Behind Closed Doors: Turning Off The Switch

At Any Other Woman, you can talk about anything. Anything you want at all. Any subject, any time. We are proud to be able to provide that platform for you, it makes our hearts sing. But we do understand that sometimes there are topics that are too sensitive, too divisive, simply too hard to write about and broadcast without a second thought. No-one wants to hurt their loved ones unnecessarily and yet sometimes a story needs to be told.

This is your place for those subjects. A place for you to tell those tales you’d not considered telling before. No names, no justifications, no apologies.

You can send your BCD submissions to behindcloseddoors@live.co.uk and we promise that you’ll remain anonymous throughout the entire process.

 

 

This post has been written and re-written over a number of days, yet the words don’t come easy, so bear with me whilst I struggle through. I’ve been scared to say it, as if hiding makes it not true. Thanks to AOW, I’m grateful for somewhere I can even start to manage this. Some of you will know who is writing, but you’ll also understand why this is BCD in an attempt to save face and not tell All The Internet everything right now.

There have been only a few tears; angry, defeated and distraught. There have been no slammed doors, thrown crockery or muttered curses. Most of all there’s been sadness, a feeling of grief and a blackness that only a sense of mourning can bring.

Splitting an almost 8 year old team is difficult, confusing and painful. As any supporter would know, once you’re a fan, you’re always a fan; season ticket, kit and all.

When I said my vows I meant from the depth of my heart – ‘til death do us part, for better or for worse. I could cope with any hurt, with sadness or arguments, because I knew together we’d deal with it. What I can’t handle is coldness, as if a switch has been turned off. I am not a person that gives up easily, I’d rather lose a limb and bleed to death through trying than simply throw my hands up and relent. For me, giving up is the easy way out, I want to try, to battle through and come out the other side.

But he’s walked away, defeated and lacking fight. I loved that fight. That team spirit.

This feeling of failure does not sit well with me, but no amount of pleading or begging is making him change his mind. I have run out of help and words of kindness to give, and am only left with the option to swallow my pride and watch him pack up his things, find a new home and walk out of ours. I want him to try to be happier. It hurts me to let that happen, but I always said I’d support him.

I can’t promise I’m going to wait to see if he changes his mind, because the man I married told me that we ‘are better than divorce, we are a team’ – and I don’t look kindly upon broken promises.

I’m attempting to look forwards rather than back, onwards and then up, but at the moment all I see is the emptiness, failure and the fact that I now have joined the statistics of young divorcées.

Categories: Behind Closed Doors
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The Friend That Made Me Me – Tish

We haven’t had a FTMMM for a very long time.  Tish nails this one, with friendship, family, history, love.  

One year ago today, Tish’s best friend Katie lost her mother to cancer.  This, in all its perfection, is Tish’s tribute:  

 

I’ve wanted to write something for AOW for a while, but there’s always a little niggle saying that what I have to say wouldn’t be good enough to be published. So it must be someone pretty special who has made me brave enough to do this. And that person is my wonderful, beautiful, oh so incredibly brave friend Katie.

I can’t ever remember I time when I haven’t known you – our mums were friends when we were in toddler group and we went to each others’ birthday parties as children. Little did we know then how much we’d come to rely on each other later on down the line.

I remember one day at high school, I fainted in a science lesson and was laying on the bed in the nurse’s room when you came in, having passed out at watching a birth video. It was just before your sister in law had Beth so I think you’d gone a bit wobbly, but we sat laughing in that room and looking after each other, making the time fly (which it always does when we get together). I love that we managed to find the exact same time to be ill enough to leave class on the same day, not that we were skiving ;)

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Categories: Friend That Made Me Me
7 interesting thoughts on this

Behind Closed Doors: Across Your Hallway

At Any Other Woman, you can talk about anything. Anything you want at all. Any subject, any time. We are proud to be able to provide that platform for you, it makes our hearts sing. But we do understand that sometimes there are topics that are too sensitive, too divisive, simply too hard to write about and broadcast without a second thought. No-one wants to hurt their loved ones unnecessarily and yet sometimes a story needs to be told.

This is your place for those subjects. A place for you to tell those tales you’d not considered telling before. No names, no justifications, no apologies.

You can send your BCD submissions to behindcloseddoors@live.co.uk and we promise that you’ll remain anonymous throughout the entire process.

So there we were in the hallway of your flat, me leaning on the door frame to your living room and you leaning on the door frame to the bedroom.  You say to me that sometimes you think I say things that imply I want to cheat on my husband and that you don’t think I want to imply that.

 

I take a deep breath and say that sometimes I *do* want to imply that but I don’t really want to do it.  It would destroy my life and all I hold dear. We then both agree that my husband is great because he is.

 

You try to give me tips on how to flirt with you less.  I say I think it is a lost cause as I just am that way with everyone and that you are not really an exception.  This is a lie.  I flirt more with you because you flirt with me.  I don’t let anyone other than my husband guide me across the road with one hand on my lower back. Or at least I did not until I met you.

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Categories: Behind Closed Doors
15 interesting thoughts on this

These Last Days

Happy Wednesday, all.

I read this post and I am transported back to June and that sick feeling about swapping my maternity leave for work, when my baby was so small she couldn’t even sit up, and my guilt at abandoning her at nursery.    I don’t think it’s a decision that any mother makes lightly.  Katy tackles that feeling head on:

I feel I should mark them, these last days. I feel I should be doing everything, seeing everyone we’ve met over the last almost-ten months, fitting in as much as possible. But we already have a busy week of nursery settling in, work settling in, last-minute baby classes. I think if I don’t leave ourselves some slack, we’ll do too much and be too tired for the big week when I start back at work properly and she starts nursery. Counting down. 10 days now.

 

I have loved this time far more than I expected. After 11 years of non-stop work (many of those years with 12 hour days as standard), I worried that I might need to do more with my time, that I might get bored with my time off. I haven’t. The quiet rhythms of our days together, marked by naps (far less fraught now than in the early days), feeds, meals, the huge grins when Daddy gets home, have sustained me. Boredom has been of the comfortable, reassuring kind. I have slowed down to her pace, calmed down since the early days of feeling like I needed to have an activity planned for every day and volunteering to help with baby groups to show I had done something ‘challenging’ (as if keeping a tiny human alive, warm, fed, happy wasn’t challenging. I am ridiculous).

 

My maternity leave coincided with being made redundant and so a lot of time has been spent preparing job applications and going to interviews. The juxtaposition of going from messy puree lunchtimes straight to putting my suit and grown up shoes on is an odd one, and one I will no doubt have to contend with a lot in the future. I worry that I have spent too much of this precious time with her worrying too much about work and finding a job. Life might have been simpler with a job to go back to. But I would have probably found something else to worry about.

 

I have spent so many hours looking at my phone this year. I blame too much twitter and whatsapp during marathon feeding sessions. Those endless hours in the middle of the night in the first few weeks and months, catching up on the whole archives of all of my favourite blogs and some new ones. Buying things from Amazon at 3am. Only rediscovering the kindle app on my phone when she was 6 months.

 

I spend a lot of time at the moment talking to people about my return to work (well, new job).  I have been in one day a week for the last few weeks so I have an idea of what to expect, and it’s meant I’ve been away from her for whole days as practice. But I have a big lump in my throat as I write this at the thought of her being at nursery all day, learning how to do new things without me. Eating food I haven’t chosen. I know it will all be fine, as everyone who has gone before me has found, but I will miss this time, just me and her. It’s been ace.

Categories: Becoming a Mother, Money and Career
9 interesting thoughts on this

Denial

Happy Monday, readers.

The love, the sadness, the frustration and pain, oh the love.  In this post, Marie writes so evocatively about it all.  We’reused to hearing about parents that didn’t stay together from the kids’ perspectve.  What about the mums (and dads)  who suffer with the consequences?

Over to you, Marie:   

I hate it when my child goes away to visit his Dad for the weekend.

 

There.  I’ve said it.

 

I tell myself that it is good for him, that his Dad loves him and he loves his Dad.  That he gets something different from his relationship with his Dad that I don’t provide, not better just different.

 

I tell myself it’s good for me.  That I need the break.  That I can be a better parent when we are together because I have that time.  That I need the time to study so that I can get my career on track to provide a life and an example to him.  That I love the lay-ins, the luxury of free un-frazzled time.

 

I tell other people that.  I tell them I am lucky, grateful for the brilliant experience that I get to have of parenting. The best of both worlds.

 

For a while I believed myself.   Suddenly today I didn’t any more.

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Categories: Becoming a Mother
4 interesting thoughts on this

Behind Closed Doors: Why Are You Trying To Be Brave?

At Any Other Woman, you can talk about anything. Anything you want at all. Any subject, any time. We are proud to be able to provide that platform for you, it makes our hearts sing. But we do understand that sometimes there are topics that are too sensitive, too divisive, simply too hard to write about and broadcast without a second thought. No-one wants to hurt their loved ones unnecessarily and yet sometimes a story needs to be told.

This is your place for those subjects. A place for you to tell those tales you’d not considered telling before. No names, no justifications, no apologies.

You can send your BCD submissions to behindcloseddoors@live.co.uk and we promise that you’ll remain anonymous throughout the entire process.

“why are you trying to be brave?”

 

The question that unravelled me. Like watching all the stitches you’ve neatly made come undone, unfolding to the ground.

Nothing and yet something.

 

I think about that look, that instant I knew something wasn’t right.

 

I think about whether they’ve got this early enough.

 

I think, I know I’m ready for a fight… but I need to know the arena, I need to know the opposition. I think the days are taking double the time they should to get me to that information. I think the nights are worse. Tell me what I’m fighting. I’m ready to fight.  JUST TELL ME WHAT I’M FIGHTING AND GET ME IN THERE.

 

I think waiting with this news is like being dropped in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with no map.

 

I think about my hair. Will I lose my hair? I think about how ungrateful I’ve been about it. I take it back. I take it all back.

 

I think about whether I will get that tattoo now.

 

I think about all the CV’s I sent over the last month and how “sorry, I got cancer” might not be a great opener at interviews.

 

I think about how I hope this is the primary. They don’t know if it is yet. I think about how little I know about what that even means.

 

I think about turning up and them saying “we got it wrong” and I savour those seconds when I believe that.

 

I think about that child, that beautiful child I tuck into bed each night. It comes back to that every time, every round of thinking.

 

I think about trying not to think.

 

I think about that question, the one the consultant asked “why are you trying to be brave?”

 

…and I think because you don’t know me yet, you don’t know that I am strong and I AM brave and I say it over and over again.

 I’m not trying, I am strong and I am brave and you’ve got nothing to tell me that will break me so don’t ask stupid questions. 

Categories: Behind Closed Doors, Health
17 interesting thoughts on this

The First Twelve Weeks. Ish.

Hello one and all, and welcome to a post from Mahj.  A post about the first trimester of pregnancy, the madness, the secrecy, the loneliness and the madness that comes with what is, in practical terms, weeing on a stick, and in biological terms is THE START OF HUMAN LIFE.  No matter how much I think about it, it doesn’t start to make any more sense.  Over to you, Mahj:  

 

It was a sunny Saturday morning and I was awake at 6am. I knew what I had to do today and as I lay there thinking about it, I realised that 1) I was really nervous and 2) I desperately needed to wee! Unfortunately the first test I did didn’t work properly and so it was back to bed. Sigh.

 

The second test I did was one of those fancy pants digital ones. This test worked and as the egg timer was spinning around, I deliberately avoided looking at it, washing my hands and not looking down. Until I looked down and saw it. ‘Pregnant’. My stomach swooped (in a good way) and I ran from the bathroom to tell Martin whose response was “shit me!” (He would like me to clarify that this was with excitement!). He then ran back to the bathroom with me whilst we looked again at the test in disbelief, delight and shock. I don’t know why we were so shocked; this is what we had wanted. But still, seeing that one little word, at that very moment, literally changed everything.

 

And so it began. All that weekend was spent gazing at the stick (with the cap firmly back on fyi!) until the 24 hours of it were up. I must have spent a good 20 minutes at one point just staring at it. Looking back now, that may have been a touch weird of me. The next day I told my sister because, well, obvs! And over the coming week or two, we (as in I) told a very small but trustworthy couple of friends. It was too exciting not to.

 

And I spent the next however many weeks wondering and worrying. I don’t think I was kind to myself, I think I worried A LOT. I was extremely lucky in that I had hardly any symptoms. Some tiredness some days, some days where I felt a bit nauseous but then I ate something and was fine. I kept waiting for the tired-to-my-bones feeling, the all-day sickness, the supersonic sense of smell, something. But no. Nothing. Not a peep . And so I worried some more (and did another test) and played the Super Cautious Game with Martin (who was Mr Positive). I wouldn’t commit to anything. Everything hinged on the 12 week scan. Every conversation about it ended with a “hopefully” from me.

 

Around 2 weeks or so after we found out, we also found out that Martin’s Dad was ill. He was then diagnosed with cancer and this wonderful little secret we’d been carrying around with us suddenly seemed quite small in comparison of this potential shitstorm. It was a hard time, Martin was extremely concerned about his Dad and those weeks were a flurry of tests and consultant appointments that seemed never ending. And then our beloved Bertie dog hurt his back quite badly which lead to a bazillion vets appointments. But we kept moving forward.

 

In terms of keeping The Secret, I didn’t struggle, mainly as there was so much else going on. Sometimes I quite liked having a little secret to carry around with me, hidden away. Where I almost came undone was talking about something cheese or wine related! Quite naturally I’d almost say “well golly, I sure do miss blue cheese” (or something like it) and I’d stop myself just in time. Maybe this is more an indication that I talk about cheese to much more than anything else…?!

 

By the time the 12 week scan came around I’d had every emotion that week. Our scan was on a Friday and I spent the week wishing the time away and when Friday did roll around, I found myself silently begging time to slow down. Naturally it did not. It was boiling hot that day and driving home I found a radio station playing Summer of ’69 by Bryan Adams. I naturally started singing along like my life depended on it and then promptly burst into snotty, heaving tears!

 

I was told that we’d be waiting at least half an hour for our appointment as they are always running behind but oh no, not today! We’d arrived early and barely sat down before we were called in. I lay down, had that gel stuff slathered all over my stomach and once the sonographer had finished telling me how full my bladder was (!) she moved over and there it was. All potato shaped. An actual real life teeny tiny baby. With a beating heart. And moving arms and legs. It wriggled. It kicked its legs around. And I promptly burst into tears for the second time that day.

 

I have learned a few things since becoming pregnant, some of which I already knew and some I didn’t. The outpouring of love, kindness and congratulations we had on telling people was overwhelming. People are awesome.

 

Really Good News is the most excellent kind of medicine and although Martin’s Dad was doing well before and continues to be, he is now bound and determined to keep staying as well as he can for as long as he can. Excuse me whilst I weep quietly over in the corner.

 

People are also extremely generous and right off the bat we were offered baby-related items including a pram which is now safely stowed in our loft.

 

Babies are expensive and so is all the shizz you have to get for their arrival into your world. We found that making an essentials list was really helpful (Mothercare and the NHS website had the best two lists for us). Now that we have our list, we’re enjoying crossing things off it. Ok, I’m enjoying crossing things off it. Martin’s doesn’t really care about crossing things off lists. Pfft.

 

Google is a mean and scary place and should be avoided at all costs throughout your pregnancy. I fell down a Google rabbit hole many times during my first 12 weeks and 90% of what I read scared me, made me paranoid and filled me with doubt. I think it was Anna K Wise Owl who recommended only the NHS Choices website and I wholeheartedly agree. I made a deal with myself that if everything was ok at the scan, I would stop with the Googling. And I have done.

 

People will ask you the most extraordinarily personal questions and think that it’s perfectly reasonable to. Real life examples “how long have you been trying for” some people don’t mind this question, I however do as its essentially asking for how long my husband and I have been having unprotected sex for. “Will you breastfeed” was asked by a colleague at work who I know well enough to say hi to but beyond that, not a great deal.

 

And lastly, I expected Martin and I’s relationship, our marriage, would adapt to the new arrival. But I didn’t anticipate how things would actually change. That I could love him possibly more than I did before. That sharing this with him has been the second best thing about being pregnant after actually being pregnant! That he would get so smushy and loving when I started to show, how over the moon excited he is. It feels like an utterly wonderful part of our lives is just beginning. Now if I can just get my head around the labour part…

Categories: Becoming a Mother
7 interesting thoughts on this

The Infinite Depth Of Colour

Oh, readers.  Today’s post will set you alight.  Kate has written what, on the surface, is a Friend That Made Me Me post.  But she’s taken the concept and done things with it that you could never imagine.   The flip side of loving someone that much.  The darkness in the brightest friendship.  Colour and anger and love and happy Monday to you all:   

I was 12; a new school in a new town and I was a fish out of water. I hadn’t yet leaned the chameleon skills to warm up the colour of Acceptable (nonchalant, careless, shaven legs and underarms, not bothering with schoolwork)  and cool off the colour of Unacceptable (participating, eager, getting good marks, polished school shoes). Hurt and rejection are fast teachers though, and I quickly learned the survival skills of adaption and camouflage and spent a friendless year waiting for secondary school.

I met Kerry the first week of secondary school.  She had bright gold cropped hair, a huge gappy grin that took up half her face, and crinkly, Duch-blue eyes.  She was in perpetual motion. Energy bounced off her.  She talked fast, laughed loudly, ate fast, ate loads (once she at 12 pieces of toast – not the crusts -  in one sitting. I counted.) and stayed irritatingly skinny. We clicked instantly. With her I could be just ME – unrestrained, reciprocal, secure in myself, my polished shoes and good marks and big boobs and very clean shaven legs. What a gift that was to my lonely self.  I sucked in the all the joy and energy and pure friendship through those fierce and intense and banal and pale-washed days of school.  I’m sure we fought, bickered, disagreed and gossiped behind each-other’s backs, but nothing dulled the shine or excitement; we just got each-other.

Once we manhandled, sweating and laughing, a double mattresses up a wobbling long ladder onto to the garage roof to sleep under the stars and woke up at the edge of the roof having slid down the steep pitch in our sleep.  Getting the latest fashions out on her mum’s store card, and setting up our own “model shoot”, posing and taking photos of our overdressed and fashionably (garishly) made up selves while dancing madly around the room to the top 40. Our first and last (humiliating) foray into drama. Playing inter-school hockey and not realising until too late that the wing had to, well, run quite so much.  Drooling over movie stars and kissing boys in the back row in the cinema in between trips to buy chewing gum. Dying our hair red. Making up “synchronized routines” in the pool with Fern the Border collie barking madly over our disappearing heads.  Slumber parties with horror movies and enough junk food to keep us awake all night. Kerry caught malaria and shrank to toothpick skinny. Visiting her in white hospital, heart pounding with relief to see her sitting up in bed, energy pulsating – albeit weakly –  and choking down her medication stuffed in oranges.  A cold wintry day when the trees were spindly out the window and the sky was the colour of the underside of an iceberg, we “discovered” the aching beauty of the Beatles on vinyl. Endless, endless phone conversations the minute we got home from school about He Said, She Said, We’ll Do, Oh No, You Lie, Oh Isn’t He DIVINE.

Two years of electric, vibrant friendship before we had to move towns again. Leaving  - especially leaving Kerry –  was gut wrenching. It was before email or mobile phones, and long distance phoning was expensive. The gap between us became not only geographical. The fast paced teenage years meant we couldn’t quite close the distance when we talked. Instead we wrote rambling fat snail-mail letters to each other; Kerry’s littered with brilliant cartoon sketches.  She came to visit me for my 15th birthday, and we both listened in curious growing horror to my mum answering the call saying that her mum, our beloved Gorko, had committed suicide. We drove the 9 never-ending hours to Gorko and the car broke down on the way. Photos of Kerry trying to lighten the atmosphere by pretending to fix stuff under the bonnet while we waited for help.  It bonded us yet closer, life wasn’t all boys and music and travel plans.

Kerry was sharp, witty, fun, open, generous, and clever. She wasn’t able to get into her chosen university but undeterred, she decided to join me in my Uni town and got a part time job at the Uni whilst studying by correspondence.  We each had a room in a strange yet retrospectively awesome  B.E.  that housed a small band of Uni students, pensioners, and halfway house people from the local psychiatric hospital. It was brilliant. Hanging out together and living our free, adult lives was something we’d waited for and talked about for years.  We sweet talked the kitchen matron for extra bacon as we both disliked eggs, drank cheap wine in crowded bedrooms, went to gigs, got addicted to playing contract bridge, worked on our papers together, wrote bad poetry and had earnest conversations about literature, history and social injustice.

Yet, being so close to, but excluded from actually being part of lectures, papers, clubs, social activities and day to day Uni minutia was frustrating for her and she became more withdrawn from the group situations in the B.E., not-so-humorously mocking our  friends out of repressed jealousy. We spoke about it at length and I understood how difficult it was for her, but eventually it drove a wedge between us and I felt that I couldn’t talk about any of my studies or day to day happenings because it made her sad, mad, frustrated or depressed.

After her first set of exams, she dropped most of her courses and began to spend more time with non Uni friends including some musicians she’d met at a gig. She wanted to be called by her full name, Keryn, she was no longer “childish Kerry”.  I saw even less of her, but felt a guilty relief. I didn’t have to keep changing the topic when Uni stuff came up, didn’t have to justify or explain my choices to her and was able to spend the time I needed to on my papers and prep. I realised how far we’d grown apart when I saw her at midnight down the hallway after a night out. She was high, and shivering. It was winter and she had nothing on but jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. No bra, no shoes, her feet filthy and scabbed, and her hands and face red from cold. I invited her to into my room for a coffee and to warm up, but she was on her way out again, and just looked at me scornfully when I asked where her shoes and coat were.

Kerry moved out of the B.E. but there were still letters between us, hers with even better cartoons depicting snapshots of her life. I think we both knew the increasing distance was because we were growing in different directions, neither agreeing with the others’ choices, neither allowed to be our unrestrained, unguarded selves and clinging on, both so afraid of the changes happening but unable to deal with them.  After our meet ups, frequently full of niggles and passive aggressive comments, I’d feel angry and sad and desperately anxious. Wondering what I would say, what she would say the next time we saw each other, could we build a bridge – we had before. Did I want to, did she want to?

I can’t remember what caused it, even now years after, but I clearly remember walking in to my room after lectures one Friday afternoon, and time stretched elastically.  Dust motes danced up and down in the warm winter sunshine to the thump of my heart and my lush fern turned lazily on its hook off the high book shelf. The mirror over my basin glared sharp sunlight and Dali-esque dripping red. I thought it was blood but it wasn’t. Scrawled in my own best red lipstick in Kerry’s handwriting: Go to Hell.

Friends crowed into my room to see the spectacle. No doubt there was much gossip.  I didn’t cry. I was mostly numb. Kerry wrote me a fat, rambling letter. No funny cartoons. I ripped it up before finishing it, the pages I read were a diatribe on my faults, my weaknesses, my looks, my choices, my clothes and how people were laughing at me; no apology for her lipstick message, no explanation of why she’d done it. Funny thing about lipstick on a mirror, it’s very hard to wipe off completely.  For weeks afterwards despite scrubbing, sunlight would light up the grease from the lipstick, rounding out those 3 short, yet world-shattering words. The message destroyed our friendship, but the letter destroyed me. So many secrets, spoken and unspoken vulnerabilities, 6 years of confidences had all been exposed and judged out loud on those blue pages.  I felt burnt raw with betrayal.

I pretended to be fine. Inside, in the place in my heart that Kerry used to live, grew a monster who breathed fiery conflicting emotions throughout my very pores. Deepest red hatred.  Blackest love. Anger.  Regret. Self-pity. Aching bruised loneliness. Brazen fuck you. Fear as sharp as mustard. Clouds of loss, in softest pearly grey.  It took me over a year before I could write anything. 2 years, 10 years, before I believed that I wasn’t all the things in the letter. I learned that people can be as cruel as they are kind, as weak as they strong, fearful as they are courageous, proud as they are vulnerable.   We were both all of these things.

I’m truly blessed that I have a handful of beautiful, delightful friends who have since (and still do) enriched my life immeasurably.  I could have written this post so differently about any of them. But Kerry made me me, because she carved me up and forced me to live through multi-colour emotions; which are both my weakness and my strength.  That fire breathing monster is now part of me and although I sometimes still reel from it’s breathing,  it’s what makes me consciously live, drives me forward, makes me aware of myself, my actions, my responsibility; my outrageous luck at all that I have. Without it, without her, I wouldn’t know the infinite depth of colour.

 

Categories: Uncategorized
7 interesting thoughts on this

Stop, Look and Listen

Well.  Happy Monday, readers.  I know  posting has been erratic lately.  Aisling and I are both pretty busy and as a result, we’re posting as and when posts come in, and writing when and if we can.  It’s working for us right now.  I’m sure we’ll be back to a better schedule soon, and we’re grateful to you for sticking around.

And oh do we have a post for you today.  You know when you get a post from Katie it’s going to be a belter.  This one is no exception.   It’s uncomfortable reading, because it forces you to realise you  are luckier, and probably more ignorant, than you think.  And it’s empowering too – understanding this and acting on it will make us better feminists, better people, more understanding of each other.

Sometimes, when I’m reading the news, I come across an article so unbearably sad, or so at odds with what I believe, or a point of view that makes me so uncomfortable, that I can’t read on.  What Katie is saying is  read on.  Read on.  Understand what makes you uncomfortable, and change it.

Over to you, KL: 

This post has been a long time coming out of my head, it’s taken almost as long to write as it took me to grow a human, although admittedly the latter process might have slowed down the writing bit. It’s been incredibly difficult to process my thoughts on this and getting my them down on screen is even harder.

For many months I’ve been following the arguments and debates on Twitter and on blogs and online forums about intersectionality in feminism. For ages I’ve been processing things I’ve read, from all different perspectives. This is my conclusion: I want no part of a feminism that isn’t for all women. That’s it, for me. I want all people to be equal, not just for women to be equal with men but true equality, for everyone. I’m going to settle for nothing less. To do this, I think I need to change how I think.

Through my reading, I became aware that a lot of the battles I see and fight are white-centric. This is at least partly because I am white, but also because mainstream feminism is very white-orientated. Now I can’t not be white, but to really work towards true equality I need to understand and accept that my whiteness skews my perception of things. I view the whole world through a white, straight, middle-class filter. And we live in a world where being white, straight and middle class makes me incredibly privileged. The world is geared towards me. Being a woman may limit me in many ways, but I am also enabled in many many more. I am lucky, indescribably so. It’s important that I recognise that privilege because not everyone is so lucky, and if I believe in true equality, I need to listen to the voices of others, and not focus only on my own injustices. This is hard, because my instinctive reaction is to think that the fact that I am held back or prejudiced against in any way at all is unfair and must end. And that is true. But my injustice isn’t the only injustice. It’s very challenging, when immersed in a feminist dialogue that paints me as the underprivileged group, to accept that not all lived experiences would place me in the same position.

The only answer I can think of is to listen and learn. There’s an excellent piece of writing on how white people should react to being told they’re being racist. Just as we would want someone to listen to us and not dismiss our concerns out of a sense of defensive injustice if we told them they were being sexist, so should we in our turn suck it up and listen if we’re told we’re being racist. Be humble. Consider what you said and did. Listen. And try to change.

And just as we might get tired of explaining why someone was being sexist, the same is true again. We must take time to educate ourselves. It isn’t enough to say that your racism was accidental, inadvertent, or unintended. Good intentions don’t stop you making mistakes and it’s not okay to use your good intentions as a defensive barrier that stop you listening: “I was trying not to be racist so give me a break” won’t cut it. Accept that you were trying but you failed this time. Take the hit. Learn for next time. Listen.
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Categories: Life Experience
6 interesting thoughts on this

Dear AOW: Worrying Less and Trusting More

Dear Any Other Woman,

I’m sure there are so many girls like me who are confused. I’m supposed to be independent and confident in my decisions and chosen life. I never thought I was a girl who would sit at a wedding and wish it was me. The fever has got to me, I have to ride it out but sometimes the only way to calm the whizzing voices in your head is just to speak about them. I can’t talk to family and friends and they are all of the opinion that we should get married, some even are offended as they think we are anti-marriage and that we hate it. I can’t talk to my partner about it as he would then marry me to keep me happy (he is that wonderful) but I really don’t want to get married just to keep me happy – that isn’t a good reason for a pretty big life long commitment. So I’ve turned to Any Other Woman and just by sending this email I feel calmer, well until the next wedding invite arrives that is.
I am in the midst of the wedding season and the wedding years. One by one friends are enjoying beautiful days and celebrating. I enjoy all the weddings. I love seeing the dresses and kilts and dancing shoes. The speeches can be funny or sentimental and the food choices can be surprising. Lavender shortbread was a definite hit, smoked salmon starters will always not be for me. I know however that I will never get a day like this for myself or ourselves as my wonderful Boyo and I will not be walking down any aisle.

Our reasons are many but it boils down to 3 main reasons.
We are not religious so do not feel compelled for that reason.
I worry that marriage to me will make him feel like he is trapped, I know we are committed but I always want him to feel like he has a choice.
 And finally, he has been married before.
Categories: Ask Anna, Ant and AOW, Becoming A Wife
10 interesting thoughts on this

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Hello! We're Clare, Aisling and Anna and welcome to a corner of the world where smart, flawed, real women talk about the bigger picture; about their experiences, stories and opinions on all aspects of being a woman today, from marriage to feminism to pretty, too.

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image by Lucy Stendall Photography

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