On activism.

Trigger warning for discussion of suicide, depression, eating disorders, fascism, racism, the police, medication, self harm


We're exhausted. We've either just finished a fifty-hour work week with a conference and a night of drinking at the weekend, or we're struggling to cope with the effect our clinical depression is having on our assignments and attendance at uni, or we're trying to do all of these things at once. We are planning the next protest, the next demo, the next conference, but forget to plan in a meal. We try to take care of one another but never take care of ourselves. We haven't slept properly in months.

We're fed up. We're fed up of explaining to our family why you can't separate the politics from the person. Fed up of being told we should respect members of a party who are literally taking money from those who need it to survive and killing them, fed up of being told to shut up and listen to someone who thinks we shouldn't have the right to control our own bodies, fed up of racist immigration controls and fascists given airtime and just about every decision made at the top, with no thought of those at the bottom. We are angry, so angry, that we don't know what to do with it. Sometimes we collapse, exhausted, in floods of tears, because we cannot for the life of us understand why anyone could do this to another human being. We cry on one another, we support one another, we give one another hope that tomorrow can be better. We miss the release of the razor. 

We've been arrested recently, we've been manhandled by the police, thrown mercilessly to the ground by several officers, and peers have the audacity to claim that this was somehow justifiable. We've been banned from protesting on our own campuses. We've been left in a cell mid-panic attack, and released 48 hours later. We're sick of people telling us that there's nothing wrong with the police, and we're sick of the state letting fascists march down our roads. We drag ourselves out of bed and stand as a blockade, trying to deal with the police and the fascists and the voice in our head telling us to kill ourselves. We have a panic attack in the kettle, and the police won't let us out. We go home and sleep for twenty hours.

We're counting the pennies to have enough to buy our medication in England, or we're sitting in Scotland and Northern Ireland feeling sorry for those who don't get them for free. We're hopelessly waiting for the next psychiatrist appointment, we're still at the bottom of the CBT waiting list, we don't know how to explain why we can't eat or sleep and we don't know what to say to our friends who are feeling like this too. We have enough scars between us to tell a hundred stories. We have to leave our medication on the kitchen table or we won't remember to take it, or the thoughts will come back again. Our interactions with people take place via the internet.

We spend weeks looking forward to seeing one another, to spend time with those we love, those who understand. But then we spend too much time awake wanting to die. Or rather, something triggers it, and then suddenly we've spent the cost of two return trips to the UK on a flight home from London because we didn't trust ourselves to be alone in a place with tubes and not try to commit suicide again, all the valium in the world would not shut up the voices inside our heads, and the only way we feel like we can talk about these experiences is through writing a blog on a Sunday night. Or maybe that's just me. And we worry that writing about this will make people concerned. But we don't know what else to do.

We have dysfunctional relationships within our activist circles, mostly because they're our friendship circles too, and our room mates, and half the time we work with one another, too. We have issues with attachment, we have issues with self-worth, we have a fucked up head and we don't know what to do with it, so we hurt one another. Our relationships are unstable, like our health. We can't be there for one another, because it's happening to everyone. We cry alone in our rooms because we don't want to be a burden. 

We can't reconcile our feminism with our own bodies. We can't stop ourselves developing eating disorders, but we curse ourselves for not being able to fight it. We restrict, we binge, we purge, but most importantly, we keep it a secret. We all have problems and we don't want to look like we're asking for sympathy, even when we're in tears each night because we had the audacity to allow our bodies to consume food. We can't look at ourselves in the mirror without our lip shaking. We preach body positivity, we deplore body shaming, and we berate ourselves for wishing we were thinner.

We can't escape. We can't escape because even when we have left the demo, even when we have stopped talking about welfare reforms, when we have stopped arguing with Tories, we are left in this world we live in. We are left in this place that condemns us for being ill, that hates us because we are women, that will leave us to die because we are disabled. To separate the politics from the person we recognise that one must be privileged enough to remain unaffected by the politics. We spend every single fucking minute living in this hell of a patriarchal capitalist shit hole that has dragged each and every one of us to the bottom, and is determined to keep us there, no matter how much our arms flail and our hearts ache from the pain of it all. It wants to kill us and it will not stop until we are dead.

We try to keep telling ourselves that we need to be the living breathing reminder for others that there is good in the world, that there is hope, that there is pain but that there is also art, but eventually we break. Eventually, we stop telling ourselves that, and we stop being that person for other people. We want to cling to hope, to live by Andrea Gibson's words that all they knew of hate was that it couldn't beat the love out of me, but one day we stop. We can't do it anymore. We can't keep pretending that we're winning this fight, because we aren't. We're losing. We're broken. They've broken us. All that is left to do is write.

Edinburgh, summer, suicide.

Trigger warning; suicide. 

For most of the summer, I lived in Edinburgh, working at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. It was an experience, to say the least. Working six days a week for six weeks for no money was difficult. 

It's worth pointing out, though, that we were one of the better treated groups of workers who did the festival. We were given £40 a week for food and given good accommodation, which is a lot more than many other workers are given. The problem is that there are a line of people waiting to take your place if you drop out, so the only people who can afford to work there are those desperate to get into the arts industry and/or those who are rich enough to subsidise themselves while they work. That and the fact that there are no unions for the workers.. but anyway. I digress. It was something that angered me throughout my stay in Edinburgh (that, and how inaccessible Edinburgh/the festival itself was), but it isn't the main point of this post.

I will ill for most of it. It was the first major depressive period I'd had since the spring, I think. Except this time I didn't have a doctor I could go to, or a mum who could help support me. It made me realise how much I rely on my parents, and how lucky I am to have them be able to support me in the various ways that they are able to. Too many people I know can't access this kind of support simply because of money or distance or bullshit like that, and when I'm myself (ie. when I'm not ill), this kind of thing makes me absolutely furious. 

When I was in Edinburgh things were bad. I didn't really have the support network of friends that I thought I had there, either. I mean, I have some friends up there, but only one or two would I feel comfortable going to in the state that I was in for a lot of the time I was there. 

It got to the point where I was making plans, almost everyday, and waiting to carry them out. I was planning to kill myself for most of the time I was awake. I couldn't tell my parents at home because they would (understandably) worry. I couldn't tell the people I worked with because we didn't have that kind of relationship. I talked to my mum about cutting the trip short and coming home early, but I couldn't leave the company without me for the rest of the festival, because they only had about ten of us working. I've pretty much lost count of the number of times I cried in bathrooms or walking home or trying my best not to when I was on a front of house shift at the venue. 

It came to a head when I rang my mum, explaining all that I could without worrying her too much, and we talked about whether I should leave. I counted down the days until I left, and I knew that I had Committee Training the last week of August, and that all of my travel had been booked for it, that I'd see some of my friends, that it was worth trying to hold on till then. And somehow, I managed to.

Before I came home, I got a tattoo. The tattoo is from this poem. The poem has hung in my room for the past two years, above my bed. I know it almost off by heart. In as far as possible, it means I'm reminded what it can't do, what it won't change. Permanently inked on my skin, it'll be there until I die. And unfortunately, I think I'll need to be reminded of this for a while yet. 

2012 #2.

July

Moving into Ashley, the disastrous first day and the great weeks that followed. Sarah's birthday, the meals out, the wonderful beautiful meals out where I worried about the cost rather than the calories. Falafel burgers and cocktails. Niamh's birthday night out, endless trips to Limelight and too many walks home from wherever he was staying that month. Alcohol, nights out, afternoons sitting in the garden smoking. Having the best time in the flat, happily living with a best friend and the best bed I've ever slept in. Beginning to work in NUSUSI, learning more everyday. Saying goodbye to Sylvia, the woman who saved my life more than once. Beginning to think I'd be able to cope on my own. Up and down, always up and down.

August

Forfey, camping and alcohol and taking photos and having the best time. Missing Heather and the Forfey of years ago. Tanya visiting, wonderful Tanya, having the best few days and becoming so close. The day trips, times at the beach, wearing whatever I wanted and finally not caring. Trying to get a job, failing, depression and tears. Seeing old friends on nights out. Caoimhe's birthday, the drunken night and the horrible walk home which ended with two strangers saving my life. Coming to terms with what was happening. More so, my inability to deal with it. 

September

University starting again, finally. Union, the drunkenness and the walk home the morning after. Bristol and the UK Feminista Conference, meeting Kelley and the start of a great friendship. Meeting so many incredible women and garnering support for the movement back in the north. Telling horror stories about our lack of access to reproductive health, feeling miserable and lonely and that the fight was too much. Remembering why we keep trying to do what we do, regardless of what they say about us. Seeing BJH, Sam and the beginning of us. Planning Berlin.

October

Ronan's birthday, nights in instead of out. Taking care of him. Wrestling with the ever internal battle to keep reminding myself that I was a girlfriend, not a therapist. Berlin, having the best four days. The city that seemed sad. The museums and the beer and the cheap wonderful food and the incredible people we met, sitting on the airport floor eating chips and drinking beer before going back to reality. Halloween that didn't happen, trying so hard to be understanding, seeing that it was wearing me away. The NUSUSI QUBSU referendum, friends caring who never used to, being called baby killers on the street. 

November

The SDLP Conference, the essay I managed first. Meltdowns. NUS Demo 2012, flying over for Women's Committee and meeting the most incredibly diverse group of intelligent women. Reminding myself that this was why we do it. The depression, the anxiety, essays gone to shit and classes missed. Blurry. Few photos, few outings of any significance, few memories save the ones mentioned. Blank. Depression.

December

December. Break up, the end of that. The end of the year. Turning 20, the disastrous weekend that it turned out to be, the tears and the depression. Letting go, entirely, of those who did nothing but ruin me. Saying goodbye to any hope of reconciliation. Days spent in bed, tears, anxiety, classes missed. Appointments cancelled and shite doctors and dealing with a university who seemed determined to put everything in my way. PostSecret, Dublin. Tears the entire way through. Meeting my hero, the one upside to what had been a terrible week. Home, family. Rest. Kittens! The best few days in what was a terrible month. Coming back, more appointments, new medications, seemingly stable. A new year's eve spent with good people, a new year's day spent with good friends. Welcoming in the new year tipsy and lonely, unsurprising. 

As a whole, this wasn't a very enjoyable thing to write. It didn't feel nice to look through photographs of people who are no longer in my life, and it didn't make me happy to try and remember the few happy times in between the dark mess that was most of my year. I have some wonderful friends and family in my life and have had some wonderful experiences this year, but it just doesn't feel like the good outweighs the bad, unfortunately. Which is a shame- because if the bad hadn't been so bad, then it might not be so. The good is good- travelling, meeting some amazing new people, NUSUSI, NUS, working, The Gown, simple drunken nights out in Limelight without a care in the world.. but it doesn't quite cut it. It doesn't quite make the dullness in any way more shiny. We are in a new year, but we still have last year's problems. Nothing has changed but the date. I managed to stay out of hospital, to stay in university- but it is difficult to list these things as things to be proud of when you know you are capable of accomplishing so much more. 

Maybe I am being too harsh on myself, maybe I need to give myself a break. Maybe finishing this post after a day working in the library wasn't the best idea. But that's what it's like. Sometimes I am lucky and have days when I feel like myself again, it is usually then that I decide to write it down, to document it. But there are the days in between, the days unseen to most people who know me. I've stopped saying 'I'm fine' when someone asks me how things are- I've stopped caring if it makes them awkward, I've stopped caring if it wasn't the answer they wanted to hear. Things aren't fine, and I'm not fine- so I won't pretend to be.

It feels sad to leave this post in this way. But I can't think of anything particularly uplifting to announce about my year, no matter what I've learned and the experiences I've had, it has been a bad one. 

2012.

I thought it appropriate to do a rounding up of 2012, a farewell to what was frankly a horrible year and one that I am glad to turn my back on. 

What seems most disappointing, however, is the fact that when I think about the year past I tend to think of it in terms of health and relationships- as if they are the only two things that mattered. I think of 2012 in terms of heartbreak and medication, hospitals and awkward mornings after. 

It is lucky that this year I decided to properly organise every photo I took into a relevant album with a title and a date- and without having done this, I think I would have forgotten a lot of what happened during the year.

Here is my year. Ups, downs, and everything in between.

January

Exam time, stress stress stress, blank periods in my mind. An empty Elms, too many Friday nights spent in union, too many Saturdays in Laverys. Cooking my first proper meal and being so proud of myself. Trying to remember to keep choosing health over thin. Becoming friends with Rachel, spending every weekend with Patsy, Emily & Anton. The trip to London, to his other life. Falling in love with Camden, and being in love with love. His Burberry coat, the drive to Essex, seeing Rebecca for the second time in a few months. The vodka, the mess of the night, the hospital and the ambulances. Crying. Coming home, happy to say goodbye to London until the next time.

February

A blur, save for these few photographs. That night in Limelight, the graffiti that reminded me that my failed suicide attempt was a failure to be happy with. The night spent in hospital, the nicest psychiatrist I've ever met, the never ending apparent strength of my liver to withstand all that I threw at it. Counting the tablets in my room, while a party I was holding continued in the next room. The worry in his voice, the lump in my throat in mine. Hallmates returning that night, no one seeing what had changed, what had happened. Telling my mum. The tears and the worry. Always, the tears and the worry.

Falling out of love. The sadness that came with the realisation that we weren't who we used to be, the spooning and the sadness and the vow to stay best friends. Not going to The Maccabees, there were to be no more Toothpaste Kisses.

March

Kathryn's birthday, the sabbatical elections. Meeting Adrianne- just another union political person then, but so much more now. The beginning of what would be my life within NUSUSI. Endless nights in Laverys. The Labour Tory pub crawl, becoming friends with Hannah and Rebecca. St Patrick's Day, watching the rugby and then eating chinese on the pavement; two bottles of wine and waking up on Tyler's sofa the next day confused and hungover as hell. SDLP nights out, Mondays spent in union. Too many morning walks home. 

April

SDLP Youth Conference. Joe Hendron, John McCallister, speeches and remembering why we all do this in the first place. Nights in Stiff Kitten. Difficult therapy sessions. Ties cut with my best friend, heart being slowly chipped away at by my former boyfriend. A miserable month. Ambulance, a friend I never realised I had. The beginning of a never ending supply of valium. The smiles by day and lonely, lonely nights.

May

Naomh's post-grad party, my first paid photography job. Meeting Sarah, summer came early to Belfast. House parties, Sketchy. James leaving, more goodbyes- but of the 'see you later' kind, the good kind. Realising how wonderful people can be without them even realising it. Vivian visiting Sarah, deciding to live together and counting down the weeks. Exams finally finishing, stopped caring long ago. Meeting Simon, his 'cultural experience' and the bliss of nights out, rolling home the next afternoon, and doing it all over again. Marina & the Diamonds, sun, constant sun. Having the best fortnight with the most incredible person, and the bittersweet ending that inevitably had to follow.

June

New piercings, always Sketchying. Beer nights in 76 and the horrific hilarious hangovers that followed. Staying in bed all morning talking about poetry and quoting too much John Donne to one another. Saying goodbye to Simon & Paul and the others, the hope that it isn't forever. Cliona's 18th, NUSUSI Women's Conference, my election. Reunion dinner, saying goodbye and good riddance to Elms after my second move. So glad to be away from the poisonous place with so many bad memories. Moving home.

This post is already horrendously long, so I'll save the next six months for another day. It is odd looking back at a year you hated, seeing happy memories.