Melpomene
Concealing mask,
Viable task,
War paint, top coat,
A facial basque.
Powdered face,
Saving grace,
Elegance, perfection,
And knowing her place.
Survivalism,
Obscuring vision,
Contours, emotions,
All crafted with precision.
Painted on,
Realism gone,
Eloquent, beautified,
The show must go on…
In ancient Greek mythology Melpomene is depicted as the muse of tragedy, grief and sorrow, yet when broken down through etymology, “Melpomene” means “to sing” or “the one that is melodious”. Music is powerful tool, encompassing the power to change emotions and indeed lives.
_______________________________
I met my Melpomene at a dark time in my own life, though she went on to teach me great things about real pain and survival.
Upon first impression Melpomene was a vivacious and bubbly soul, I met her in group therapy for persons with particularly dangerous self destructive behaviours. I had to admit that I questioned intently why she was there as she seemed so light and alive. It took less than an hour to understand that this was her tragic mask, painted on with immaculate precision and of diamond durability. I have still, to this day, never seen her take it off in person.
Most of us experience a time in our lives we’d rather not have gone through, there are unfortunately too many people that have suffered abused at the hands of others, but Melpomene was an exceptional case. At the time I met her she had recently broken free of over 20 years of living with constant torture. From a young age Melpomene was denied the most basic of human rights. She was brainwashed into believing that this was her own fault and as a result was too terrified of what might happen if she acted differently to what she was told, objected to her treatment or breathed a word to anyone.
Yet to speak to Melpomene you would have absolutely no idea. Not that it was a contest, but it was apparent that she had suffered far worse than any of us ever had in that group, yet it was her that brought the sunshine to the table, it was she that could always find a positive to each problem we presented. She unwaveringly offered her support to the others both inside scheduled therapy hours and on the end of a phone outside them.
Her strength is incredible but her pain frighteningly real. In the initial stages of knowing her, I put a lot of her durability down to denial. Then she began to reveal more of what had happened and her vulnerability began to show itself in other ways. She’d often have to leave the group to vomit or would be unable to attend at all, as anxiety would prevent her from leaving the house. These were clear indicators of just how much her history was affecting her, yet she’d never show it to anyone else and she was never unavailable to anyone else. She understood the pain of others in the group and she never dismissed our worries, though they were vastly diminished compared to hers. She would write me little notes in my therapy folder or send me silly text messages under the table when things got heavy or too tough. She made the whole experience so much less daunting for me despite her own turmoil.
Steadily I watched Melpomene battle through the treatment program, working through exercises that she was terrified of doing. Task that seemed simple enough to the rest of us such as listening to music or going for a calming walk alone in the beginning were nearly impossible for her. Though she refused to let this beat her. She battled on and gave absolutely everything a go, she climbed mountains in that year and I was in awe. There was no denying how difficult it was for her, we could tell when she’d not slept for three days, when her weight dropped due to sheer anxiety or when she couldn’t make it in due to poor health. Yet she never once gave up, ran away or felt sorry for herself and she never stopped smiling.
A severe agoraphobic she went from not being able to go out or be in her home without someone with her to being able to go out to a pub and social events and even begin to build a relationship with a partner.
Melpomene was a huge inspiration and I have never lost sight of that when I feel too afraid to do something. The comparison of her fight and the enlightenment of her sheer courage made me want to succeed. It was tragic to understand that she would perhaps never be able to do a lot of the things I would be able to when we got better. Her age and general physical health prevented that but I knew mine didn’t. Whilst I wanted my own well being I also wanted to fight with her and share my achievements. I want to do all the things in my life in her honour and share my success - doing it always with her in mind.
After we were discharged from the group we have remained good friends. Regrettably, we now see much less of each other, time, life and circumstance reduce the opportunity but there isn’t a single day that she isn’t in my mind and heart. From sharing a battle, we now share triumphs. I cried when she told me that she’d managed to let herself eat fast food for the first time in 25 years and had been to the cinema by herself. This was relative and an equal achievement to me gaining a place at university. She tells me frequently that she’s so proud of me and I’m her shining little star, but it was massively thanks to her that I was able to do these things at all. If it were not for my Melpomene and without her courage, wisdom and incomparable belief in a life worth living, I would not have been as driven or inspired to move my life forward in the way I did.
She lives as an example to us all, that nothing is impossible to accomplish if you work hard enough at it and never give up hope. She has achieved more in life than some of the most celebrated people in the world, but she does not want praise, nor does she seek approval or sympathy - just peace. More incredible is how she now uses that new found confidence to help others in need working with other service users and reaching wider by posting motivational videos on YouTube to those without access to treatment.
My Melpomene continues to be a powerful anchor of comparison without intention, without condescending or competition. She epitomised tragedy in many ways, yet brought to my life great beauty with all the melody and mellifluence of the most heart rendering of ballads.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Monday, 10 January 2011
That L Word
I've been meaning to get around to posting my blog on this topic for quite some time, then when my February copy of Elle UK landed through my letter box this morning I was both surprised and a bit miffed to find that it contained an article by Hanna Hanra on the very issue. The article is written in beautiful way, it captured everything I wanted to say and the issues which I too am facing in my own life alongside the opinions I have around the "controversy" of it all. Though Hanra's article is well poised, I felt she lacked a real experience in the area, merely flirted with the subject, so I'm going to write my piece anyway.
I fell in love with my best friend and I don't mean in a platonic way. My best friend just happens to also be a girl.
I feel incredibly blessed to live in the twenty first century, within a society that for the most part accepts and embraces diversity and homosexuality. I myself have never particularly liked to categorise myself as hetro, homo or bi sexual - in fact long before I had any kind of a relationship with a woman I had listed on my Facebook profile that I was indeed interested in "men and women". I'm interested in people, gender doesn't really come into the equation. Though the "natural" world dictates to me that I "should" be interested in men, for sake of reproduction, for evolution, for going with the mass majority? I have to admit I never actively looked for a female partner, but I guess in retrospect I never really actively looked for a male partner, just that the latter were in greater abundance when it came to interest.
Throughout my life I've liked to challenge limits, in a quiet, passively rebellious kind of way - that's been my journey of growing up, finding where I slot in society. Mostly this has come in harmless forms of expression such as the way I dress, getting piercings or tattoos, dyeing my hair obscure colours and deciding to follow an "artsy" career path despite feeling I should go down an academic root because that was what I was "good at". But there have been darker elements such as my battle which anorexia, my rejection of the female form, becoming a woman and a long period of various mental health issues- a large metaphoric red flag that I wasn't quite okay with who I was in the world. My decision to be in a homosexual relationship, however, isn't to make a statement, it isn't about giving a big fat "fuck you" to conformity, it isn't about fashion, it isn't about finding who I am, it isn't about anything actually except what I feel for my girlfriend, for Josie. I can't control that - much less help it.
My relationship with Josie seemingly went from being close friends to something more literally overnight. I met her in college and within a few days of being in the same class I had set it in my heart that I wanted to get to know this girl, I knew we were going to be friends, but never had I imagined what was to come. Our friendship blossomed quickly - she makes me laugh, we share interests and views on the world, though are very people different at the same time. She is the girl I can go out with and dance all night drinking too much wine but equally stay in sharing our music and talking right into the early hours. The one I can completely embarrass myself infront of and not care, the one person I can be completely honest with and not fear her reaction. We understood each other quickly and trusted in the other wholly. We share deep things from our lives and comfort the others pain, knowing by instinct just how much to talk, just how much to soothe. When I left therapy earlier last year and shut off for a while, Josie would sit with me and say nothing with me as I did with her on bad days- we just have this comfort with one another, an unspoken communication, a respect and a love. It's the most balanced relationship I've ever had in my life, very open and without pretence.
When Josie moved in with me last summer I was the happiest little soul, a permanent sleep over with my best friend! Her in the very next room to giggle or cry with whenever it was required. During the months following we both got short term boyfriends, neither of which worked out and we continued in our lives being each others best friend, it had never really crossed into my mind that our friendship would ever be anything more. That changed after a few too many drinks one night and we ended up in bed together with frequent statements of "why isn't this weird?!". I knew immediately this was different, it wasn't an alcohol fuelled lack of judgement, drunk or not I know neither of us would've jeopardised our friendship for the sake of a bit of a drunken fumble, it wasn't like just casual sex - it actually definitely wasn't about sex and it felt so much more loving. We woke up together and giggled a bit but neither of us freaked out - it did feel right, it felt special - anything but wrong. There had never been a hidden agenda on either part - just obviously something subconscious and it just happened like that - though both of us hedged the point of what was really happening for quite some time, both afraid about what might come of it.
I like to think of myself as particularly open minded, if any of my friends came out and told me they were in a gay relationship I wouldn't even bat an eyelid- it's just not a big deal - or at least it wasn't until it came down to being about me. I'd had flings with girls before Josie but never really thought anything of it - it was a bit of fun, nothing serious and nothing that needed mentioning or sharing with the world. Just a twenty something girl experimenting with her sexuality (yeah I did kiss a girl and yeah I did like it)- as many of us do - nothing particularly special or notable about that. Though when Josie and I made a decision to be together exclusively I felt a mixture of euphoria and outright dread. I have always been a people pleaser, that's an essential part of who I am and suddenly I felt like I was doing something wrong, something that was going to be disapproved of and it worried me greatly. In my life I have done things that people wouldn't approve of but this is different because there isn't just me involved - there is also Josie and I wasn't going to let anyone or anything hurt her. This felt so special to me, I didn't want it tainted and for quite a while we made a decision to keep it to ourselves. Though hiding it made it feel like it was something to be frowned upon and what I feel is that wonderful that I wanted the people in my life to be in on it too.
Hanna Hanra pointed out in her Elle article that society is indeed open to the idea of gay love - but for men. It's accepted and understood about gay men and they are often portrayed in the media as colourful, fun loving people - indeed every girl wants a gay best friend, but lesbians have a much less glamorous portrayal. As a lesbian you are either an aggressive extreme feminist, are butch and lacking in feminine qualities, femme and dowdy or possibly some kind of pedophile. I certainly don't fit into any "stereotype lesbian role" and neither does Josie. In fact I was more than a little offended when we came out to friends at party that after a few drinks someone asked who the butch one was - why does there have to be a dick (metaphorical or not) involved in a relationship? Is this a construction created by men I ask? For this is obviously a realm they cannot enter or is that me being an aggressive feminist? Why do lesbians have such a bad rep? And the even bigger question was why was I buying into it? I have lesbian friends who I don't regard any differently because of their sexuality and they certainly didn't change who or how they were before because of coming out yet I feared that people would think that I would. Both Josie and I have been blessed enough to have been brought up by liberal parents. When I told my mother she was fantastic, as I knew deep down she would've been - but it still had taken me a long time, I still felt sick telling her despite her saying what I'd known deep down she would - that she was happy so long as I was. Even so even she voiced that she thought it best I don't go around telling everyone (as if I was going showing up to family parties naked covered in rainbow body paint shouting about my lesbian lifestyle). She was concerned about what others would think and how they would judge me, "Don't tell your Grandma". I know this was out of protecting me and not wanting me to be subjected to any kind of cruelty - though I reassured her I am prepared for that and in all honesty not bothered by it - it was the opinions of those I loved that mattered to me. I still haven't been able to tell my Dad - and that's not because I fear he'll reject me (I know he won't) but because I don't want him to look at me differently - I am still the same Ruby - actually a much happier and well balanced Ruby.
Of course there have been questions in my mind about my future, I still don't class myself as homo/hetro/bi sexual because of my relationship with Josie but neither is that to say I do or don't see myself spending the rest of my life with her - no more so than I would if she was a man. Josie knows about my omnipresent desire to be a mother one day and I know she'd never get in the way of that - there are so many options today - in fact I even read an article about how children of lesbian couples statistically perform better academically and have a much greater level of mental well being - I'll toast to that! These are all bridges I'll (we'll) cross should we get to them but right now this is about she and I. Enjoying what we have and enjoying each other.
I do feel it's safe to say that what I feel for Josie is unlike what I've felt for anyone I've had a relationship with before - she my best friend first and foremost and my lover additionally. Her happiness is all I think of and all I want to achieve and if that's at the sacrifice of other's approval then so be it. If that stereotypes me then so be it. Nobody really knows how this is except us and if makes us feel so wonderful as it does then how can that really be wrong?
I'm going to end as Hanra did her article with a quote from "The Miseducation of Lauren Hill" as indeed it is very true, "You can love anybody, but when you're in love with somebody, you're taking that person for what he or she is, no matter what he or she look like or he or she do". Love can't be put into boxes and neither can we.
I fell in love with my best friend and I don't mean in a platonic way. My best friend just happens to also be a girl.
I feel incredibly blessed to live in the twenty first century, within a society that for the most part accepts and embraces diversity and homosexuality. I myself have never particularly liked to categorise myself as hetro, homo or bi sexual - in fact long before I had any kind of a relationship with a woman I had listed on my Facebook profile that I was indeed interested in "men and women". I'm interested in people, gender doesn't really come into the equation. Though the "natural" world dictates to me that I "should" be interested in men, for sake of reproduction, for evolution, for going with the mass majority? I have to admit I never actively looked for a female partner, but I guess in retrospect I never really actively looked for a male partner, just that the latter were in greater abundance when it came to interest.
Throughout my life I've liked to challenge limits, in a quiet, passively rebellious kind of way - that's been my journey of growing up, finding where I slot in society. Mostly this has come in harmless forms of expression such as the way I dress, getting piercings or tattoos, dyeing my hair obscure colours and deciding to follow an "artsy" career path despite feeling I should go down an academic root because that was what I was "good at". But there have been darker elements such as my battle which anorexia, my rejection of the female form, becoming a woman and a long period of various mental health issues- a large metaphoric red flag that I wasn't quite okay with who I was in the world. My decision to be in a homosexual relationship, however, isn't to make a statement, it isn't about giving a big fat "fuck you" to conformity, it isn't about fashion, it isn't about finding who I am, it isn't about anything actually except what I feel for my girlfriend, for Josie. I can't control that - much less help it.
My relationship with Josie seemingly went from being close friends to something more literally overnight. I met her in college and within a few days of being in the same class I had set it in my heart that I wanted to get to know this girl, I knew we were going to be friends, but never had I imagined what was to come. Our friendship blossomed quickly - she makes me laugh, we share interests and views on the world, though are very people different at the same time. She is the girl I can go out with and dance all night drinking too much wine but equally stay in sharing our music and talking right into the early hours. The one I can completely embarrass myself infront of and not care, the one person I can be completely honest with and not fear her reaction. We understood each other quickly and trusted in the other wholly. We share deep things from our lives and comfort the others pain, knowing by instinct just how much to talk, just how much to soothe. When I left therapy earlier last year and shut off for a while, Josie would sit with me and say nothing with me as I did with her on bad days- we just have this comfort with one another, an unspoken communication, a respect and a love. It's the most balanced relationship I've ever had in my life, very open and without pretence.
When Josie moved in with me last summer I was the happiest little soul, a permanent sleep over with my best friend! Her in the very next room to giggle or cry with whenever it was required. During the months following we both got short term boyfriends, neither of which worked out and we continued in our lives being each others best friend, it had never really crossed into my mind that our friendship would ever be anything more. That changed after a few too many drinks one night and we ended up in bed together with frequent statements of "why isn't this weird?!". I knew immediately this was different, it wasn't an alcohol fuelled lack of judgement, drunk or not I know neither of us would've jeopardised our friendship for the sake of a bit of a drunken fumble, it wasn't like just casual sex - it actually definitely wasn't about sex and it felt so much more loving. We woke up together and giggled a bit but neither of us freaked out - it did feel right, it felt special - anything but wrong. There had never been a hidden agenda on either part - just obviously something subconscious and it just happened like that - though both of us hedged the point of what was really happening for quite some time, both afraid about what might come of it.
I like to think of myself as particularly open minded, if any of my friends came out and told me they were in a gay relationship I wouldn't even bat an eyelid- it's just not a big deal - or at least it wasn't until it came down to being about me. I'd had flings with girls before Josie but never really thought anything of it - it was a bit of fun, nothing serious and nothing that needed mentioning or sharing with the world. Just a twenty something girl experimenting with her sexuality (yeah I did kiss a girl and yeah I did like it)- as many of us do - nothing particularly special or notable about that. Though when Josie and I made a decision to be together exclusively I felt a mixture of euphoria and outright dread. I have always been a people pleaser, that's an essential part of who I am and suddenly I felt like I was doing something wrong, something that was going to be disapproved of and it worried me greatly. In my life I have done things that people wouldn't approve of but this is different because there isn't just me involved - there is also Josie and I wasn't going to let anyone or anything hurt her. This felt so special to me, I didn't want it tainted and for quite a while we made a decision to keep it to ourselves. Though hiding it made it feel like it was something to be frowned upon and what I feel is that wonderful that I wanted the people in my life to be in on it too.
Hanna Hanra pointed out in her Elle article that society is indeed open to the idea of gay love - but for men. It's accepted and understood about gay men and they are often portrayed in the media as colourful, fun loving people - indeed every girl wants a gay best friend, but lesbians have a much less glamorous portrayal. As a lesbian you are either an aggressive extreme feminist, are butch and lacking in feminine qualities, femme and dowdy or possibly some kind of pedophile. I certainly don't fit into any "stereotype lesbian role" and neither does Josie. In fact I was more than a little offended when we came out to friends at party that after a few drinks someone asked who the butch one was - why does there have to be a dick (metaphorical or not) involved in a relationship? Is this a construction created by men I ask? For this is obviously a realm they cannot enter or is that me being an aggressive feminist? Why do lesbians have such a bad rep? And the even bigger question was why was I buying into it? I have lesbian friends who I don't regard any differently because of their sexuality and they certainly didn't change who or how they were before because of coming out yet I feared that people would think that I would. Both Josie and I have been blessed enough to have been brought up by liberal parents. When I told my mother she was fantastic, as I knew deep down she would've been - but it still had taken me a long time, I still felt sick telling her despite her saying what I'd known deep down she would - that she was happy so long as I was. Even so even she voiced that she thought it best I don't go around telling everyone (as if I was going showing up to family parties naked covered in rainbow body paint shouting about my lesbian lifestyle). She was concerned about what others would think and how they would judge me, "Don't tell your Grandma". I know this was out of protecting me and not wanting me to be subjected to any kind of cruelty - though I reassured her I am prepared for that and in all honesty not bothered by it - it was the opinions of those I loved that mattered to me. I still haven't been able to tell my Dad - and that's not because I fear he'll reject me (I know he won't) but because I don't want him to look at me differently - I am still the same Ruby - actually a much happier and well balanced Ruby.
Of course there have been questions in my mind about my future, I still don't class myself as homo/hetro/bi sexual because of my relationship with Josie but neither is that to say I do or don't see myself spending the rest of my life with her - no more so than I would if she was a man. Josie knows about my omnipresent desire to be a mother one day and I know she'd never get in the way of that - there are so many options today - in fact I even read an article about how children of lesbian couples statistically perform better academically and have a much greater level of mental well being - I'll toast to that! These are all bridges I'll (we'll) cross should we get to them but right now this is about she and I. Enjoying what we have and enjoying each other.
I do feel it's safe to say that what I feel for Josie is unlike what I've felt for anyone I've had a relationship with before - she my best friend first and foremost and my lover additionally. Her happiness is all I think of and all I want to achieve and if that's at the sacrifice of other's approval then so be it. If that stereotypes me then so be it. Nobody really knows how this is except us and if makes us feel so wonderful as it does then how can that really be wrong?
I'm going to end as Hanra did her article with a quote from "The Miseducation of Lauren Hill" as indeed it is very true, "You can love anybody, but when you're in love with somebody, you're taking that person for what he or she is, no matter what he or she look like or he or she do". Love can't be put into boxes and neither can we.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Pearl Necklaces of Wisdom
My Granny is a grand 90 years old tomorrow. To celebrate this fact my family had a gathering at her house yesterday and it pushed me to finally write a blog about her, a woman I hold incredibly dearly in my heart.
She is now losing her short term memory, she is, of course, aged, slowing down but there is not a single slice of her spark missing. She often tells me stories about her life, recalling with impeccable detail things that happened years ago and no matter how many times I might hear the same story it will always fill me with wonder, I could, can and do listen to her for hours on end. She has lived a life that not many could compare to.
My Grandmother was born in 1920 in New York, to first generation German migrants. She lived through the Great Depression and served in the American Navy during the Second World War. She did things that were just not done in her time and often giggles as she recalls her mother frequently saying, "Dorothy whatever will you do next?". She trained as a professional ice skater, toured all over the USA and Europe as "Lady Rebecca" in Holiday on Ice, which coined her the nickname "Becky" which she still is called today. Following the war she went with her GI Biller Rights and studied in Paris, lived in the South of France, married once, divorced. Shared an apartment in Paris with a man who worked for a fashion magazine, has had drawings of her as a model in fashion magazines, went to modelling school. Met my Grandpa, a Navy Officer, whilst visiting friends in England and whimsically tells the story of how it really was love at first sight. After marrying my Grandpa they lived out in India on a tea plantation with my uncle and aunt before returning to England shortly before my father was born... and these are to name but a few things. She still tells me she opens her curtains of her sleepy little village on the outskirts of Preston and says, "How on earth did I end up here?". We have all said to her for years that she should've written her life story, sadly I think it's a little bit late for her to be able to do that now but it's been crossing my mind more and more these days that maybe I should do it for her. Her stories are imprinted on my heart and I'd love to share with the world the wisdom of this incredible woman and her stories that would out shine any fictitious piece.
She always was until very recently impeccably dressed. We used to share cups of tea on a Sunday afternoon both flicking enthusiastically through the Sunday Times Style supplement. She has the largest collection of berets of anybody I've ever met, all with matching scarves. She delights in my dressing and I love hearing her recounting various garments over the years and showing me beautiful black and white photographs of her in her youth. "Quite the diva" as my Aunt commented on Saturday and then looked pointedly at me. This "passion for fashion" is inherited it seems. It was she who pushed me to keep modelling and delving into a fashion career. Over the years she has given me many of her garments and pieces of jewellery - all of which I wear frequently and often delighted in showing me off to her tea guests before recounting another of her stories from her youth. A far cry from a "typical" Grandmother figure and she frequently protests at my giggles at her crackers comments, "but you wouldn't want a boring Granny would you?" ... to which I always respond telling her I wouldn't swap her for the whole world (and I mean it even more each time I say it).
My Granny and I hold a special bond, I lived with her at a young age and again as for a year and a half at 19, though I know she loves each and everyone of us equally, the extra time we have spent together has given us something, there is an underlying understand of the other and a very deep affection. She has had a massive influence in my life and I think out of all of my relations she and I have a very unique relationship - we share a spirit, a gumption for life, an attitude to go out and grab absolutely everything. It is hugely attributable to her that I look at the world as a mirage of riches, a kingdom of magic, a plethora of possibilities. I feel deeply honoured when she tells me that I remind her of a young version of herself - we live an awful lot through each others eyes.
It was incredibly moving that upon my Dad making a toast to her yesterday that she sipped her champagne with her shaky hand, she took a deep breath and made a speech. Words which I've had her say pragmatically my whole life, "I'd say to anyone, that in life you have to just go out and do things. See and find opportunity then do it. I have lived my life and I have lived it well. I don't regret anything- you will doubtless make mistakes, make wrong choices but I think it's far better to do that than to never have experienced at all. I think there can't be anything worse than getting to being old and sitting back saying I wish I'd done that... It's far worse to regret the things you haven't done than those you have. Go out and seize every opportunity because life is for living".
I can take my Granny's words from this day but more importantly I carry her soul with me, her spirit lives in my genes and I would be very, very content in my life if I live to be just even half the woman she is.
She is now losing her short term memory, she is, of course, aged, slowing down but there is not a single slice of her spark missing. She often tells me stories about her life, recalling with impeccable detail things that happened years ago and no matter how many times I might hear the same story it will always fill me with wonder, I could, can and do listen to her for hours on end. She has lived a life that not many could compare to.
My Grandmother was born in 1920 in New York, to first generation German migrants. She lived through the Great Depression and served in the American Navy during the Second World War. She did things that were just not done in her time and often giggles as she recalls her mother frequently saying, "Dorothy whatever will you do next?". She trained as a professional ice skater, toured all over the USA and Europe as "Lady Rebecca" in Holiday on Ice, which coined her the nickname "Becky" which she still is called today. Following the war she went with her GI Biller Rights and studied in Paris, lived in the South of France, married once, divorced. Shared an apartment in Paris with a man who worked for a fashion magazine, has had drawings of her as a model in fashion magazines, went to modelling school. Met my Grandpa, a Navy Officer, whilst visiting friends in England and whimsically tells the story of how it really was love at first sight. After marrying my Grandpa they lived out in India on a tea plantation with my uncle and aunt before returning to England shortly before my father was born... and these are to name but a few things. She still tells me she opens her curtains of her sleepy little village on the outskirts of Preston and says, "How on earth did I end up here?". We have all said to her for years that she should've written her life story, sadly I think it's a little bit late for her to be able to do that now but it's been crossing my mind more and more these days that maybe I should do it for her. Her stories are imprinted on my heart and I'd love to share with the world the wisdom of this incredible woman and her stories that would out shine any fictitious piece.
She always was until very recently impeccably dressed. We used to share cups of tea on a Sunday afternoon both flicking enthusiastically through the Sunday Times Style supplement. She has the largest collection of berets of anybody I've ever met, all with matching scarves. She delights in my dressing and I love hearing her recounting various garments over the years and showing me beautiful black and white photographs of her in her youth. "Quite the diva" as my Aunt commented on Saturday and then looked pointedly at me. This "passion for fashion" is inherited it seems. It was she who pushed me to keep modelling and delving into a fashion career. Over the years she has given me many of her garments and pieces of jewellery - all of which I wear frequently and often delighted in showing me off to her tea guests before recounting another of her stories from her youth. A far cry from a "typical" Grandmother figure and she frequently protests at my giggles at her crackers comments, "but you wouldn't want a boring Granny would you?" ... to which I always respond telling her I wouldn't swap her for the whole world (and I mean it even more each time I say it).
My Granny and I hold a special bond, I lived with her at a young age and again as for a year and a half at 19, though I know she loves each and everyone of us equally, the extra time we have spent together has given us something, there is an underlying understand of the other and a very deep affection. She has had a massive influence in my life and I think out of all of my relations she and I have a very unique relationship - we share a spirit, a gumption for life, an attitude to go out and grab absolutely everything. It is hugely attributable to her that I look at the world as a mirage of riches, a kingdom of magic, a plethora of possibilities. I feel deeply honoured when she tells me that I remind her of a young version of herself - we live an awful lot through each others eyes.
It was incredibly moving that upon my Dad making a toast to her yesterday that she sipped her champagne with her shaky hand, she took a deep breath and made a speech. Words which I've had her say pragmatically my whole life, "I'd say to anyone, that in life you have to just go out and do things. See and find opportunity then do it. I have lived my life and I have lived it well. I don't regret anything- you will doubtless make mistakes, make wrong choices but I think it's far better to do that than to never have experienced at all. I think there can't be anything worse than getting to being old and sitting back saying I wish I'd done that... It's far worse to regret the things you haven't done than those you have. Go out and seize every opportunity because life is for living".
I can take my Granny's words from this day but more importantly I carry her soul with me, her spirit lives in my genes and I would be very, very content in my life if I live to be just even half the woman she is.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Mon Corps - C'est Mon Histoire
I have been contemplating getting a new tattoo for sometime now, I flirted with a few ideas, things I like and came to a few various conclusions based on where I am at this particular point in my life. This, of course, is something that is going to be imprinted on my body for the rest of my life so it needs to not only be meaningful but also have significance.
I view my body like a map of my life, it tells my story, which continues to be written daily with the aging process.
I was born with two birth marks that I still have, an upside down crown shape mark at the top of my thigh and a small non-descript one on my right ankle. I have a marking from being a toddler, a small tablet sized white scar at the top of my thigh on my crotch line from where my Dad (so I am told) squeezed a spot there whilst changing my nappy. My knees show faint silvery scars and purple patches from grazes as a school child playing in the street, falling over my first bicycle handle bars. My first pet Rosie, a black and white dwarf rabbit, has left me with a little line scar on my left ring finger where she bit me (and wouldn't let go) whilst I was cleaning out her hutch at seven. If I stick my tongue out, I have a noticeably "flowery" edge to it from where I fell off a bar stool at nine and bit my tongue in my Dad's kitchen and reaching behind me for a drink. The roof of my mouth has a smooth patch from where I burnt it eating a cheese and potato pie from the bakery near my Granny's house at eleven.
My little sister's place in my life stamped by the small scratch dint she left on my face when she was a toddler. Freckles that increase as the years go by, my fair skin aging and being exposed to sun, remind me of family holiday's abroad and getting sunburned whilst playing in water. My growth and development are noted by stretch marks, hips, thighs, breasts 12, 15, 18, 22. The passage of becoming a woman. Skin on my face already aging, crease lines on my brow - years of laughing and frowning. The fashionista's feet are a patchwork of colours from rubbing shoes and mishapped from wearing teetering shoes with pointed toes. Holes from piercings and dints from those closed up.
Turmoil is marked too, my knuckles on my right hand remain scarred by callouses from years of bulimia, I have faint white scars from periods of self harm. A tiny egg shaped scar at the bottom of my back from when I first moved out of home and still plagued by self harming thoughts I kept my razors in my bed and lead on one by accident.
My body for the most part will tell it's own story, as it has already done but does not always tell the stories of the mind, it does not denote the opinions and emotions around the marks. My tattoos however are deliberate and meaningful in their own right. The card print down my spine, the club, heart, spade and diamond; a tribute to my survival of my anorexia. My view of life being a game and having to play the hand you're given and also in relation to the "Solitaire" poem I wrote about my experience. The little ruby on my left buttock - both comical due to it's positioning and important in it's meaning. The ruby was done with my oldest friend (Lucy) Quinn as she too got the same design in black (Lucy in the sky with Diamonds). The ruby to me represents reinvention, regenerations and rebuilding the self - renaming and re birthing. It's a salute to the more frivolous things in life, joie de vivre and the riches life has to give as well as being a representation of my nickname.
I know my body will naturally continue to write it's story on itself but I too wish to add further to the story of my mind, express my creativity and pay tribute to the trials and tribulations, joys and triumph of my spirit too. I'll keep thee posted on what I decide to have inked next...
I view my body like a map of my life, it tells my story, which continues to be written daily with the aging process.
I was born with two birth marks that I still have, an upside down crown shape mark at the top of my thigh and a small non-descript one on my right ankle. I have a marking from being a toddler, a small tablet sized white scar at the top of my thigh on my crotch line from where my Dad (so I am told) squeezed a spot there whilst changing my nappy. My knees show faint silvery scars and purple patches from grazes as a school child playing in the street, falling over my first bicycle handle bars. My first pet Rosie, a black and white dwarf rabbit, has left me with a little line scar on my left ring finger where she bit me (and wouldn't let go) whilst I was cleaning out her hutch at seven. If I stick my tongue out, I have a noticeably "flowery" edge to it from where I fell off a bar stool at nine and bit my tongue in my Dad's kitchen and reaching behind me for a drink. The roof of my mouth has a smooth patch from where I burnt it eating a cheese and potato pie from the bakery near my Granny's house at eleven.
My little sister's place in my life stamped by the small scratch dint she left on my face when she was a toddler. Freckles that increase as the years go by, my fair skin aging and being exposed to sun, remind me of family holiday's abroad and getting sunburned whilst playing in water. My growth and development are noted by stretch marks, hips, thighs, breasts 12, 15, 18, 22. The passage of becoming a woman. Skin on my face already aging, crease lines on my brow - years of laughing and frowning. The fashionista's feet are a patchwork of colours from rubbing shoes and mishapped from wearing teetering shoes with pointed toes. Holes from piercings and dints from those closed up.
Turmoil is marked too, my knuckles on my right hand remain scarred by callouses from years of bulimia, I have faint white scars from periods of self harm. A tiny egg shaped scar at the bottom of my back from when I first moved out of home and still plagued by self harming thoughts I kept my razors in my bed and lead on one by accident.
My body for the most part will tell it's own story, as it has already done but does not always tell the stories of the mind, it does not denote the opinions and emotions around the marks. My tattoos however are deliberate and meaningful in their own right. The card print down my spine, the club, heart, spade and diamond; a tribute to my survival of my anorexia. My view of life being a game and having to play the hand you're given and also in relation to the "Solitaire" poem I wrote about my experience. The little ruby on my left buttock - both comical due to it's positioning and important in it's meaning. The ruby was done with my oldest friend (Lucy) Quinn as she too got the same design in black (Lucy in the sky with Diamonds). The ruby to me represents reinvention, regenerations and rebuilding the self - renaming and re birthing. It's a salute to the more frivolous things in life, joie de vivre and the riches life has to give as well as being a representation of my nickname.
I know my body will naturally continue to write it's story on itself but I too wish to add further to the story of my mind, express my creativity and pay tribute to the trials and tribulations, joys and triumph of my spirit too. I'll keep thee posted on what I decide to have inked next...
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Food For Thought
For those of you that know me well enough or frequently read my blog you will know that food has been somewhat of a taboo subject for large proportion of my life. I'd be lying if I said that it isn't still an issue at times, I have hiccups, though mercifully I have the strength, resources and enough experience to never again fall into the depths of anorexia that I once was.
This last week however I've found myself obsessed with food in a whole different way - cooking it! I have always had an interest in food but because it's been such a turbulent journey to being comfortable with what I put in my body I've never really pushed the interest too far. Just cooking for myself I could never really gather much enthusiasm for; all that effort for myself when usually I'd end up hating myself for eating it anyway didn't seem worth it. Food for me often came prepackaged - with clear calorific content safely printed on the box (and on my brain).
Feeling so wonderfully happy in my home, living with people that I not only enjoy the company of but care a great deal about brings out this nurturing and nesting instinct in me. Whilst these past few weeks I've lost quite a bit of weight I decided that something needed to be done and so not being able perhaps to cook just for myself I turned my hand to cooking and baking for the household. I had a conversation with my male housemate about how he sees food as a beautiful thing, not in a tongue in cheek kind of way, but how it is so incredible that you can put something in you that nourishes you, gives you life, vitality and joy and being given the gift of that is something really special. It warmed my heart greatly. I find it so rewarding knowing I can give that to somebody, it's so enriching to watch somebody enjoy something I have created and be nourished by it. In turn they're helping me, I feel the greatest gift of all is being able to give and I feel it so much easier eating my creations in sharing in them with the people around me. Meals become a loving experience not just a refuelling process.
This last week however I've found myself obsessed with food in a whole different way - cooking it! I have always had an interest in food but because it's been such a turbulent journey to being comfortable with what I put in my body I've never really pushed the interest too far. Just cooking for myself I could never really gather much enthusiasm for; all that effort for myself when usually I'd end up hating myself for eating it anyway didn't seem worth it. Food for me often came prepackaged - with clear calorific content safely printed on the box (and on my brain).
Feeling so wonderfully happy in my home, living with people that I not only enjoy the company of but care a great deal about brings out this nurturing and nesting instinct in me. Whilst these past few weeks I've lost quite a bit of weight I decided that something needed to be done and so not being able perhaps to cook just for myself I turned my hand to cooking and baking for the household. I had a conversation with my male housemate about how he sees food as a beautiful thing, not in a tongue in cheek kind of way, but how it is so incredible that you can put something in you that nourishes you, gives you life, vitality and joy and being given the gift of that is something really special. It warmed my heart greatly. I find it so rewarding knowing I can give that to somebody, it's so enriching to watch somebody enjoy something I have created and be nourished by it. In turn they're helping me, I feel the greatest gift of all is being able to give and I feel it so much easier eating my creations in sharing in them with the people around me. Meals become a loving experience not just a refuelling process.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Bitch Therapy
Recently I've found myself increasingly feeling the heat. I feeling incredibly happy that my styling work has reached another level, that I feel confident enough to stop working just for images and add a reasonable fee to my services. I find it so difficult to switch my fashion obsession off, so combining this with cramming my (already over full) schedule with even more shoots is having a lovely sky rocketing effect on my stress levels.
I was getting to a point mid last week, especially being ill, of feeling perpetually sick that this is how my life is going to feel for the next "x" amount of years, working in the industry that I have chosen. Can I really keep this up without ending up an anorexic gibbering mess of delirium? I am such a ridiculous perfectionist that doing what I do will demand all of me no matter how much I try and schedule and organise in some "me" time I'll still find myself working. It's not exactly helped by the fact that all my leisure activities actually relate to work. I cannot sit on Facebook without networking, blogging involves fashion usually, going on a night out leaves me scouting for outfit ideas and making connections with like minded people, I can't watch films without thinking of things within it that give me shoot inspiration or articles to write. Going to bed is requiring diazepam because I can't stop my brain even when I stop my body.
I figured that something had to give - and seeing as I am unwilling to give anything up (I want this TOO much) - I decided I had to find some way to vent some of this steam. I am not a bitch by nature, I am actually quite sickeningly happy with a unnaturally positive outlook on life (I think I have to doing what I do), but there is a little element of me that is incredibly cynical. I know my chosen industry is going to require me to grow a thick skin, I am realising this more and more as my career progresses and so I do need to build my resistance. At heart I'll never be one of these cut throat fashionistas but I feel I have a gift for giving off that image. Hence the birth of "Viva Yer Diva", a new blog to my Ruby Noise family. It's striking a happy medium between still "working" by writing and researching but it's so cathartic and therapeutic in a sense that I am literally ripping to shreds all the things in life that irk me and venting a little bit of that frustration I feel under my work load.
It may possibly create me some enemies but those who know me do know better. As we know I have great fun playing with my alter ego the "Diva" and here she is in blog form: http://www.vivayerdiva.tumblr.com . It's also good practise for my life long ambition to become the next Mrs Mills (of the Sunday Times Style supplement).
It paints me out to be an absolute cow of the highest degree but my God it's fun to write and if it brings a giggle to someone else's day then I feel my karma is balanced out. Kind of. I hope.
I was getting to a point mid last week, especially being ill, of feeling perpetually sick that this is how my life is going to feel for the next "x" amount of years, working in the industry that I have chosen. Can I really keep this up without ending up an anorexic gibbering mess of delirium? I am such a ridiculous perfectionist that doing what I do will demand all of me no matter how much I try and schedule and organise in some "me" time I'll still find myself working. It's not exactly helped by the fact that all my leisure activities actually relate to work. I cannot sit on Facebook without networking, blogging involves fashion usually, going on a night out leaves me scouting for outfit ideas and making connections with like minded people, I can't watch films without thinking of things within it that give me shoot inspiration or articles to write. Going to bed is requiring diazepam because I can't stop my brain even when I stop my body.
I figured that something had to give - and seeing as I am unwilling to give anything up (I want this TOO much) - I decided I had to find some way to vent some of this steam. I am not a bitch by nature, I am actually quite sickeningly happy with a unnaturally positive outlook on life (I think I have to doing what I do), but there is a little element of me that is incredibly cynical. I know my chosen industry is going to require me to grow a thick skin, I am realising this more and more as my career progresses and so I do need to build my resistance. At heart I'll never be one of these cut throat fashionistas but I feel I have a gift for giving off that image. Hence the birth of "Viva Yer Diva", a new blog to my Ruby Noise family. It's striking a happy medium between still "working" by writing and researching but it's so cathartic and therapeutic in a sense that I am literally ripping to shreds all the things in life that irk me and venting a little bit of that frustration I feel under my work load.
It may possibly create me some enemies but those who know me do know better. As we know I have great fun playing with my alter ego the "Diva" and here she is in blog form: http://www.vivayerdiva.tumblr.com . It's also good practise for my life long ambition to become the next Mrs Mills (of the Sunday Times Style supplement).
It paints me out to be an absolute cow of the highest degree but my God it's fun to write and if it brings a giggle to someone else's day then I feel my karma is balanced out. Kind of. I hope.
Friday, 15 October 2010
You Eat Apples Right?
So I get a message from my Mum yesterday asking me what an iPhone was - I gave her a brief explanation saying it was a phone made by Apple that basically was le shiz. She then informs me that she's just received one with her Roger's (she lives in Canada) home package that she and her husband recently had installed. Which is lovely, except this is my mother who still gets me to send her text messages for her when we're together because she can't figure out how to do it without spending an hour over it (usually with her glasses on and a wonderfully comic expression of concentration on her face).
So whilst I'm trekking home from work at quarter to nine at night I'm also Facebooking her from my Blackberry (to her computer - we haven't got that far on the iPhone yet) trying to explain to her a) What an iPhone is and b) the beginnings of how to figure it out.
Now I don't mean to sound like I am calling my mother a technophobe - she's actually incredibly skilled with computers - to the extent that I once watched her manage to completely rebuild her laptop in my youth from despite it having absolutely no screen. Said screen being smashed to smithers because she dropped it down the stairs, actually my mother's track record with technology isn't too hot luck wise despite her skills, I do seem to be housing another rather intoxicated laptop that she fed a glass of wine to in my bedroom too. However phones for some reason seem to be an alien entity to her - so you can imagine my amusement when she declares she has this iPhone.
Well, the evening progresses - we both get excited when she manages to send me an international text message from it, I tell her she can use it like an iPod and play her music from it, if she downloads iTunes and from what I can gather she read the manual from cover to cover. I get frequent updates of the new features she's found with a particular highlight being the proclamation (with several exclamation marks) that she could play The Sims 2 on it!!! I am happy for my mother and her iPhone, wishing her a long and happy experience with it's joys (not jealous, not one bit).
Time passes, I sleep (don't think she does) and I received a message this morning from her saying, "This isn't an iPhone really, I don't think - the paperwork says it's an iPhone but it's Samsung and iPhones are Apple?". *face palm* I asked her to turn it over and to let me know if there was a picture of a little silver Apple on the back to which I got the response, "No it doesn't - I think it's a piece of shit actually".
I give up.
LOVE you Mammy and your phonophobia.
So whilst I'm trekking home from work at quarter to nine at night I'm also Facebooking her from my Blackberry (to her computer - we haven't got that far on the iPhone yet) trying to explain to her a) What an iPhone is and b) the beginnings of how to figure it out.
Now I don't mean to sound like I am calling my mother a technophobe - she's actually incredibly skilled with computers - to the extent that I once watched her manage to completely rebuild her laptop in my youth from despite it having absolutely no screen. Said screen being smashed to smithers because she dropped it down the stairs, actually my mother's track record with technology isn't too hot luck wise despite her skills, I do seem to be housing another rather intoxicated laptop that she fed a glass of wine to in my bedroom too. However phones for some reason seem to be an alien entity to her - so you can imagine my amusement when she declares she has this iPhone.
Well, the evening progresses - we both get excited when she manages to send me an international text message from it, I tell her she can use it like an iPod and play her music from it, if she downloads iTunes and from what I can gather she read the manual from cover to cover. I get frequent updates of the new features she's found with a particular highlight being the proclamation (with several exclamation marks) that she could play The Sims 2 on it!!! I am happy for my mother and her iPhone, wishing her a long and happy experience with it's joys (not jealous, not one bit).
Time passes, I sleep (don't think she does) and I received a message this morning from her saying, "This isn't an iPhone really, I don't think - the paperwork says it's an iPhone but it's Samsung and iPhones are Apple?". *face palm* I asked her to turn it over and to let me know if there was a picture of a little silver Apple on the back to which I got the response, "No it doesn't - I think it's a piece of shit actually".
I give up.
LOVE you Mammy and your phonophobia.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)