simple. People can just be who they want to be, and we can except one another, support, and be better people. 

We can actualise the future we are fighting for in such acceptance and guidance in the methods we use to achieve it.

Wednesday, 28 December 2016

Not done yet

Last nights post was all fury and demand.

Still awaiting the truth.

Still awaiting much.

I feel the need, given the circumstances, given that fury, to reiterate that it is love that is the motivation. The need for improvement, not just for my son and myself, or this shitty little town in this all too conservative county in this flailing country that we live in, but for all those that exist in this culture that makes it all too abundently clear that it does not care.

I care.

I fight. And although my feeds are limited in regard to the news and activism I used to be part of, I am aware that there are others that care, that fight, that raise their voices. And still I say: arise, awake. Say no, refuse to obey, break the cycle of silence and harm.

We have that power. Even against odds that seem stacked against us: we are the many. We can resist. We can persist. You do not have to be but another cog that keeps the machine turning.

Where possible I try to move within our cultural bounds, and see how these are failing. Tired and useless. Nothing seems to be achieved, and those whose jobs it is to work on the frontlines now only pass the buck and point to it being someone elses responsibility. I was never naive about this, but still, I am disgusted with how very little is being done.

Just a few paltry campaigns and picture ops with no real action, just a few logged incidents or complaints, a few words in interview or meetings brief and stirring the bad not alleviating it. That is it. This is the help, the support, the back up. Bullshit.

We need to demand better, whether a member of the public, or one working in these services. Stop making excuses. Stop waiting for some miraculous change, blinking stupidly as all crumbles into degradation and muttering "my hands are tied". They are not. I have experience that, literally....there is a vast difference.

We have everything we need for a forward facing, inclusive and compassionate culture; one which nurtures people and provides opportunity, which celebrates all the wonderfulness people are capable of....when they are not marginalised, or suppressed, or beaten, or starved, or raped, or made homeless, or all the other countless ways in which the people are broken into manageable units for those in power to chew over and suck all value from. Why do we allow this...why do we continue to except the strangle hold of our so called betters, of the so called law that governs their ability to continuously fuck us over...

Enough. Let go of the illusion. Let go of the labels, of the pacifying tactics of a few gaudy baubles or promises of a little bit extra if you shut up and bend over oh so conveniently for the patriarchal cock that will gleefully shaft you, and your family, and all that you hold dear.

Stop turning on one another, stop your casual nastiness and enjoyment of a label thats held in a tiny more esteem but really means nothing, stop your bullying and your set up opposition and fractioning of our strength. Damn fucking straight, we are all in this together. A state sanctioned atrocity. One that spans generations, and decades, and will continue to do so if we simply do not say: enough.

To simply refuse to continue this false narrative of justified hierarchies.

We are all people. We are one.

We are strong. We do not need to obey, to harm, to accept the continuance.

Alone, we suffer. Seperated, we are weakened. Isolated, our voices lack resonance.

Together we can enforce change.

If you break this silence.


Tuesday, 27 December 2016

cough cough

I cannot even begin to describe how very fucking much I have had enough of this bullshit drama I have found myself in, berift of all that matters; namely love, care, compassion. My son, still.

People often spout platitudes at this time of year, all that hope and goodwill lies people tell has they scoff and purchase and pretend to give a shit about anything. Have hope, have hope, nearly there.

Fuck that. Fuck all of you who are culpable in the misery that has been enforced.

You can stop. Right now. You could contact me here, or on social media, or in person, and say; "yes, this awful mess is real. I acknowledge. Here are the details..."

Because I do not understand, still. Though Ive long figured out my actions and words, whether private or in public, are shared and known. People comment in the street. I enter countless orchestrated situations. Reeks of some shitty Derren Brown reality show. How much do you see, how far is this spread, what the context is....

I dont know that.

I know that I tell the truth to those I meet. That during this I have been raped twice, at least that I am aware of. That I am writing this with healing fractures, that I have been assaulted numerous times and recently been wrongfully sectioned and assaulted by gangs of so called professionals administering overdoses. That someone who claimed to love me, my old best friend, spent our entire relationship being abusive. That people who have raped me, assaulted me, or been witness to these events in the past have been paraded before me in obviously staged circumstances. That all services are refusing to do their jobs correctly, or help in any way and only continue the harm. That all of this is real.

That you have been coughing down your sleeves and laughing the whole way through.


What the fuck do you think excuses this....

Not to mention that a little child has been left without his mother. This time can never be replaced. I will never forgive any of you who are culpable if he has been further harmed, if he has truly been with his abusive cunt of a father this whole time. The man that literally tried to kill me.

This is not a trick. Not a game.

It needs to end.

I am about to be made homeless. I am struggling with healing. But I will not give in to the abuse. I will not be silenced. I will get my son home.

I sincerely hope that you have been mis-led. Despite my telling you the truth over and over again. This is not an act.

Yes I am an activist and so as awareness filtered to the top, here and there, more and less, I willingly gave voice to social issues. There are many others that suffer too, also very real, also horrifically common place and everyday and in need of stopping. That was desperation: that perhaps some glimmer of good may arise from this. I stand by this, still, though those same services and causes have harmed me too. And laughed, and primped.

Such fun, isnt it! Trying to break some one. Attacking them, drugging them, raping them, breaking their bones, scarring their flesh, destroying a chance at a life, a home, a family. Taking their fears, their nightmares, and making them manifest. Such fun, so titter ha ha.

Again, what do you think is worth this...what lies could you have been told to make you think this is ok.

It is not ok.

It is real.

Break the silence and stop the harm.

I did not give permission.

I do not want this.

There is a court order superceding my will, I believe. That is the only way this could be done. Whatever you think it is, this has also been used for a clean up: investigations and expose. The courts have over view, undoubtedly. They have allowed this.

Again, why...any of this could have been achieved in a better manner, if anything has been achieved at all apart from the harm. I am reluctant to think that it has, as shallow and brief as the scenarios have been. The pathetic drama of it, and those I come into contact with, sickens me.

Though, sure, that may also be recovering from multiple overdoses of paracetmol, and olanzapine injections.

The way everyone just uses. Just abuses. Just makes excuses and stupid symbols. Like it has any substance or meaning. Like I should just lighten up and "enjoy the wild ride". Fuck You.

I want it over, I want out. I want my son.

And I saw him briefly the other day, just for a few precious moments, unexpectedly; and they were the only moments worth living for since last I saw him. he has grown so much, still the most wonderful child ever, but quieter and uncertain. He is 8 years old and he needs his mummy. We need to be whole again.

I dont care what you think this is, help me end it. Please.

Dont be the monsters in the dark.

Sunday, 24 April 2016

Reality, Part II: Processed

I questioned, of course, tried to refuse. Tried to explain that I was indeed sane whilst sweating in an old jumper and trying to control the panic and disbelief that this was happening.

I tried rationality, calling my mother and offering to stay with her and seek the proof of a mental health assessment to offer reassurance. At first they seemed to listen, approving the idea, but after a quick phone call with her manager the emergency social worker refused.

\later I found out that this voice on the other end of the line was Kav, whose husband had worked with my abusive ex for years together at a local factory. Once he had followed me into an ally way, becoming aggressive and holding me in a place as he told me of a social work he knew and that one day a file would cross her desk and then they would have me. This was summer 2014, just before he moved into the problematic address, and a couple of weeks before my head injury. At the time I had thought it one of his empty threats, and though feared and a bit bruised, such occurrences were well normalised and I continued.

My mother arrived and gave me the number of a solicitor she had used in her divorce. I only got through to a secretary as it was out of hours. I was told I had no choice. To leave freely, or to try and take my son and be sectioned and/or arrested.

as i left with my mother something broke.

They came to the house and I pressed his blanket and the mother beast (though I forgot the cacoonses) and a few other special things he would need. I promised to supply them with an assessment, that I had a court order. They offered small pleasantries and mutterences and then left.

I called my GP and asked for an assessment, receiving an apt for the next day. 20 minutes before I left to attend the next morning Kav and a social worker from the previous day and had a quick tea and face to face introductions. They seemed reasonable and would want to know what the GP said. I said I wanted my son back and would need to know the dates of when she wanted to meet to complete her assessments, as I was sure that his being taken was not legal, and the the mental health allegations were evidenced against.

Thing is, do you remember this post. Weird shit was going down, I had been hurt and those that hurt me that night tried again the night before mother's day 2015. I was spiked. Someone tried to stab me. It was chaotic and leery and I don't trust my memories of it. One of those I thought I could trust, after offering a bit of respite at his place, then also spiked me...again. Just about managing not to pass out I got a taxi and limped home.

apt1: My ribs were sore, and I still had difficulty breathing after a week or so, so popped for a check up with the nurse. I read fantasy, I know the risk of bone fragments migrating. My oxygen levels were good, but she wanted to get the GP to double check. I agreed and made the apt.


apt2: Now, my surgery, like most surgeries, is really busy. You take what apts are available, and I had never actually had an apt with my registered GP. I had presented as emergency with my injuries and been seen by who was available at the time. However, children's services, had been in contact and sown the seeds of negative bias. They assumed the nasty rumours were true and looked for verification.
"She says she has a head injury."
"I've never even seen her." {does not check medical file}
"So she is a liar, then. Dangerous too."
"Seems so."
This is the image that I walk into, thinking I'm just going for a second opinion. I'm immediately discredited, not believed about the assault and now with added extra's of apparent claims of sexual assault by the police. I am told that I am delusional and that he will make a referral to social services. He argues with me about a repeat prescription of anti-inflammatory and then claims he thought I was after something stronger. He talks to me like a misogynistic pig. Then he calls in a female doctor and ask me to strip for the examination of my ribs, pulling at my vest and not listening when I protest that I am not wearing a bra. The examination is cursory as his fingers touch my skin, not the parts that are injured. I leave in shock. This was the morning of the day my son was taken.

apt3: My mother had arrived again that morning to be there for the cuppa with Kav and came along to this apt. This time it was the GP who had been treating my head injury and the general practitioner manager. I requested a MHA. They put the referral through on emergency and asked me if I thought I needed help. I clarified that I needed proof, and I needed to get my son home. he said he just wasn't sure with me, and looked at me sideways. (Some men are intimidated by a woman's intellect, or a woman pursuing oversight of adequate medical care for a serious injury and and gynecological issues the realistic instance of which men still doubt in the older medical community. Thank fuck for women, junior doctors and modernisation of medical research...oh wait, no, the government are screwing them over too.)

My mother and I return to her house, the dogs need feeding and I make numerous phone calls to seek legal advice; all of which is that my son should be returned, I was clearly quite rational, during this the MHA team got in contact and then promptly arrived and conducted the assessment. "No concern, return the child." As soon as it was completed the phycjiatiric nurse went to sit in her car and let Kav know. When she returned it was revealed my abusive ex had already picked my son up from school moments before and that the Caffcass officer had cleared him for access and was writing the report for court.

Thinking to minimise the strangeness for my son of having been pulled out of class early and given to his paternal grandparents in the presence of the police, I suggested that we followed the timescale of access in the court order. My son would be returned Sunday 5pm. The MH team concurred this was a sensible approach and I confirmed with Kav, giving my permission for the results of the MHA to be shared, she said my abusive ex noted "that's good to know" and that if he should not return my son and I contacted the police to get the court order enforced she "would have to say there was no reason not to return him.".

I offered the paternal family a meeting.

Eventually they contacted back, refusing to say how my son was, and delaying. My abusive ex offered to meet in the pub one of my rapists worked. He then told me he would not be bringing my son home.

Reality, Part I: How the End Came to Be

Alrite there wanderers,

I don't know if I've mentioned it but my head got a bit smashed with a car door July 2014. It fucked me up a bit.

January 2015 my abusive ex applied to court for further access to our son as I had restricted visits to his mother's house after he moved in with a drug dealer. The guy is small time and not a bad person as far as I know, he used to frequent a place I used to waitress in and was friendly like, but this is not an environment for a child. There are different classes of people who purchase drugs and the 'hard' ones should stay well clear of my child, or any child. There is risk with such addictions, violence often becomes currency and well being is devalued to the point of non existence.

What followed was my worst nightmare.

I naively turned up to the first court hearing, suffering amnesia, nerve damage, random movements and balance issues, concen5tration and communication difficulties and other such symptoms. I was awaiting my first CT scan, following a referral from the GP to referral for eye checks then a referral by a neurologist, a slow and winding process of neglect in the harshly under funded and under attack and under strain NHS. I presented a simple statement with a moderate offer of negotiaton that maintained the status qou and enabled safe contact between father and son.

I may have been in pain and presenting poorly but my mind was sound. An order was granted confirming my proposal whilst the case progressed and further checks were sought with Cafcass.

I returned to the daily struggle and had some hope, though I was struggling to cope with issues with my son's school. Due to my injury I struggled to get up in the morning and there was some lateness. An average of 7 minutes late, three times a week. This prompted, fueled by vicious rumours, persistent referrals to social services.

On March 27th 2015, the last Thursday before the easter holidays,  I arrived at the school to pick up my son. He was not waiting with his class. He was not in the office, but a social worker and the school attendance officor and a police man were. They took me to a small room and sat me down, closed the door and stared at me with sad, serious eyes. I have never known such fear and asked where my child was. They would not tell me and I began to cry and asked again. They told me to sit down. I refused and demanded they told me what was going on, was my son safe?

They said yes, he was in another part of the school. I sat down.

They said I was not allowed to have him.

They said I was a liar and crazy.

They tried to section me under the Mental Health Act.

This is how my son, my bright star, my love, was taken.

This is how the end came to be.

Sunday, 27 March 2016


It's been a year, its been a year
                since they took you
shall I count the days, the minutes
the hours and seconds? no
                you already know
all the lost stories at bedtime
and snuffles at night
and smiles in the morning (from you
I always grumbled, and we traded
roles in the afternoon)

It's been a year, it's been a year
                 since they took you
shall I speak of the grief, the anger
the shock, the hungry fear? no
                 you already know
all the ways I miss you
and love you dear
and want you here (safe in
my arms and talking in gestures,
our lifetime language)

its been a year, its been a year
               since they took you
and I will get you home again
will get stronger, will brave on
                you already know
....I hope, always,
I hope for you

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

Can't Sleep #1

I've been thinking about the publishing market a lot lately, for obv reasons.

I'm disturbed. I'm worried books are going the capitalist way. Big trends, blockbusters, digital saturation. Dwindling midlists, less risks taken, a saturation in ebooks, with little quality control. Spinning out repeats of the same blase story, with different character names and slightly different plot arcs, because the original was a hit. Or as more recently seen purposefully publishing so-called celebrities, read bigots, because there is perceived profit in the making due to the Edge, or scandal, factor. Meaning that imprints that once held a good reputation are falling beneath the political shift to the far right and marginalising their readers and authors by aiding the propagation of hate.

When they should be fostering the intimate relationship between writers and readers, symbiotic.

Pubs considering new tactics from offering a range of publishing packages to writers, often set at high prices that treat writers as just another source of income, to subscriptions for ebooks. Looking for innovative ways to redress the balance after technological shifts and economic recession. After it is seen more clearly how the market was not damaged by ebooks but actually expanded and redefined as readership grew and each reader choose their preference, or often still reading both print and ebook. Print, particularily hardbacks are seen as inestments or collectors items; ebooks more chance bought. This gives ebooks more flexability in publishing choices, as well as their very cheap production costs. This can be good, leading to signing more up and coming writers and testing the water before investing in hard copy and a hard marketing push, or can lead to risk if this option is only taken for a soft sell of multiple similar products; taking advantage of the "check out" spur of the moment purchase. Like chewing gum, to be chewed up and spat out.

Branding power of imprints is underused. And here is where the corporate needs to fade and...I dont know what to call it. That feeling you get when your forced to talk to some random person, then they mention a book you love and you start seeing them, and that moment as something other than mundane. Or when you walk into a library out of the rain. Or carefully open some crumbling tome at the back of a hidden shop, or crack the spine of some fresh printed novel, inhaling all the time. And the anticipation, always. That. Book people. Stories, words, poetry.

Those people, who have that, are the ones reading and reviewing and speculating, tweeting, blogging, publishing articles. It's fun, and to some extent it is where some of the quality control comes in. From recommending good stories to critiquing representation in relation to diversity.

Use pool of ebooks to trend hunt, cherry picking the best, either from the popular ebooks or from agented subs that fit the bill, to provide the blockbusters. In process there is also more structure imposed, offering easier access to readers and greater visibility to a relevant audience for authors. But also seek the stories that deviate, that are fresh, the voices of writers that are often over looked. Ebooks offer the chance to develop writers in anthologies, or with subscription models, rooted in a firm online readership. Dont just look at what is trending now, but use the data to see what ideas or gaps are pending. This is old advice to writers, from publishers, and it would be good to see it taken too. Print is wonderful, and often the dream of a writer, why just keep printing the same...push the boundaries, make publishing more accessible and forward thinking; keep looking for that gold.


This post was actually written in a bout of insomnia some time back but I dusted it off whilst poking about and it felt relevant so it's here for curiosities sake.