When I started this blog, I did not do it with the intention of being seen or viewed as a victim, or as someone to feel sorry for; when I posted that blog yesterday, it was simply with the intention of turning a statistic into a human being. I am the 1 in 10 people who have a mental illness.
Recently there has been a campaign running to make the General Public (whoever this abstract group is supposed to be) more aware of mental health issues. However, having a mental health problem is, I have discovered, quite like being in the closet. You have a feeling that if you tell people, they will treat you differently. How, you're unsure, but you know it's true.
I have had first hand experience of this; how ignorance can change peoples' view of you. Someone at work now treats me as I'm going to snap and kill everyone at any given moment, simply because I am wired to be more anxious than others. (And trust me, I have no desire to go on a killing spree.)
You are also not sure whether people will accept you or shun you because of something you cannot help. As someone who identifies herself as bisexual (although I personally despise the phrase) I can see the parallels.
So there we go. No-one needs to tip-toe around me, or treat me as though I might shatter. I won't, trust me. I'm a strong person. I just happen to have a few wrongly wired bits in my bonce.
It did occur to me with the little reactions I have had to the blog that I have not duly explained in any way any kind of background that may give this blog a context.
So here we go, a short (for me) introduction.
Sup. I was born in 1986 into a military family. That makes me 23, those of you who are bad at maths (or just lazy.). I grew up between England and Germany, with the one stint in Scotland. In my short life I have met literally thousands of people, most of whom I wouldn't recognise if they passed me in the street.
At a very young age it became extremely apparent I had absolutely no respect for any idea of social hierarchy. Even at kindergarten I refused to stay in the class I was told. I had no interest in learning what people told me I should know, so I'd walk out and go to another.
I remember once I was playing in a playpark in the Officer's Quarters when my dad was a sergeant; her father demanded I leave because he outranked mine. My response was "no, you should leave. You're too old to be here. This is a playpark, for kids. And besides, my dad says officers are wankers."
I announced my vegetarianism at the table at Christmas dinner at the age of 7. I distributed anti-McDonalds (because of deforestation, desecration of native resources, undermining local communities and rendering large areas of previous rainforest land barren) and anti-vivisection leaflets. I once refused to enter my school building for over a week because they didn't have vegetarian meals. I was vocal about global warming and other environmental causes, and kept in constant contact with groups of similar stances. I became a member of Greenpeace at the tender age of 9, and an active member at that. I was a member of many other groups as well.
I was mostly about the environment and animal rights for most of my childhood; it was only when I was about 10 and in my dad's hangar, where he was fixing fighter aircraft and I nearly sat on a warhead when I realised. These things...they kill people. I don't believe my dad is a bad person, I love my father. I loved and respected the people around me, but I struggled with the idea that they were somehow contributing to peoples' deaths. As I was growing up, bases I lived near were continually attacked by the IRA. People died out on missions. People came back were different, marked, damaged.
I saw wars destroying families. I saw people driven mad by actions forced upon them by a government of people whose names I had not heard of. People I did not know sat somewhere comfortably and made choices that caused rifts and problems.
So basically, I hated wars. I hated deaths caused by stupid, stupid "reasons". As I grew more aware and matured, this anger and rage stayed with me. Whether it's Iraq or Gaza or Sudan or Zimbabwe or any other conflicted place on the planet, I stand by the voiceless because we had no voice and no choice. I stand up for those who are silenced because when I was young I was treated with utter contempt for asking why. To question, back then, was seen as to betray; now I know that to question is the right thing to do.
So, I question everything. What I eat, what I wear, who makes what I wear, why I wear what I wear, what newspapers say, why they say it, what they are trying to achieve, digging into issues and trying to find out the reasons and what I can do. This is why I believe what I believe and I continue to strive for change; because I owe it to those who were affected and those who continue to be affected by things that you can help change if you only open your mouth and start to give a shit.
And that, my friends, is why I am a political being.
I know this blog has thus far often read as though I'm naïve, but trust me, when you grow up in the world I did, you are anything but naïve. I haven't been writing much for the last year; you would never believe that Confessions... used to exist somewhere else, would you?
Anyway, I think that's pretty good introduction. Questions? Refutes? Rebuttals? I'm open to hearing it all.
E x
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
are they really FIT to take your money?
In the last two weeks, I have been thrust back into politics with the effect of being sat in a catapult and being flung, landing steadily amongst a fluster of blogs, interviews, zines and freesheets. It's like 2004 all over again, and I am all the better for it.
One thing about learning about, or to put it better, delving into politics on a deeper level, is that it is often extremely difficult to admit ignorance. I usually personally find ignorance merely irritating- it's apathy that really pisses me off- but I've found myself being more forgiving in light of my learning curve. Several times in the past week I've bitten my tongue, and when it comes to asking questions I've been reluctant and a touch tentative. But the only way around ignorance is [to pester] with questions after all, so my housemate has had an influx of questions from me about various things, including court cases he's involved with re: FIT. I've been reading fitwatch.blogspot.com of late. Don't get me wrong, I knew this stuff was happening, but not to what extent... it's been an interesting week.
Learning that a FIT photographer can earn upwards of £28,000 a year (and considerably upwards; some earn nearer £40,000) for effectively pursuing an action that assumes criminality of people partaking in their human right to protest issues and question the world around them (to put it hideously basically) made me utterly furious. The fact that I got into a discussion about this branch of the police- an organisation who insist CONSTANTLY they are there to protect communities and their rights, only to consistently divide and attempt to intimidate- after looking at Redwatch says it all, really; and begs the question, who exactly is worse? Both groups are seeming to work along the same lines of fascism and segregation, and assumption of ignorant moral superiority. Like I always say, it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic.
It disturbs me for many reasons; many of these reasons could well be predicted and I'm sure I will discuss them in greater detail at some point.
However, that was not the intended point of this post, but merely an introduction.
When I moved back to London I did so knowing some things would have to be different that when I previously lived in London. These things are nothing to do with the city itself but more to do with my health, specifically mental health.
Whoa nelly, what now?
Yes, from FIT to mental health? This is about money, basically; where it goes and why it goes there. I beg forgiveness in advance for the fact this will be a rant and not filled with much in the way of balanced rationale, because, well, now I'm pretty mad.
Let's start this with honesty. Normally I would be hesitant to be honest about these matters because of how the world begs to make them taboo. But if I'm going to discuss this, honesty must be an absolute priority.
I am mentally ill.
There, I said it. Wow. It's out there. Wee, I feel a bit better about that...anyway, on with the post/show.
When I was living at my grandparents, issues that have dogged me my entire life started to get a hold of me. Not just a hold, but a chokehold. I became chronically depressed, withdrawn, irritable and paranoid, amongst other things (and would explain my odd behaviour in the last year). I am NOT blaming this on my grandparents. Yes, it is exceptionally difficult to live with people nearly half a century older than you with beliefs that came from the same era- homophobia, racism, hating all immigration (even though my granddad's grandfather was an Irish immigrant- but that's a story for another post)- but it is not their fault (and they are merely a product of their time.) Neither is it mine.
My entire life I have had problems like this. I have done many things I regret because of it all. (However, regret is redundant when you are in a position of no control.) I have done extremely dangerous things because I felt the consequences were not applicable to me at the time. It's hard to describe without going into everything; as much as I want to be honest some of that stuff is too personal, irregardless of taboo.
After I nearly took something dangerous far too far, and I broke down at work, I realised that I had to do something about it. So I went to my GP, citing my problems and the urgency needed to deal with it. She said she would forward her notes to a mental health unit who would assess me from there. She said this would happen within two weeks.
Two MONTHS later (and that is a long time considering what was happening to me) I received a letter summoning me to a mental health hearing. A lot had happened in those two months, namely getting the keys to my new house and knowing I was going to move back into London, so previous symptoms had either gone into hiding entirely, or had been reduced considerably.
So I went to the appointment and got my diagnosis. Extreme Anxiety Disorder, and potentially Borderline Personality Disorder, which sits at the same dinner table as Bipolar. I was prescribed with an anti-depressant, to which I was prescribed a dose that isn't even manufactured that small, which resulted in me having to trudge back in the snow to the mental health unit to get my prescription, having to wait to pick it up the next day, only to discover it wasn't vegetarian, let alone vegan. I took it for 4 days or so- emptying the capsule onto my tongue to avoid gelatine- then stopped, because the things that normally moved me ceased to do so (music, poetry, literature, film), and I felt horrible on them. Although the medication wasn't something I wish to pursue, counselling is, so I was given an appointment for the 5th March.
The thing is, that was in Kent. I am now in London. I can't use a mental health unit that is based in another borough, let alone an entire county. So today I went to find a nearby GPs. None seemed to be open on an early Friday afternoon. This is my only weekday off. I wanted to do it today to ensue my treatment continues as soon as possible.
I might be feeling a lot better, but despite my current happiness I obviously have issues that need addressing. I obviously need constant treatment and monitoring to make sure I am staying in control of my illnesses and not vice versa. A lot of people live like this day to day; as bad as my problems are, on the mental health scale, they are pretty far down it.
Back to FIT. Think about it; if each FIT photographer (let's not think about the police per se at the moment, but simply FIT in terms of cost) earns between £28K and £40K per annum, that's a median of £34K. Now how many are there at protests? After being informed by said housemate as to more recent numbers, and using things I have learned re: protests and political events I have attended, I'd say you could get up to, say, 15 of these people, perhaps more (if you have other figures, I would love to hear them; I've been out of the protest loop for a while) so before tax that's a whopping £510,000. PER YEAR. And that's just at a single protest. On people trying to intimidate and harrass those choosing to abhore apathy and have a conscience.
Think how much you could do with that money. £510,000. Let's put that into words. Five hundred and ten thousand pounds. Mill over that for a bit.
We live in a country where any issue occuring is blamed on one of the following-
-immigrants
-young people
-protestors
-asylum seekers
-terrorists
...and instead of looking at solutions and preventions, people are pointing fingers and accusing and all the fucking stupid shit you see in Parliament and on Prime Minister's Questions, bitching and scoring points, but not actually achieving anything. Trust me, I've lived in plenty of run-down, shitty areas where there is nothing to do for people intermittent between childhood and adulthood. As Rancid once said, "where do you go now when you're only 15?" Where is the investment in those areas? Are we paying for FIT photographers instead of youth clubs and organisations, and other ways of making young people in this country feel empowered and supported?
So much money in this country is wasted on absolute bollocks which does nothing to help us but instead is used to divide. Back to mental health. If that money spent on useless photographers was instead spent on, say, campaigning more to prevent people like me being seen as dangerous and individuals to avoid, not only would my life become considerably easier, but so would so many others. You know what? I forgot to mention that on my list. How many times have you read the mainstream media and heard about a mental health patient committing some crime?
Often newspapers miss out the vital facts about mental health care in this country. There is not enough money around to care for people. There is not enough money pumped into places to make sure patients are safe. If there was more money and investment and development of mental health facilities and campaigns to stop the assumptions so employment is easier, treatment is easier, lives are easier, carers have a better time, then communities could be strengthened.
And this is just one example of epic wastes of money (that comes out of YOUR taxes, don't forget that), often thrown at institutions that merely repress and antagonise. If our society is so broken, why punish those who care enough to take to the streets to speak their cause? Aren't we supposed to be a democratic country, where no voice is quashed? Of course they say this, but if people actually looked at the things that really break apart communities...I think they'd question their assumed loyalties.
It's difficult, because as a mental health patient who has struggled for years to have her conditions taken seriously, I have at least opened a door to treatment. Perhaps I am biased in wishing this country to have better services, because trust me, it is no walk in the park having these problems. To put it simply, it sucks. But my point is, waste sucks more. Assuming criminality is not only dangerous, it is divisive and backwards and begs people to stay apathetic.
Don't feel like you have to be timid. Don't feel intimidated. Do not stop being active and taking to the streets and taking control back from those who wish you drifted in a bubble of apathy. Push, challenge and change. Specifically the challenge part. Someone takes a photo of you? Take a photo of them. Do what they do to you. Do not let them win. Ever.
I said this wouldn't read with great rationality, but I hope you can find some in my words.
Thanks again for reading!
Peace x
One thing about learning about, or to put it better, delving into politics on a deeper level, is that it is often extremely difficult to admit ignorance. I usually personally find ignorance merely irritating- it's apathy that really pisses me off- but I've found myself being more forgiving in light of my learning curve. Several times in the past week I've bitten my tongue, and when it comes to asking questions I've been reluctant and a touch tentative. But the only way around ignorance is [to pester] with questions after all, so my housemate has had an influx of questions from me about various things, including court cases he's involved with re: FIT. I've been reading fitwatch.blogspot.com of late. Don't get me wrong, I knew this stuff was happening, but not to what extent... it's been an interesting week.
Learning that a FIT photographer can earn upwards of £28,000 a year (and considerably upwards; some earn nearer £40,000) for effectively pursuing an action that assumes criminality of people partaking in their human right to protest issues and question the world around them (to put it hideously basically) made me utterly furious. The fact that I got into a discussion about this branch of the police- an organisation who insist CONSTANTLY they are there to protect communities and their rights, only to consistently divide and attempt to intimidate- after looking at Redwatch says it all, really; and begs the question, who exactly is worse? Both groups are seeming to work along the same lines of fascism and segregation, and assumption of ignorant moral superiority. Like I always say, it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic.
It disturbs me for many reasons; many of these reasons could well be predicted and I'm sure I will discuss them in greater detail at some point.
However, that was not the intended point of this post, but merely an introduction.
When I moved back to London I did so knowing some things would have to be different that when I previously lived in London. These things are nothing to do with the city itself but more to do with my health, specifically mental health.
Whoa nelly, what now?
Yes, from FIT to mental health? This is about money, basically; where it goes and why it goes there. I beg forgiveness in advance for the fact this will be a rant and not filled with much in the way of balanced rationale, because, well, now I'm pretty mad.
Let's start this with honesty. Normally I would be hesitant to be honest about these matters because of how the world begs to make them taboo. But if I'm going to discuss this, honesty must be an absolute priority.
I am mentally ill.
There, I said it. Wow. It's out there. Wee, I feel a bit better about that...anyway, on with the post/show.
When I was living at my grandparents, issues that have dogged me my entire life started to get a hold of me. Not just a hold, but a chokehold. I became chronically depressed, withdrawn, irritable and paranoid, amongst other things (and would explain my odd behaviour in the last year). I am NOT blaming this on my grandparents. Yes, it is exceptionally difficult to live with people nearly half a century older than you with beliefs that came from the same era- homophobia, racism, hating all immigration (even though my granddad's grandfather was an Irish immigrant- but that's a story for another post)- but it is not their fault (and they are merely a product of their time.) Neither is it mine.
My entire life I have had problems like this. I have done many things I regret because of it all. (However, regret is redundant when you are in a position of no control.) I have done extremely dangerous things because I felt the consequences were not applicable to me at the time. It's hard to describe without going into everything; as much as I want to be honest some of that stuff is too personal, irregardless of taboo.
After I nearly took something dangerous far too far, and I broke down at work, I realised that I had to do something about it. So I went to my GP, citing my problems and the urgency needed to deal with it. She said she would forward her notes to a mental health unit who would assess me from there. She said this would happen within two weeks.
Two MONTHS later (and that is a long time considering what was happening to me) I received a letter summoning me to a mental health hearing. A lot had happened in those two months, namely getting the keys to my new house and knowing I was going to move back into London, so previous symptoms had either gone into hiding entirely, or had been reduced considerably.
So I went to the appointment and got my diagnosis. Extreme Anxiety Disorder, and potentially Borderline Personality Disorder, which sits at the same dinner table as Bipolar. I was prescribed with an anti-depressant, to which I was prescribed a dose that isn't even manufactured that small, which resulted in me having to trudge back in the snow to the mental health unit to get my prescription, having to wait to pick it up the next day, only to discover it wasn't vegetarian, let alone vegan. I took it for 4 days or so- emptying the capsule onto my tongue to avoid gelatine- then stopped, because the things that normally moved me ceased to do so (music, poetry, literature, film), and I felt horrible on them. Although the medication wasn't something I wish to pursue, counselling is, so I was given an appointment for the 5th March.
The thing is, that was in Kent. I am now in London. I can't use a mental health unit that is based in another borough, let alone an entire county. So today I went to find a nearby GPs. None seemed to be open on an early Friday afternoon. This is my only weekday off. I wanted to do it today to ensue my treatment continues as soon as possible.
I might be feeling a lot better, but despite my current happiness I obviously have issues that need addressing. I obviously need constant treatment and monitoring to make sure I am staying in control of my illnesses and not vice versa. A lot of people live like this day to day; as bad as my problems are, on the mental health scale, they are pretty far down it.
Back to FIT. Think about it; if each FIT photographer (let's not think about the police per se at the moment, but simply FIT in terms of cost) earns between £28K and £40K per annum, that's a median of £34K. Now how many are there at protests? After being informed by said housemate as to more recent numbers, and using things I have learned re: protests and political events I have attended, I'd say you could get up to, say, 15 of these people, perhaps more (if you have other figures, I would love to hear them; I've been out of the protest loop for a while) so before tax that's a whopping £510,000. PER YEAR. And that's just at a single protest. On people trying to intimidate and harrass those choosing to abhore apathy and have a conscience.
Think how much you could do with that money. £510,000. Let's put that into words. Five hundred and ten thousand pounds. Mill over that for a bit.
We live in a country where any issue occuring is blamed on one of the following-
-immigrants
-young people
-protestors
-asylum seekers
-terrorists
...and instead of looking at solutions and preventions, people are pointing fingers and accusing and all the fucking stupid shit you see in Parliament and on Prime Minister's Questions, bitching and scoring points, but not actually achieving anything. Trust me, I've lived in plenty of run-down, shitty areas where there is nothing to do for people intermittent between childhood and adulthood. As Rancid once said, "where do you go now when you're only 15?" Where is the investment in those areas? Are we paying for FIT photographers instead of youth clubs and organisations, and other ways of making young people in this country feel empowered and supported?
So much money in this country is wasted on absolute bollocks which does nothing to help us but instead is used to divide. Back to mental health. If that money spent on useless photographers was instead spent on, say, campaigning more to prevent people like me being seen as dangerous and individuals to avoid, not only would my life become considerably easier, but so would so many others. You know what? I forgot to mention that on my list. How many times have you read the mainstream media and heard about a mental health patient committing some crime?
Often newspapers miss out the vital facts about mental health care in this country. There is not enough money around to care for people. There is not enough money pumped into places to make sure patients are safe. If there was more money and investment and development of mental health facilities and campaigns to stop the assumptions so employment is easier, treatment is easier, lives are easier, carers have a better time, then communities could be strengthened.
And this is just one example of epic wastes of money (that comes out of YOUR taxes, don't forget that), often thrown at institutions that merely repress and antagonise. If our society is so broken, why punish those who care enough to take to the streets to speak their cause? Aren't we supposed to be a democratic country, where no voice is quashed? Of course they say this, but if people actually looked at the things that really break apart communities...I think they'd question their assumed loyalties.
It's difficult, because as a mental health patient who has struggled for years to have her conditions taken seriously, I have at least opened a door to treatment. Perhaps I am biased in wishing this country to have better services, because trust me, it is no walk in the park having these problems. To put it simply, it sucks. But my point is, waste sucks more. Assuming criminality is not only dangerous, it is divisive and backwards and begs people to stay apathetic.
Don't feel like you have to be timid. Don't feel intimidated. Do not stop being active and taking to the streets and taking control back from those who wish you drifted in a bubble of apathy. Push, challenge and change. Specifically the challenge part. Someone takes a photo of you? Take a photo of them. Do what they do to you. Do not let them win. Ever.
I said this wouldn't read with great rationality, but I hope you can find some in my words.
Thanks again for reading!
Peace x
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I'm back in London.
I've been in London for all of a week. Manor House, further north than I'm used to, but back where the action is. I'm back gigging at places where it was previously impossible- trying to hock it back to Kent after the hour of 11pm is only a course of action advised to the very brave, willing for risk a night in the cold if your train leaves only slightly late.
The interesting thing about my moving back to London is the house I'm living in; it's a slightly ramshackle affair, but full of...vegan activists (with the exception of one person who isn't vegan, but who is equally interesting to debate with.) It's also terrifyingly cheap, £240 a month. I was looking at the entirely cumbersome figure of £400, so this was a pleasant surprise.
So nowadays I'm feeling distinctly less like a fraud, especially in light of the fact that I turned vegan yesterday, on what for everyone else was a day of either gloomily contemplating singledom, or unabashedly being disgustingly romantic. Suffice to say I wanted to avoid the former and am distinctly cynical of the latter, so being all for reclaiming space, my 14th February became; Vegan Day!
It started very well; vegan porridge with unrefined sugar (maybe it's a rumour I have since taken to heart, but I'm sure I heard somewhere that sugar is often refined with animal bone for extra whiteness.), a cup of fruit tea and soy yoghurt for breakfast; all manners of falafel and hummous capery with fruit and stuff for lunch, followed by a dinner my lovely housemate had cooked. And vegan banana cake.
This was followed by an excursion to an extremely local benefit. Now I'm all for benefit shows, as long as it's benefiting something I am 100% behind, no doubts or moral conflictions. Perhaps in this case I am entirely ignorant past experience in my younger years.
The benefit was for the A.L.F. For those of you not seasoned in the way of animal rights, this stands for Animal Liberation Front. I am not quite sure what it all means now, but I know when I was last on the cusp of involvement I was about 12, and sneakily involved in the hunt saboteur movement in Norfolk. We were a wiley bunch of mostly kids and older teenagers, galavanting after hunts and bothering posh folk with very simple methods, often consisting of lemon juice and various other amusingly cheap and easy ways. It's amazing how the juice of a small citrus fruit can really confuse an animal trained exclusively to pick up on another animal's scent, but it can.
Anyway to cut a long story short (and I for one am full of long stories) we were approached by people under the guise of the A.L.F about something or other, with the end result effectively being assault. Now, I've had my fair share of fights, and a fair share of the world's population have had unfortunate meetings with my fists. Violence was a part of my life, sadly; I used it to defend myself from vicious and malicious bullying, and from the results of my own Very Large Mouth. But I actually hate it. I really, really do. "Aggressive" action is one thing (aka throwing fake blood or paint on people wearing fur, or on clothes in a GAP store in protest at their use of sweatshops) because although it may inconvenience, piss off, humilate and cause damage, no-one is actually being physically hurt. And you can imagine what was going through my head when I was 12. We said no. Well, we did; another member of our tiny clique agreed. I have no idea what happened to him because we fell out over it, but there we go.
For years I have only heard negative things. Either violence against people who partake in animal cruelty (an irony so acute it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic) or just stupid, stupid things like releasing a fuckload of mink from a fur farm into the British countryside, fucking up the very carefully balanced ecology of the area, causing enormous food-chain problems. (If you're going to release mink, at least do it somewhere where they have similar cousins, perhaps in the Scottish Highlands which does not involve trying to smuggle a North-European animal back to its native country.)
So I was apprehensive, quite uncomfortable and to be honest, the first band was utter, utter wank. There, I said it, I sound like a tosser but they were fucking terrible. The second band was alright but by that point it was about half midnight and I'd been up for hours (the glory of the very un-punk Day Job) so I made my excuses and left.
I confessed to my housemate, who had also disappeared off shortly after our arrival, about my discomfort. He told me that the ALF were (perhaps now) more of a collective of ideals and people than an actual militant group. He said officially that they do not believe in physically hurting any sentient beings. I would dearly love to believe him but I have my doubts.
Needless to say with my mind I began to wonder if I was not some kind of sell-out. Perhaps sell-out is a little strong, maybe the entirely wrong word altogether. Fraudulent, perhaps. I know in the last year my political awareness has waned, which for someone like me is very troublesome. I find myself ignorant on subjects I should know about thoroughly, finding that I know little if anything. Many things I still know about vehemently, inside out and upside down and back to front and every which way, which sounds more like the Kama Sutra than anything strictly political.
I am beginning to realise that this move back and my arrival headfirst into the world of veganism is only the first of many steps I am going to have to take to reclaim myself completely.
That is basically the premise behind this journal- to depict my voyage back into the heartland of everything I truly care about.
I ramble. I warn you.
This will, I forewarn you, contain a lot of passion, anger, confusion, rebuttal, rethinking, confirming, questioning, self-reflection, outer reflection, recipes, occasionally photos and a whole buttload of epiphanies.
I want debate on this. If you feel I am wrong or ignorant, please educate me. I may, perhaps, bake you cookies as thanks. Without people, I am shouting into a void. I would like my echo to be replied to please. :)
The interesting thing about my moving back to London is the house I'm living in; it's a slightly ramshackle affair, but full of...vegan activists (with the exception of one person who isn't vegan, but who is equally interesting to debate with.) It's also terrifyingly cheap, £240 a month. I was looking at the entirely cumbersome figure of £400, so this was a pleasant surprise.
So nowadays I'm feeling distinctly less like a fraud, especially in light of the fact that I turned vegan yesterday, on what for everyone else was a day of either gloomily contemplating singledom, or unabashedly being disgustingly romantic. Suffice to say I wanted to avoid the former and am distinctly cynical of the latter, so being all for reclaiming space, my 14th February became; Vegan Day!
It started very well; vegan porridge with unrefined sugar (maybe it's a rumour I have since taken to heart, but I'm sure I heard somewhere that sugar is often refined with animal bone for extra whiteness.), a cup of fruit tea and soy yoghurt for breakfast; all manners of falafel and hummous capery with fruit and stuff for lunch, followed by a dinner my lovely housemate had cooked. And vegan banana cake.
This was followed by an excursion to an extremely local benefit. Now I'm all for benefit shows, as long as it's benefiting something I am 100% behind, no doubts or moral conflictions. Perhaps in this case I am entirely ignorant past experience in my younger years.
The benefit was for the A.L.F. For those of you not seasoned in the way of animal rights, this stands for Animal Liberation Front. I am not quite sure what it all means now, but I know when I was last on the cusp of involvement I was about 12, and sneakily involved in the hunt saboteur movement in Norfolk. We were a wiley bunch of mostly kids and older teenagers, galavanting after hunts and bothering posh folk with very simple methods, often consisting of lemon juice and various other amusingly cheap and easy ways. It's amazing how the juice of a small citrus fruit can really confuse an animal trained exclusively to pick up on another animal's scent, but it can.
Anyway to cut a long story short (and I for one am full of long stories) we were approached by people under the guise of the A.L.F about something or other, with the end result effectively being assault. Now, I've had my fair share of fights, and a fair share of the world's population have had unfortunate meetings with my fists. Violence was a part of my life, sadly; I used it to defend myself from vicious and malicious bullying, and from the results of my own Very Large Mouth. But I actually hate it. I really, really do. "Aggressive" action is one thing (aka throwing fake blood or paint on people wearing fur, or on clothes in a GAP store in protest at their use of sweatshops) because although it may inconvenience, piss off, humilate and cause damage, no-one is actually being physically hurt. And you can imagine what was going through my head when I was 12. We said no. Well, we did; another member of our tiny clique agreed. I have no idea what happened to him because we fell out over it, but there we go.
For years I have only heard negative things. Either violence against people who partake in animal cruelty (an irony so acute it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic) or just stupid, stupid things like releasing a fuckload of mink from a fur farm into the British countryside, fucking up the very carefully balanced ecology of the area, causing enormous food-chain problems. (If you're going to release mink, at least do it somewhere where they have similar cousins, perhaps in the Scottish Highlands which does not involve trying to smuggle a North-European animal back to its native country.)
So I was apprehensive, quite uncomfortable and to be honest, the first band was utter, utter wank. There, I said it, I sound like a tosser but they were fucking terrible. The second band was alright but by that point it was about half midnight and I'd been up for hours (the glory of the very un-punk Day Job) so I made my excuses and left.
I confessed to my housemate, who had also disappeared off shortly after our arrival, about my discomfort. He told me that the ALF were (perhaps now) more of a collective of ideals and people than an actual militant group. He said officially that they do not believe in physically hurting any sentient beings. I would dearly love to believe him but I have my doubts.
Needless to say with my mind I began to wonder if I was not some kind of sell-out. Perhaps sell-out is a little strong, maybe the entirely wrong word altogether. Fraudulent, perhaps. I know in the last year my political awareness has waned, which for someone like me is very troublesome. I find myself ignorant on subjects I should know about thoroughly, finding that I know little if anything. Many things I still know about vehemently, inside out and upside down and back to front and every which way, which sounds more like the Kama Sutra than anything strictly political.
I am beginning to realise that this move back and my arrival headfirst into the world of veganism is only the first of many steps I am going to have to take to reclaim myself completely.
That is basically the premise behind this journal- to depict my voyage back into the heartland of everything I truly care about.
I ramble. I warn you.
This will, I forewarn you, contain a lot of passion, anger, confusion, rebuttal, rethinking, confirming, questioning, self-reflection, outer reflection, recipes, occasionally photos and a whole buttload of epiphanies.
I want debate on this. If you feel I am wrong or ignorant, please educate me. I may, perhaps, bake you cookies as thanks. Without people, I am shouting into a void. I would like my echo to be replied to please. :)
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