askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
Today I spent a day at The National College in Nottingham. I am beginning a course I don't feel particularly strongly about but which will give me the illusion of career progression in my current role and enable me to walk into a well paid job in locations other than my current one on account of ticking that all important 'qualifications' box.

This building is HUGE. It has no fewer than three, three storey atriums and a lot of empty classrooms/conference rooms. Here is a picture of a bit of the building;



Massive.

So, our course tutor, a man who was offered such good money to become a NCSL tutor that he quit his job as a Primary School Headteacher (a well paid job, if you were wondering), tells us, proudly, that the building was built by Tony Blair.  It was Labour's initiative, he tells us, which established the National College and created these qualifications (not unlike an NVQ, but for 'leadership').  

I am, therefore, sitting inside a New Labour folly; a monument of wood and glass to wasted money. A monument to creating excessively, disproportionately, well paid jobs for people 'training' people to receive qualifications in the job they are already doing, or would previously simply have learnt by doing, not by writing down how they would do it.

More specifically, I am sitting in a building which - in a roundabout way - is the reason there is no money left in the country.  And no money left in the country means cuts to Arts funding.  Cuts to Arts funding means fewer scholarships and bursaries.  Fewer bursaries and scholarships mean stiffer competition. Stiffer - insane - competition means I los[e/t] out at Hull and I am not currently beginning my PhD research.

In short, the man standing in front of me, droning on about 'evidence types' and 'professional standard written English' and the need to understand your 'learning style' is earning per annum enough money to put me through university as a Postgrad for 3 years.  The window I am gazing out of could have bought me, what - all my textbooks? Sent me to a conference? paid my electric bill for the first month?

All around me is waste.  Waste which has such a profound impact I am forced to engage with it, am swept along in its pervasive ooze; just so I can remain in employment and, most distasteful of all, perpetuate it by falling down this rabbit hole of a career path.

Labour left this country, specifically education and the arts, with the most appalling debt.  The insidious self-perpetuating nature of their callous waste will keep me awake tonight, as it has done many nights before.  And what can I do about it? Can't vote Liberal, won't vote Tory, can't vote Labour.  Can't send an invoice for my lost future/ambition.  Can't win.  Can't beat them.  Got to join them.  

Joining them, filled with self loathing, disgust and fury.  Pure, undirected, righteous fury.

Failure.

Jun. 24th, 2011 09:36 pm
askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
 I didn't win the scholarship.  So my offer letter for Hull to study for my PhD there is not worth the paper it's written on.  My PhD on the establishment of the queer family and the stress it places on heteronormative society will not be written.

After feeling numb for an hour or two, I cried.  Then I felt numb again.  Numb and sad.  So sad, in fact, that everyone at work was concerned I was too stressed.  I took today off, called in sick, and evidently it all kicked off - two of my colleagues went, separately, to our boss to tell her I was over worked and had a workload which was unreasonable for one person.  In fairness, I am doing my job and the job of another person who is on long term sick and that is stressful, but it is good stress - the sort you can manage, and the sort I leave at the door when I go home.  I am absolutely mortified that people said that to the boss, who then went to see my Mum, who also works there, to ask how I was.  My Mum said that more than anything she wanted to explain that I was off because I was so sad about missing out on the PhD scholarship - but of course neither she nor I can tell my boss that I am super sad because I won't be quitting in September - or that I was ever considering doing that.

I really, truly do not know what to do with myself now.  I know I need to move out of my parents - where is the big question.  I desperately want to go back to Brighton but I'm not doing that without a guaranteed job down there paying at least £17k. So do I move out for the short term here and keep looking for Brighton, burning a hole in the small amount I have saved up since living with my parents, or do I stay put and hope that I can save even more for the costly return to Brighton in the near future?

I've had a look and I can't find shit in Brighton job wise.  Also, this feels a lot like the decisive end to PhD dreams.  It's too long and too much of a long shot every time for funding.  I can't risk paying for my first year and hoping to get funding for years 2 and 3 because there is just no guarantee I will get it and then I will be worse off than if I hadn't done a year at all.

I feel like there is just a big gaping void for me stretching out from August.  I simply do not know what to do.

Giving up and drinking myself to death feels like a cracking idea though...
askygoneonfire: if you lived here, you'd be home by now (November the 15th)
 In 26 days I will be 26. Struggling to have any positive feelings about this.

Today I visited the job centre to transfer my claim from the Brighton office. As with the previous visit the advisor was rude and...stupid.  He mocked my signature for looking silly (I know, wut?) and kept laughing at the course title of my Masters (Sexual Dissidence in Literature and Culture) before needing convincing that yes, that is what it says on my degree.  He snorted once more and said "I won't write that on your file" and simply typed 'M.A.'

I spent the afternoon with my brothers, which was lovely.  Although we all had a bit of a weird psychic moment where brother 2 and I left his flat to surprise brother 1 with a visit - 1 didn't know I was even going to be in town today - we arrived to 1's flat but he wasn't in.  So we nipped into the nearby Asda and received a call from 2's partner who was still at their flat.  1 had just arrived.  This means that we both left our respective departure points at the same time, having not planned to meet or visit and all three of us deciding on the spur of the moment to visit at that exact time.  Weirdness.

I got home to my parent's house and my Mum tells me that the school at which she works, the same place I had an interview the other week, want me to work there in some sort of admin role.  Apparently it pays better than the one I interviewed for and I won't have to interview again.  So obviously I'll take it if they offer it to me - don't look a gift horse and all that.  

I was planning on going to the cinema with brother 2 tomorrow for Orange Wednesday to see Salt.  We were going to go to a matinee because it's cheaper and he needs to get home at a reasonable hour to go to bed as his schizophrenia medication makes him sleep for at least 12 hours and he's at work at 7am the following morning.  ANYWAY, I'd be leaving at 1:15pm for the cinema, not unreasonable that I won't be constantly in the house between 8:30am and 4pm, surely? My parents believe I'm being reckless with a solid job offer and I should arrange to stay in ALL DAY.  This is particularly stupid given my Mum could just say to the recruiting woman tomorrow morning "oh, she's only in until 1pm as she has to go to the job centre" or just "go out".  Not unreasonable, right?  Parents continued repeating same thing.

Eventually I packed up my stuff and went upstairs to my room, once again - I've spent a significant portion (if not all) of 5 of the 6 evenings I have been living here for, in my room (and the sixth night was spent at a friends house).  I may as well have got a bedsit and stayed in Brighton.

I am, despite my above refutation, thinking about looking a gift horse in the mouth.  I have spent the last 3 years trapped in a job I hate in a city I love.  I say trapped because of the working pattern of 1 day on, 1 day off, 4 days on, 1 day off, repeat didn't allow me time or energy to look for new jobs with necessary zeal.  Financially, of course, I was also trapped, unable to afford luxuries or save any money, but earning just enough to pay rent and bills; making myself unemployed in Brighton would have been suicide/was unthinkable.  But the gleaming, shining, bouncing, glowing star of optimism that convinced me to move back up North was the idea I would have space and time to find a job I might enjoy, as well as live in a place that would allow me to save for the now mythologised PhD.

In short, whilst the prospect of a job falling into my lap seems a delight, I can't help but sigh a sad sigh and prepare myself to be reinserted into just the working environment I so gleefully fled in Brighton.  I feel trapped all over again and I haven't even had the job offer.

I was meant to be having some sort of careers guidance meeting with an advisor a week on Friday.  I was feeling really positive about that.  And I was planning on going to Nottingham on Thursday to register with some agencies in the hope of striking out into publishing/editing industry - copy writing? Yes please.  But agencies and waiting for the career you've picked to turn up requires having an empty calendar - you have to be able to answer the phone call that says "we have a 3 month contract for a copy writer in x, can you start on Monday?" with "yes" not, "no, I have to give my one months notice first".

I keep getting trapped in this stupid fucking economy with my fucking useless (although, apparently amusing) degree and attempts to break out of it last LESS THAN A MONTH.  I just want a good job.  A graduate job - £20,000 p/a is not an unrealistic salary expectation.  What was the point in going to University, getting myself a £15,000 student debt, when I could have got a job at a local paper or something and worked my way up.  I could have done a degree at 50 if it was still something I felt I needed to do.  Instead I'm completely fucking stuck.

I'm single. And I'm 26(ish) and I'm living with my parents again - the latter being my choice in principle, by only because I thought it was a radical move that'd give me the opportunity to break out of the have no money-get paid-pay rent-have no money cycle of finances I simply couldn't break free of in Brighton.  And here I am, feeling more hopelessly stuck than I have done since I made the decision to move if I didn't find a new job in Brighton back in May.


ETA: Oh, and the rats aren't settling in nearly as well as I hoped they would and the only time they come to me is when they are cowering in fear and want to hide from everything/nothing in my arms/under my legs, rather than for kisses and tickles and hugs like they used to.  I feel fantastically guilty for upsetting them so much

askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
Why oh why do I continue to get embroiled in online debates? In my defence, this time I genuinely thought my opponent was a reasonable political observer. Some backwards research on his twitter stream after the debate reveals him to be an obsessive of the 'Britain is not a democracy, we're all slaves' variety.

His twitter feed is here; Tony Lawrie

This is the tweet which prompted my first reply to him (advising he reread the BBC article as it clearly states the reason Nick Griffin's invitation to Buckingham Palace was revoked was because he politicised it; unlike all the other MEPs invited, including another BNP party member)

I eventually said I believed his 'Britain isn't a democracy' agenda had coloured his assessment of the event, he leaps on this turn of phrase and then keeps saying my opinions on the BNP coloured my opinions - having not expressed any opinions about the BNP of late on twitter, or passing any kind of negative comment on the BNP MEP who did attend the garden party I can only assume he decided the only person who could disagree with the crux of his argument must be anti-BNP. Which admittedly I am, but I never said I believed Nick Griffin should be turned away from the garden party because of his views - I don't believe that.

Some time ago, after repeating my points several times I decided nothing was to be gained by continuing I tweeted this;
Already stated BNP member attended, did not express any feelings about that. Your repeated choice to ignore my previous statements leads me to believe you are not considering, engaging with or even reading my comments so I will conclude this discussion now.

How many replies did I then receive from him? Seven. At which point I again became embroiled when he claimed he had answered my points and my dislike of the BNP did not allow me to recognise democracy was undermined. I responded with the following;
I have made no expression of dislike for the BNP. Their policies are not the crux of the issue. Furthermore, you have not engaged with my hugely valid point that another BNP MEP was admitted to the garden party with no queries. Finally, your choosing to ignore my statement this discussion was at an end is hardly respectful or necessary. We will not agree because you are not willing to abandon your no democracy agenda long enough to judge this event solely on the facts surrounding it.

His further replies again state democracy was undermined, the BNP MEP who attended was weak in agreeing to be gagged (which surely pre-empts content which the Palace wished to deny, absent given it wasn't a political engagement) etc etc.

I tire, no, I have long tired of hearing nonsense of that sort. Travelling the world gave me a glimpse of countries where democracy is either new or non existent. Passing through as a white British tourist obviously did not give me a real understanding of what it is like to *live* there but the fierceness with which Argentinians defend their democracy (PROTEST!) gives an good indication. Meeting fellow travellers from across the globe we often fell to discussing the differences and similarities of our respective countries and cultures. It would be fair to say that I have never so absolutely appreciated the liberties and freedoms so willingly given to me as a British citizen.

No, our democracy is not perfect. Show me a democracy which is. But to claim we are suffering through an authoritarian nightmare is not only wholly erroneous but positively insulting to those persons living under a dictatorship with few or none of the freedoms some would so gladly dismiss.


Update! I think Tony Lawrie's true political allegiances are showing through in his final desperate attempt to embroil me again;
Salt is good; but if the salt has lost its saltiness, how can you ever then season it? Don't agree with Nick Griffin or BNP particularly but at least Griffin still has 'salt'...so many politicians 2day don't anymore!

Hard enough to ignore that bizarre, presumably inaccurately recounted analogy but praising Griffin for being abrasive? (hard to guess what salt represents really) Not going to be the match point winning play.


askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
On a train home to Brighton after my unsuccessful interview. I asked for feedback and she said about three times that I was overqualified, too intellectual for a menial job and er, overqualified again. Turns out when I got up to the school, had a look round and met the people I would be working with I realised I really wanted the job so went all out in the interview so I am disappointed.

Another dead person on the line in the Brighton-London area this evening causing train chaos, at least this one did it on a Monday, the Friday night jumpers are the ones I never understand.

Listening to an eclectic mix on the old iPod, just had Beach Boys (I just wasn't made for these times, which always makes me tear up at the wrong time of month/year. Beach boys lyrics are quality. True story) Los Campesinos! now. Later, Manics.

Anyway, moral of the story, give me a freaking break universe, I want a decent job, one that doesn't write me off the moment they see I have a degree (MA is now officially off the CV) or the moment I open my mouth and exercise my vocabulary. If all else fails I'll try and go back to HMV for Christmas.
askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
So aside from the fact what is essentially female circumcision is effectively still happening in Western medicine, now we learn some genius doctor is proving how awesome he is by stimulating the subjects he has hacked into until they can report they are experiencing sensation.

He's taking a vibrator to the clitorises of young girls, after unnecessarily operating on them so they are 'normal', and asking them to tell him how it feels.

Yes, really.

I'm just disgusted and horrified; join me won't you, read Bad Vibrations



Amusingly, I came to this link via a twitter account, namely, FEMINISTHULK, who is well worth a follow, tweet gems include;
"TRICK TO SMASHING GENDER BINARY: MAKE SURE IT NOT SIMPLY BREAK INTO TWO NORMATIVE PIECES. HULK CREATE GENDERQUEER DEBRIS!"
askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
So, odd day. Started off, as every other Tuesday does, with therapy.

Suddenly realised something about me, and how I manage - or don't manage - my moods.

My Mum's most common refrain, if I, or my brothers, is playing a certain kind of music - such as Radiohead, the Manics (GATS, THB, JFPL only) etc etc is "why are you listening to that suicide music?" She even said it once when I was listening to Josh Ritter's Hello Starling (my response? "it's not suicide music, it's about the return of hope" her response "pff!")

It's an infuriating little quirk and no amount of explanation of what a song is about, or what a certain genre of music is doing will change her. However, it reveals a little about how my Mum deals with extreme feelings: WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT THEM.

I've always been rather British about this and concluded that not speaking about dramatic emotions is good and right. But over the years, and through the diagnoses that attitude has begun to change. I am thinking about how this attitude affects me because if I do move back in September, I'm going to be living under the same roof as it again

My main fear is that if things do go a bit pear shaped emotionally/mentally for me again I am going to be under enormous strain trying to keep it hidden - as I did as a teenager - which, of course, compounds the problem. I've spent the last 7/8 years expressing most of what I feel as it happens to my friends and partners, and being allowed the space to simply express it, with no repercussions, no being told not to think/feel those things, no being told to push it away, ignore it, no being told it's "not as bad as you think" or "you always take on so, don't" or simply "you'll feel better tomorrow".

The thing is, all of these bits of 'advice' from my Mum come with the best possible intentions. Deep, deep down she truly believes that if she doesn't acknowledge any of the things I say are happening to me/I'm feeling then they won't be feeling. My two eldest brothers had complete mental breakdowns - full on break with reality - and she very nearly managed to pretend that things weren't as bad as they were/happening for the reasons they were. In short, my Mum makes denial a world class sport.

The effect of all of this is that somewhere in my head is the hard-wired idea that both expressing and experiencing extreme emotions of any kind is wrong. It's reductive and not a little absurd to suggest that all my problems come from this deny/suppress environment, but I think it's fair to say it doesn't help.

Interestingly, my Dad has a very practical approach to all this, he's brilliant at coaching and counselling my brothers and has the gift of being able to provide practical perspectives and solutions to emotional hardship. However, I'm his only daughter, and I'm the youngest.  I feel like being number 4 of 4 kids with some sort of mental health failings means that I am the failure, I am the disappointment and if I told him I'd either disappoint or worry him - most likely both.  I don't want to do that.  

Of course, social factors aside, most of the things that mentally shit me over are probably genetic.  Genetic like the ligaments and joints that comprise my knees.

After I finished with therapy and had lunch I headed along to the Doctor's Surgery to talk about my knee pain.  My burning, flaming knee pain that happens whether I stand up for 8 hours at work or not and I was told that.....I have arthritis!

Joy.  Bought glucosamine, despite my massive scepticism of alternative remedies and went away with instructions to keep my knees straight when sitting - i.e. not sitting with my legs splayed apart with the knee joint turned outwards and to never cross my legs.  Or do the breast stroke when swimming - although I used to swim competitively and was taught to swim racing breast stroke which has a much straighter extend rather than kicking to the side so I might ignore that one.  Finally I was told to work on building up my quads - continue cycling to work and do some weird toe curling exercise when sitting.  Le sigh.

My seagulls remain in ruddy health and are growing like weeds.  Managed to capture two not-very-good occasions of them feeding, in each case I got my camera to the window after the main feeding was over.  Turns out nature is difficult to film, who knew!




askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (November the 8th)
 Now, I'm not one to overreact, but...I'm going to die!

Yesterday I had a bit of swelling on the corner of my eyelid, near the bridge of my nose.  I also had a spot on the bridge of my nose so I figured the latter was pressing on the former, and squeezed it.  Lots of puss, all rather disgusting, but not out of the ordinary.

This morning I woke up and couldn't open my eye, the eyelid was so swollen it was forced closed.  Made my way to work and phoned NHS direct.  The advisor took my details as normal and told me call back time was 4 hours and maybe I should just go to the pharmacy and talk to the pharmacist, I said I'd rather go to the NHS drop in clinic if I didn't get a call back from them before my lunch.  A couple of hours later a NHS direct nurse phoned me.  She asked lots of questions about my eye and told me to go the NHS drop in clinic.  I asked if I should hurry there or wait an hour until my lunch break began, she said an hours wait would be fine.

My lunch break began and and I walked up to the NHS drop in clinic where I discover...they are no longer a drop in clinic - registered patients and emergencies only.  They tell me to call my doctors for the out of hours service, which I do.  I talk to an advisor again who tells me a GP will call me back.  15 minutes later a GP calls, we go through all the same questions as I did with the NHS direct nurse (is it bruised? Is there discharge? does it itch? have you sustained any injuries to the eye recently?) and got the exact same non answer - "doesn't sound too serious but someone should really have a look at it".  So she booked me in at A&E for a GP appointment for 5pm, after I'd finished work, some 4 hours later.

After work I grudgingly went along to A&E, my eye was much less swollen and almost fully open although it ached, I really truly almost didn't go.  Was seen by a doctor, whipped my glasses off and as I was saying "it's my eye" she said "oh my god", which really isn't what you ever want to hear from a healthcare professional.  I explained that it was hugely swollen this morning and was now as it was, I thought that was quite good, she said "and it's taken until 5pm so go down to this level?!" with incredulity.  Again, not what you want to hear.  And then she pointed to my burst spot which was a bit crusty and ugly looking where it had dried and asked "what's that?",
"oh, just a spot" I reply.  
"But is it? Is it just a spot?"
"err...yeah." I reply with absolutely no confidence in my tone.  The cancer buzzer was ringing loudly in my head at this moment.
"what did it look like?"
"just...a lump.  Normal spot"
"and has it always looked like that, with the golden crust?"
"no, yesterday I squeezed it because I thought it was pressing on my eyelid, there was loads of puss but....just a normal spot."
"hmmm...."

She presses and prods my eye and the fleshy bits around it. Usual questions (does that hurt? No. That? No).

"Right, you have an infection"
"Ok!" I say cheerfully.
"But the problem is, under your eyelid, you have your eye"
"Yup!" I giggle, obvious statement is obvious.
"And this part of your eye," she gestures to the area below the eyebrow and above the eyelid, which is swollen on me "is about this [indicates a space of about 2 cms, no more] far away from your brain tissue."
"Right..." getting worried again, whole other set of warning bells warming up
"I think the infection has travelled under the skin [i.e. from the spot] to the eye area. And what you have is a Very Serious infection"
"...right..." Loud bells of terror now blaring in my head
"So I'm going to give you an incredibly high dose of antibiotics"
"ok"
"2 tablets, 4 times a day"
"....right..."
"And if it's worse tomorrow morning you need to come back tomorrow morning"
"Ok.  Is there anything I shouldn't do...like tomorrow I was going to go to the beach and sit in the sun all day"
"Wear a hat and don't put suncream on your face because if it gets in then it'll be a really...tricky..situation"
"Right"
"And we'd have to take you in and put you on IV antibiotics"
"Right"

So then I took my prescription, left the building, got my bike, started shaking and FREAKED OUT for a little while.

Seriously? A 'serious' infection centimetres away from my brain? NOT COOL.

Anyway, I'm home on the sofa watching trash tv, eating fruit and realising the stiff neck I've had for the last two days is LYMPH GLAND POWER!

Go team lymph gland.  Seriously.  Go!

askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
So, as the interwebz is well aware, Janet Street Porter is a class A prick. Her article in the Daily Mail (aka the Daily Hate, Nazi Daily and Toilet Paper) today is entitled 'Depression? It's Just the New Trendy Illness!'. Personally, I prefer to call it I'm Janet Street Porter and I'm a massive knob

It's hard to know where to begin when responding to an article so utterly motivated by ignorance, intolerance and downright stupidity, but I'm going to try.*

My family isn't so much 'touched' by mental illness as saturated in it. I try and count up the number of grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents, siblings and cousins afflicted with anxiety, stress, depression or any of the myriad of other mental health issues and I very quickly run out of fingers. It's pretty much
all of us.

Janet Street Porter may be interested to hear, however, that my family are working class. They *are* shelf stackers, cleaners, care workers, caretakers, administration staff or simply terminally unemployable. Is their experience of depression, anxiety or stress any different to that of the middle class Street-Porter so doggedly condemns? No. Or, in the longer answer, yes. They don't have the ear of the media inclined towards them. They do not have the education of the people who write books (what's that, Janet Street Porter, you've written two books? Goodness, aren't you clever!) that sell thousands, they do not have the high flying careers that afford them the opportunity to talk about their depression/anxiety/stress on tv, radio and in the paper, but they do have the shared experience of insurmountable despair, blackest depressions, unmanageable stress and ultimately, the horrific isolation that is being diagnosed with one or all of these conditions and having to work through it; speaking to as few people as possible in order to minimise the outpouring of intolerance those words provoke.

I was delighted to read that depression didn't exist until just a few years ago. Presumably what I, and my relatives had been suffering until then was some sort of general malaise, perhaps a touch of ennui. Indeed I found it remarkable to discover, from Janet Street Porter's article, that depression didn't exist
at all in the sixties. I'm sure my Mother, whose first husband killed himself at the end of the sixties, will be most relieved to learn he wasn't suffering from depression as it didn't exist, no doubt he was just testing the strength of the tree branch with the rope he tied around it.

It's also been a delight to learn that 15 years ago that when my Father was forced to retire from the Police force - a job he had aspired to throughout his teens and was passionate about during it's execution, due to stress which he simply couldn't recover from whilst continuing to do the same job - it wasn't in fact stress that forced him to leave. No, as that particular condition is only an invention of the last 5 years he was in fact suffering from hypochondria! The wife and child under 10 who he placed in financial straights by his 'illness' were in fact callously endangered! If only he'd decided not to be friends with the people who were upsetting him, that would have fixed
everything.

Finally, it has been reassuring to see that had my eldest older brother been successful in his suicide attempt Janet Street Porter would have attended his funeral encouraging us, his mourning family to laugh! Because the world being rid of yet another misogynist bastard, another 'man [who has been] in charge of everything'. After all, the miserable mental state he was in, the continued non-existent self esteem that frequently prevents him leaving the house for days on end? All of that is, in her words, "
karmic revenge" on mankind.

But of course, my brother is gentle, and kind, and loving and, unfortunately, deeply unhappy. He is not a misogynist, he has never been in charge of anything, on account of being working class. He deserves none of the things the world has thrown at him. He does not deserve the chemical imbalance in his brain that foils his every endeavour. He does not deserve to die by his own hand.

And yet Janet Street Porter believes he does. And she believes I should be happy about it, she believes I should laugh.

The thing that perplexes me is why stop with a critique of depression, anxiety and stress? What about the incidence of OCD? Are all those sufferers just being pathologised for being a good housewife! What about schizophrenia? It's nothing if not an attention seeking wilful neglect of reality! Indeed, if we're going to argue that every disease that doesn't have the same rate of occurrence as a Brazilian slum isn't real then we better add anorexia to the list. Those skeletal boys and girls are just a bit too keen on exercise and attention seeking in their rejection of food aren't they!

It's perhaps rather reflective of my intrinsic belief in human compassion that I thought ‘articles’ like this were a thing of the past. I’m so, so unhappy to learn that they aren’t. Indeed the only positive I can seem to find is that I wish I was as lucky as Street Porter that neither I, nor my family or friends had been touched by depression, anxiety or stress and I could be so ignorant of it all that I could simply write it off as the new yuppie malaise.

*There have been lots of responses already in the blogsphere and in the press, all of them condemning Street-Porter as far as I can see, with this in mind I have decided not to tackle her on the 'facts' she presents, but rather the reasons the article enraged and saddened me, on a personal level

Roar etc.

May. 15th, 2010 09:20 pm
askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (November the 8th)
So I've been lucky enough to win paid time here on dreamwidth. Regrettably my laptop is knackered and currently with eBuyer who will almost certainly refuse to fix it under warranty. I'm conscious however that it has been quite some time since I updated so at least a cursory post is in order.

Life has rather run away with me, only in that screwing you over sort of way. An unending stream of job applications has come to precisely, hang on let me just check...yeah, to precisely nothing. My current job (soul destroying retail, thanks for asking!) somehow manages to get worse. The staff I don't complain about my job with/to (a minority) are incompetent beyond belief. Today's simple instruction, by way of example, was "to log out, just press function then clear" What did she do? Function, 1, enter. She was just about to press 1 again when I, through grated teeth, said "no. Clear. Press. Clear." If you can hear my eye twitching you'll have a good idea of where I am aggravation wise.

The government, the education system promised me that if I worked *really* hard, made sacrifices, gave my all then I would be rewarded. The job markets would be filled with jobs in the milk and honey production industries, my bank account would be more bouyant than the very cheapest dingy that has carried it's unlucky, fatherless child far out to sea from some free bar beach resort. But, instead, what do I have to show for a Bachelors and Masters? A massive student loan which I still don't earn enough to start paying back. A soul destroying - and I really do mean every syllable of that phrase - job. Not too mention the remarkable achievement of making myself completely unemployable by doing the Masters at all. A pretty impressive result, I'm sure you'll agree.

In short? BOLLOCKS. Someone give me a job with at least a gesture towards my field of expertise, a field which I believe to be both important for the development of society and the further liberation of all minority groups. Viva la queer theory!

Or something.

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askygoneonfire: Red and orange sunset over Hove (Default)
a sky gone on fire

August 2017

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