I’m not sure why, but all of a sudden I had the urge to write… you see I have been up all night and I’m covered in bruises and bite marks… but it’s ok because the person that does it to me isn’t doing it to hurt me, he’s doing it because he loves me and this is how he shows it.
Unusual I know but let me introduce you to Sami and hope that this may spread some awareness of autism so the world becomes a bit more understanding for him in the future.
On the 27th May 2015 I gave birth to a beautiful second son and he was immediately different from my first, he screamed so much we were put in a separate ward, I thought wahey upgrade!
Sami was very loud, he spent most the day screaming, he could not be apart from me and my family felt very unsure about looking after him- so they didn’t and 4 years they still do not feel able to look after him for more than a few hours although they do love him with all their hearts.
6 months in I remember shouting up at the ceiling asking what I did wrong, why isn’t he happy? (sorry neighbours). My first born had just started nursery and was a bit behind with speech and getting over excited easily, at least that’s what I thought, but despite the nursery trying their hardest to show me something was different with Aymane I was so wrapped up in my clingy baby that I did nothing. To be fair my health visitor believed Aymane was just over excited too.
At 18 months my Sami started talking; he said ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ and even his cousins name ‘Jack’ but then within a month it was gone and he has never said a word since.
He started to try find other ways to communicate, if he wanted a drink he would throw a cup at me, if he wanted food he would guide my hand to the fridge but if there was something he wanted and I couldn’t guess it he would get so frustrated and start hitting his head on the wall or throw himself to the floor over and over again.
At the 2 year review the wonderful NHS nursery nurse said “I’m sorry but we have some concerns here, we will come back out and visit you” and true to their word every month I saw a health visitor and the nursery nurse.
Let me thank them right now because without their 2 years of constant support I honestly don’t know how I would have coped, they were angels.
Sami does not sleep, he just cant, maybe he will get 1 to 2 hours a night but then he’s up and when he is up, the whole family must be up.
When it was time for nursery they were straight with me from day one, Sami needs assessing. I already knew at that point that Sami was different, on the walk down to nursey he would try to run in the road, he would lick car tyre and fence posts and he would take peoples solar lights out their gardens so he could lick them.
At 3 Sami saw a paediatrician and we sat there for half an hour, I told him about Sami not sleeping, smearing his own poo on the walls, lining up anything that can possibly be lined, having absolutely no danger awareness, not being able to talk, eating inedible objects, chewing on things that should not go anywhere near your mouth, cracking his teeth on rocks and he diagnosed him there and then:
I think I cried for days, now, I feel silly about that.
Sami is a gift, a gift no one else is lucky enough to have. Sami loves me and he shows it intensely, he’s stuck to me like glue, his smile melts my heart and when he has sensory overload no one but mummy will do. You need to squeeze him so tight and block out this busy world and the feeling that I am this angels world, is one I was always treasure.
I went to the library the following day, I read everything I could, soon it became difficult to leave Swanscombe because Sami likes routine. I believe he feels safe in his home town because Swanscomber’s are kind, they are accepting, a community I’m proud to not only belong to but have the honour of being their borough councillor.
I set up an autism play group in Swanscombe because I was tired of going out and being judged. Too many times I have had people tell Sami he’s too big for a pram and to get out and walk, or ask him what’s wrong with him.
Sami cant talk, if you get in his face and ask him questions he cant respond to, not only are you frightening him you are building up his anxiety so when he lashes out at you he’s not being naughty, he is in a meltdown.
When Sami is happy he flaps like a bird; it’s called Stimming.
He’s quite happy in his mobility buggy rocking backwards and forwards watching the trees and enjoying nature when all of a sudden a face is there, the face is talking to him, he doesn’t know you and he doesn’t know what you’re saying but the more he doesn’t respond the louder you get. Mummy tells you to please give him some space as he’s autistic and more often than not mummy gets told “oh he will grow out of it we are all a bit autistic.”
He most certainly wont!
He was born this way, he’s perfect. I feel so sorry for those wonderful autistic children who had to mask their autism to try and conform with what is seen as normal.
Sami is now 4 and my baby is off to a wonderful special needs school in September called Ifield, where he will learn Makaton and we might eventually be able to communicate with each other.
We have a bright future ahead for him, it may not be the one I imagined but he’s getting all the help he deserves thanks to the wonderful NHS and Cygnets pre school.
My hope for Sami is that people become aware of autism, he’s not naughty, he’s not stupid. He is truly amazing, battling sensory overload everyday!
My eldest is my superhero, he adores Sami and sees him as special not odd and most the children around us do too, it fills my heart up seeing Swanscombe accept and include Sami.
We even get birthday invites from Aymanes friends for Sami, which is something I never thought would happen.
Aymane is only just diagnosed with ADHD, I missed it, I never noticed because Sami’s care is so intense. I realised what Aymane’s flapping was when I learnt about Sami but his school do not see Autism in him so he just got diagnosed with ADHD.
I have one child that talks too much and one that doesn’t talk at all. I also have the most perfect children, they are my biggest challenge, my greatest achievement in life. They made me stronger than I can ever imagine. I can walk in to a council chamber with no sleep, covered in bites and bruises and think “I’m an autism mum no opposition can faze me. “
Although I have to admit I do occasionally lock myself in the bathroom just for some peace.
My point in writing this is because, A I needed to get it out and B I would really appreciate people learning about Autism.
It’s a hidden disability, I also have a hidden disability and I find the judgement is sometimes harder than the actual condition.
If you see me being bitten by my child his not being naughty, something has made him anxious he needs to be close to his mummy, he needs to feel mummy, be completely enveloped by mummy so that he is safe again. I know it sounds strange but its part of Autism.
My boy is a superhero and I am a lucky mum.
Today is a milestone for people with invisible illnesses and conditions. Today people with invisible disabilities are finally entitled to apply for a blue badge which entitle them to use the disability parking bays.
Until today you could only apply for one if you have a serious physical disability that impedes your ability to physically walk. But now from today, you can apply for one if you have autism, or another disability that is hidden.
For families like mine this is going to dramatically improve the quality of our lives.
That may seem like an extreme statement but please let me explain.
Days out with any children can be trying. But if like me you have two children with autism; every day events and days out can be dangerous.
My two boys react to noise. They have a heightened sense of hearing, no sense of danger, and an inability to predict circumstances.
We simply cannot travel on public transport.
There have been so many times that my eldest boy has nearly been run over, fell down the gap between a train and the platform, and had panic attacks in crowds.
When he was younger I used to commute into London to work. I’d have to drop him off to his childcare facility on the way. At this point I was unaware that he was autistic.
A common daily situation for us would be where we would get onto a train and then he would panic. He would run as soon as we got on the train and need to find a seat quickly. He had to sit down before the train doors made a beeping sound to indicate they were closing. For him that sound was frightening and deafening. So for him, if he was seated he felt more able to control his anxiety about it. He would still scream but he felt contained. It wasn’t always possible to get a seat and often the trains would be crowded, so his fight or flight response would kick in and he would either start lashing out at people or objects around him to get to the seat or run into danger to get off the train.
A common occurrence would be where in his moment of panic he was unable to see the large gap between the train and the platform, he wasn’t aware that he could fall down that gap, or get stuck on the platform alone.
Many times, kind strangers have saved him by grabbing hold of him and prevented him from falling down the gap.
Another time he ran out of the station and directly into the path of oncoming traffic. Another occasion he sat on the floor in the train station frozen to the spot, and I had to get a police officer who happened to be standing by, to help me carry him onto the train as he was too scared to board. We had to cover his ears and eyes and seat him.
The list of incidences likes this is endless and it would take a good few long blogs to list all the near misses we have had.
In the end I had to stop using public transport altogether. It was too dangerous and stressful. The panic attacks became more frequent and as my son grew in size, the general public were less accommodating .
A large 15 year old who is 5ft 10 tall is rather hard to ‘grab’ and he is difficult to manoeuvre. A child of this size who physically looks just like his neurotypical counterparts and starts behaving erratically is at best going to raise a few eyebrows and at worst is going to invite some very unwanted attention. Not to mention that it is embarrassing for him once his panic attack is over and he sees everyone staring, tutting or worse.
In the end he started to refuse to leave the house and had panic attacks every time he went outside. We were house bound for a long period of time and slowly developed a significantly lower quality of social life than other families with children of his age.
So with therapy and driving lessons I slowly started to claw my life back and I started to drive everywhere .
This made it slightly easier to attend days out. But only slightly.
Nowadays we park up as close as we can, and walk to the event or venue we want to attend. This still involves walking long distances, and heavy planning to keep him and his brother safe from the road.
The noises, lights from vehicles, hustle and bustle from surroundings and crowds can be painfully scary and triggering for my autistic children.
My youngest son is more severely autistic and is still in a buggy despite being 6 as he has global development delay and has the mind of a 2-3 year old. To complicate matters more I should note that I have an invisible condition called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, which means (amongst many complicated problems) I can’t walk very far even on a good day.
Just yesterday we wanted to enjoy the summer holidays by going out into London for the day. I had to pay heavy parking fees to try and park closely to the place we visited. We parked as closely to the venue as we could, but it was still very dangerous.
And just last week I had to forego a festival due to a lack of parking. There was no parking near the festival except for disabled parking (which I wasn’t entitled to use last week) so I had to miss the event.
If I had a blue badge it would have meant that we could have parked closely and got the event safely. Instead I had to miss it and let down friends and family once again.
There are so many examples like the ones I’ve listed where as a family we have missed out on events due to not being able to drive or park there.
Over time it can really impact on levels of happiness, friendships ( people give up inviting you out if you have to cancel quite a bit), self esteem and ability to socialise: all of these things are so crucial to people in general to contribute to a healthy and happy life. For people with invisible illnesses and disabilities who already suffer from the various conditions and the limitations they bring, it is even more important that they can access events, and normal day to day things like shopping. It’s crucial that I am able to take my sons shopping to help teach them life skills, but more often than not it’s just not safe, or too stressful to do so.
But today, as I fill out my form for a blue badge and am able to tick the criteria that actually applies to us, I feel like a weight has been lifted. The possibilities for us to access the world have now increased infinitely and I am so happy I could cry.
I will be able to take my boys out on my own, without having to have another adult present, or having to worry about them walking into a moving vehicle just going to the shops. I won’t have to spend hours trying to find eligible parking and pay hefty fees or try and navigate a route that minimises the possibilities of meltdowns, or real danger to my kids.
Today I feel like our family’s disabilities are being recognised as real, and that it’s the first step to a wider acceptance of invisible illnesses as a whole.
The world is our oyster and I look forward to so many more adventures!
The scenes of Bury fans scrubbing and sweeping their club’s ground yesterday, as they awaited news it was to be removed from the football club were truly moving. Only matched by the sight of fans from other clubs who had come to lend a hand, much in the same way neighbours offer to make tea when a death has occurred: in the hope that by being useful they can somehow reduce the grief.
I used to go and watch Tottenham Hotspur with my Dad as a teen. With no personal interest in sports, it was never the actual match I enjoyed. No, for me it was the feeling when walking towards the stadium and the feeling of excitement and anticipation from everyone, I liked, the part where the teams came out to the theme music and the points where everyone celebrated or commiserated after goals I enjoyed. There was even something a bit special about walking back to the car after a result knowing everyone walking along side was experiencing a similar emotion based on the result.
Of course, I have not been to watch a live football match for many years now. Fewer people I know watch football now too, many priced out of following the team they love.
I think the beauty of English football in the past came from the fact that it gave a lot of people a place to belong and a sense of attachment to something steeped in history, in which they could share experiences, hopes, dreams and despair.
But of course, football clubs have increasingly become less affiliated to the community in which they sit. Very few people can afford to go regularly to the club which sits in their town, let alone take their whole family. The days when Saturday was all about football have also ended, with matches played on Mondays, Sundays and even Fridays now too.
It seems like stadiums are increasingly filled with people from outside of the area and with no particular interest in the club
So without local people filling up the stands in them, what do the people who would once have filled them do?
Many Bury fans yesterday described the loss of the club as akin to the loss of a friend. I think for many it is also the loss of heritage, history and the knowledge there was somewhere they would always belong. I wonder what communities experiencing this loss do to replace it. I wonder if one reason for the massive rise in mental health problems, particularly in men, is the loss of places to belong too, and the inevitable isolation this brings. In the past a lot of people would have found solace in fellow sports fans – travelling, sitting and chatting together.
The loss of this way of life is immeasurable.
RIP Bury FC
Today marks 100 years since the Housing Act, commonly known as the Addison Act (after the Minister Of Housing, Christopher Addison) came into force. It was, in part, a response to the shocking lack of fitness amongst many recruits during World War One, attributed to poor living conditions.
Today, we find ourselves in a new crisis where by housing creates poverty, misery and both physical and mental health problems.
Things did not have to be like this, none of these problems are inevitable. In fact, if the opportunities afforded by the Addison Act had been realised I am sure we would be living in a more equal, happy and healthy society now.
The Addison Act made housing a national responsibility, and local authorities were given the task of developing new housing and rented accommodation where it was needed by working people. The idea of that working people should be able to live in decent accommodation is an idea, I think we should revitalise.
Further Acts during the 1920s extended the duty of local councils to make housing available as a social service. The Housing Act of 1924 gave substantial grants to local authorities in response to the acute housing shortages of these years.
A fresh Housing Act of 1930 obliged local councils to clear all remaining slum housing, and provided further subsidies to re-house inhabitants. This single Act led to the clearance of more slums than at any time previously, and the building of 700,000 new homes.
In the Attlee Government, Aneurin Bevan was the Minister for Health and Housing, recognition, surely, of how closely aligned the two are. He promoted a vision of new estates where “the working man, the doctor and the clergyman will live in close proximity to each other”.
Surely the divided society we now have is marked our more by housing than any other thing.
Social housing, was a great state asset, giving the state the ability to ensure a general standard of living for the population, a safety net which no one would fall below and a means of ensuring that people had shared interests and mixed together.
Of course, it was not perfect, but it help promise and opportunity for a better world – good housing makes good health more likely (poor housing is, for example, linked to increased risk of meningitis, asthma, and slow growth, which is linked to coronary heart disease) and makes participation in eduction and leisure activities more likely.
The beginning of the decline in social housing began in 1980, with a new Housing Act forming the flagship policy of Margaret Thatcher’s first term in office. Council tenants were given the right to buy the property they lived in, at a significantly discounted price than that of the market.
One million properties were sold in the first 7 years alone. Under the Act , councils were prevented from reinvesting the proceeds of these sales in new housing, and so the total available stock, particularly of more desirable homes, declined.
Homes lost under the scheme have not been replaced in any adequate number.
The Resolution Foundation reports that English local authorities and housing associations have built only one home for every two sold under the scheme.
40 percent of council houses once sold under right-to-buy terms to their tenants are now being privately rented out. have spent £22 million yearly simply renting back the buildings they had once owned as temporary housing. has facilitated an enormous transfer of wealth from the public to private sector.
This is, in effect an enormous transfer of wealth from the public to private sector. It also sees a massive strain added to the public purse as housing benefit is paid to private landlords for the properties built by tax payers money.
The rental market, fuelled by a lack of social rents now operates like the wild west, with renters, or consumers as you might call them, forced to pay rents which have grown far in excess with the rise in wages.
The National Housing Federation says that in England, just under a fifth of households are in relative poverty after housing costs. Over half of those in poverty in the private rented sector were not in poverty before paying their rent.
Standards in the private sector are often poor, despite the high rent: 2018 study found that more than 1.3 million homes rented from private landlords failed to meet the national Decent Homes Standard. Conditions were found to get worse the longer tenants remained in their property, suggesting poor property management rather than old housing stock was the cause of despair.
A little discussed problem which is caused by the decline of the supply of social housing is the social division it has caused.
As demand for social housing grows, scrutiny of those who are awarded it grows. There is a feeling that those in social housing, with rents below market rate and stable tencies have hit some kind of jackpot. I regularly hear reports from those in social housing that they are told ‘if you don’t like it go private, if they complain about any aspect of their property. At the same time stigma remains attached to those living in social housing, as if only their address defines them.
With the risk of eviction always hanging over those in the private rented sector as well as often poor conditions it is no wonder mental health suffers.
According to the charity Shelter, one fifth of people report a housing issue has negatively impacted on their mental health in the last five years. Studies have also isolated a clear ‘housing effect’ in relation to important aspects of children’s well-being and future life chances.Poor housing conditions increase the risk of severe ill-health or disability by up to 25 per cent during childhood and early adulthood.
Were this a better country, one that had pursued policies which had led to the overwhelming majority of people living in secure, fit accommodation which remained a state asset we might well be celebrating today, as a national holiday, a day of celebration of the Housing Act of 1919 and the prosperity and security it bought to generations of citizens.
Sadly it was not to be.
*** Trigger ⚠️ warning ***
“Her once home sweet home, the place she re-treated to for solace, comfort, and serenity soon changed into a pit of chaos, torture, and mental torment. Her soul in chains, her heart fresh and ripe in danger, attacked by a powerful parasite that slowly rotted away at her deep from the core bruising her within. Even burning sage could not cleanse this type of monster”
Home sweet home at last I thought after a tough day, I sat watching the news hearing about a landmark case that looked into Georgina Challan’s (known as Sally) murder conviction being overturned under new domestic abuse law.
A woman who killed her husband in a hammer attack after 40 years of being ‘controlled’ and ‘humiliated’ by him. This case has increased our growing understanding of domestic abuse and in particular the mechanism and impact of ‘coercive’ and ‘controlling behaviour’. Emotionally I could relate as I know of a ‘Sally’ who pretty much went through similar experiences. Luckily enough, she managed to escape the clutches of such cruelty and abuse.
However I must admit, it could have been very different if she had not freed herself from bondage, meaning she was on the cusp of either ending her life or that of her perpetrator. I remember speaking to the ‘Sally’ I know after her ordeal, she perfectly picked lines from one of her favourite songs by Sade sung I believe during the 80’s:
“He’s laughing with another girl and playing with another heart,
Placing high stakes, and making hearts ache. No place for beginners or sensitive hearts.
His eyes are like angels, his heart is cold. He’s a smooth operator.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
Unlike Sally Challan she wasn’t married, neither had children, only in a what she thought was a civil relationship. They were introduced by a mutual friend where things became very serious very quick. He was exceptionally charming, made her laugh, was protective and shared similar views about general facets of life. They both were in their early twenties with so much going for them, both were in employment and had somewhere to live.
They fell in love very quickly, experiencing life to the fullest by making plans amongst themselves without seeing friends. Within 5 months of dating they starting living together.
She was and still is kind hearted always giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, she was vulnerable in many ways she just didn’t know that. She focused greatly on her job that was important to her as well as her home, it was her ‘sanctuary of peace.’
That ‘sanctuary of peace’ soon became a place of hell for her. She would find out that her home would become a torture chamber where the secrets of what happened would remain only behind closed doors.
The cracks started to show, after a hard day at work the routine would be to wind down not having to go out every night nor to have a drink. That was something her partner then enjoyed doing and seemed never to tire from it. He would stroll in at whatever time he wanted banging and clanging around, demanding affection on his terms to the extent of refusing NO as an answer not wanting to understand that it was inappropriate.
Arguments would unfold where she would be blamed for every little thing that went wrong.
He lost his job – it was her fault,
He was stressed- something she did, she was not affectionate enough- as she shouldn’t be tired.
If she was not compliant, she would face all night torment of questioning and interrogation with no resolve, having to prove her whereabouts through providing access to all her passwords and codes for social networking sites where he would vigilantly monitor her.
This caused great isolation with her privacy being taken she fell victim to shame and guilt. (something many abuse victims feel).
The love that was once felt was lost and she wanted the relationship to terminate. The events that followed after, no one should ever go through. Not everyone knows about domestic abuse, they sometimes are in a trance not really knowing what is happening to them or why – many place blames on themselves as they are conditioned to feel that way. It is paralysing.
The ‘Sally’ I know suffered, as we know that one thing Narcissists loathe is ‘rejection’ .
He followed her to work, threatened to cause scenes wherever she went if she did not agree oncile. Non-stop messaged and called her, sat outside her house waiting. She refused trying desperately to stay strong using many masks to hide her bleeding heart.
Being forced against your will is terrible.
He never was remorseful for his behaviour and lacked empathy. I remember her going to the doctors once for a check-up, as she waited before being called, she looked around the sterile waiting room, her attention fixed on a poster, that described exactly what she was going through – it was ‘the cycle of abuse’ and it listed the following:
. Power & control
. Using Intimidation
. Emotional Abuse
. Coercive behaviour
“I knew then my situation was abuse, I needed to break free, I needed to get out! all of those points were what was happening to me” said my friend ‘Sally’.
She became brave and confided in her doctor thankfully, who reassured her that help was available and to access it.
“I was told to seek help immediately, things won’t get better, they will only get worse”… those words are chilling.
She had supportive friends, even though she had not confided nor kept in contact always making excuses. There was enough evidence to show harassment and controlling behaviour.
On many occasions she reported her perpetrator to the police it made no difference as he still found a way to bother her.
That night she made it clear, she did not want anything to do with him and just wanted to get on with her life, he refused to leave, verbally abused her, threatened her, blocked her way so she could not escape.
She had no choice but to take the punishment the monster had to offer. He was unleashed, she begged and pleaded for him to let her go, she covered her ears, as the screaming and torment was too much, crouched in a foetal position she buried her head, tears flooding her ability to breath properly.
He took her phone so she could not contact the authorities. This torture went on for what seemed hours, she knew from prior experience he would not stop, there was no one to help, no one heard her plea for help or could hear her cries. She wanted to escape but there was no way out!
Until she gave up “my mind shut off I could no longer take it I wanted out, and I said there is only one way”.
She got up drained and weary walked to the drawer where the knives were, picked one up stood toe to toe with him, her eyes solemn and said “You choose me or you? I cannot take this anymore if you do not let me go and stop, I will finish you, but if you persist, I will finish myself -now let me go!”
“I had never been more serious about anything in my life until that point, I was willing to kill, and willing to die at the same time, not because I wanted to kill or die, I wanted the torment to stop”
The monster released her. He took it up onto himself to leave and reported her to the authorities, she was arrested provided her reasons with proof it was evident she was a victim of domestic abuse, she needed support and the perpetrator needed to be punished. A court order was issued protecting her it has been so precious as it has allowed her to live freely.
“I’ve got my life back, I still have issues with self-confidence, but I am working on being kind to me, I’m doing well and know I will get there. I am happy to feel secure in my own home, it feels amazing to come back to a peaceful calm home again”
Her situation could have easily ended up just as Sally Challan’s. The truth is there are many ‘Sally’s’ out there who are going through domestic abuse usually only receiving help when it becomes too late. Many victims have died by committing suicide, have murdered, or have been murdered by the hands of their perpetrator.
I have read many stories where victims could and should have been saved but their cries were not heard clearly.
Many live with domestic abuse for years just as Sally Challan did as they do not see any way out and are in love so in essence put up with the hurt more so for the sake of their children. We all know that is not right or conducive to one’s health and wellbeing.
Many are afraid of living independently alone as they have developed security by being co-dependant with their abuser.
“ The narcissist creates a dynamic abuser victim relationship through a cycle of abuse resulting in traumatic bonding that makes it hard for their partner to leave the increasingly abusive relationship”.
“What was so disturbing was the fact that he could lie to the extent where he believed his own lies, making others believe him too. He was arrogant, cocky, and so self-assured, he would act one way with others and another with me. As if I didn’t deserve the respect he gave out to others. I’ve have never met anyone who could lie as he did and get away with it, he did that so I would lose myself and be totally dependant on him, his game of control, felling powerless a ‘puppet on strings’.”
Even though she felt free, she still had the dark cloud hanging over her a big contrast to when they first met.
She recalls the early days as, “during that time I use to feel the sun was hung out in the sky only for me, the sky would be the colour of love & happiness. A wonderful feeling and now an unwanted dark cloud just hovers wherever I go.”
“It is not the bruises on the body that hurt. It is the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.”
Recovery takes time, it is a slow process.
Knowing that the right support and care is available only speeds up the healing process, your soul can be restored!
Along the way you learn so much as she did, she learned about abuse, love, and self-love.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrong.”
Along her road to recovery she started learning more about her experience by researching as a form of therapy also to appease her curiosity. She came across a woman based in America; Dr Ramani Durvasula (Ph.D.) is a licensed clinical psychologist who has specialised in the field of narcissism and has published a self-help guide for those who are in abusive relationships, marriages, or who are just wanting to know more.
It is called ‘Should I stay, or should I go?’ Please recommend to others or have a look.
I read this myself and became hooked on this lady, her videos on YouTube are amazing! She really hits the nail on the head with Narcissistic abusers – please check her out!!
“A relationship with a narcissist is a gradual indoctrination. You slowly become inured to their lack of empathy, their rage, insults, entitlement, lies, and challenges to your reality. Their insulting words slowly become your self-talk and before you know it, your new mantra becomes ‘I am not good enough’ “- Dr Ramani
Good old Dr Ramani really helped with her healing process.
She says “I count myself lucky now, to think there are so many who are going through what I did is unbearable and not only women suffer but men do too, we can unlock the chains that keep us imprisoned especially within our own homes, we have the key, we must be strong we must speak! The more silent we are the more the chains become entangled around us. No one should ever be a prisoner in their own home, we need to speak against abuse.”
“The abhorrent crime has no place in the UK”- Theresa May
The Prime Minister this year has pledged a new legal duty for local authorities to provide secure homes for those affected by domestic abuse/violence. Councils in England are currently under no statutory obligation to house those fleeing violent or abusive relationships, meaning that victims and their families face varying levels of help depending on where they live.
However, in a statement she said “we are ending the postcode lottery by placing on local authorities a legal duty to deliver support, including secure housing, to survivors of domestic abuse and their children.
‘whoever you are, wherever you live and whatever the abuse you face, you will have access to the services you need to be safe”
The new duty would be backed by government funding to ensure the councils have the resources to deliver.
We need to make sure victims and their families are being supported appropriately. When the ‘Sally’ I know of was going through her horrendous situation she was referred to a charity within her borough that helped women who experienced domestic abuse, they were very accommodating and helpful.
There is more awareness, but we must use that awareness to help properly without many victims falling through the net or becoming lost within loopholes in the system.
Help is available and we must not suffer in silence.
Narcissists are empty hollow individuals hence lack empathy, nothing can or will ever fill that hole they have within.
Do not suffer in silence remember love doesn’t hurt.
About four years ago, I got off a train and walked past a smart looking man, who leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:
“God, you are fat”
Now, reader, be under no illusion, I am fat. He was merely reporting fact. My usual suite of excellent witty ripostes deserted me in that second. I stood and stared at his departing back letting the venom seep right into my heart. Then I cried.
I cried all the way back to Glasgow, and I was still crying when I got back to my cold little flat, miles from my family and partner, at 12.10am.
As a fat woman, I’m used to having insults hurled at me, usually from cars inhabited by late teenage boys, of seemingly both sub -par intelligence and taste in tracksuits. I take this on the chin, with a cheerful flick of the fingers – there isn’t actually much malice in what they are saying – Its just something else to yell, something to pass the time for them – they’ve forgotten me by the time they pass an attractive woman, or old person, or anyone that isn’t them.
But the guy in St Pancras really meant it. He wanted to hurt me.
He didn’t say it to make himself look funny, or clever. He wanted to hurt me, a stranger, someone who hadn’t taken up any of his space, or interacted with him in any way, for being bigger that he deemed acceptable.
I sometimes wonder if he thinks he was trying to help. Perhaps he thought that his brave intervention might shock me into action, and that in a year or two’s time, I’d be strolling through St Pancras, slim and lithe, see him, and thank him for saving my life. Instead, I did what I always do in times of deep sadness: I went back to my flat in Glasgow and ate my feelings in cake form.
I’m engaged in a constant battle with my body. It is able and willing and does all the things I ask it to do, almost without complaint, yet still I treat it with contempt.
Recently, I noted the new Nike mannequin launched in London, showcasing their plus size range. They had dared to display the clothes, designed for fat bodies, on a fat body.
The reaction was baffling. This piece from Tanya Gold, for the Telegraph, was particularly myopic:
The idea that fat people can barely stir their stumps to movement is laughable. I am fat – really fat – and I have witnesses over 30 in number who can personally attest that I have stood In front/behind/beside them every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday wobbling energetically away, shedding sweat and hair ties and mostly looking like a chunky Animal from the Muppets. I love exercise. I’m still not slim, because I still eat too much.
I consider myself incredibly lucky. I am blessed with a supportive family network and friends. Some of these friends have supported me in my quest to become fitter.
From Sam, who puts up with my bitching every Saturday morning, and she helps me to become stronger and stronger to Chantal and Chloe, who came with me to my first ever Clubbercise class, when I was too embarrassed to look anyone, even the instructor, in the eye.
3 years later, I was at that instructors baby shower, now able to count her as a friend (thank you Hannah!). Sharon, who I smiled at nervously through the dark, and who I am now planning a weekend away with.
Sara, Clare, Alison, Denise, Sam, Maxine, Julie, Judi, Sarah,Kim, Sabrina, Louise, Natasha, Rachel and Chrissy…just some of the women I have met at classes who have given me confidence and enriched my life.
I’m fortunate really.
I don’t face concern trolling on a daily basis, and I have never been turned down for a job for being too fat. I’ve never faced fatphobia in a professional environment.
My white, solvent privilege allows me to more easily navigate the difficulties of being fat. It won’t come as a surprise to learn that there is overwhelming evidence that obesity is a symptom of poverty, both in the UK and US. The cheapest foods, which keep well, tending to be higher in fats and sugars, with little to no nutritional density, have to be staple diets for many simply to exist.
Anyone who has tried to lose weight will know how expensive it is to buy fresh, unprocessed foods – usually prohibitively so for families on low incomes. In turn, their obesity is weaponised against them, denied opportunities on the basis of size, often conflated with health concerns, even if they are not actually present.
When fat people politely ask for the right to exist, dress themselves and not be verbally abused in the street, through the fat acceptance movement, pearls are clutched, and we are accused of ‘glamorising’ obesity.
I do not believe that anyone sees a fat person on the cover of a magazine and says “Yes! I must immediately take steps to become fatter!”; inclusion of fat bodies in main stream media is just that: Inclusion.
We aren’t asking you to be us, just that you treat us with the same human kindness you would show a slim person.
My quest to lose fat continues.
I won’t deny that I’d like to move through the world as a smaller entity. I try my best everyday, to be a good daughter, a good friend, a kind stranger, yet still I am fat.
Is that really so bad?
Me (right) being fat and sort of fit.
It’s National Writing Day.
Lisa and I, started The Avenger, after meeting through blogging for another page and quickly discovering we had lots in common. We both believed in the power of words, both for the writer and the reader.
Of course when we started our own page, we knew the internet was crowded with blogs and we would never be able to reach audiences of millions, but we both passionately about giving it a try.
We feel so proud of some of the blogs we have published, many anonymously, by people who usually do not get the opportunity to tell their story: stories of mental health workers, domestic abuse survivors and carers.
In the last two weeks I have written blogs on two of the subjects dearest to my heart: living with grief and women’s representation.
The first one was very difficult to write and I thought about keeping it as a piece of person writing. I showed it to a few close friends and three said it made them cry. I then felt that, if I could provoke such a reaction with words then maybe I was duty bound to publish it.
I waited a few days and put it up.
I was aware of the potential for criticism and accusations of attention seeking, but I felt strongly I had been true to myself in writing it and so if that was the case then so be it. I also realised that getting the truth out of my head and on the screen had been good for me.
In the event, I received lots of private messages from people who knew my mum, who I wrote about, and from people also affected by grief who wanted to say they identified with what I said.
This was humbling and touching and really made me think about the power of words.
Last week I wrote something more traditional, in terms of what I usually write about; politics, and specifically women in politics. All my writing is from the heart and is only ever about things I feel strongly about.
Again, I received reactions, including private messages of support from prominent people in politics, and from others who identified with what I had said. Others disagreed.
That’s fine too as the words are my truth.
So, on National Writing Day, I really just want to acknowledge that writing is important.
It brings opportunity for truth and reflection and I would encourage everyone to give it a go.
“Grief is the size of love” is probably among the truest truisms.
My mum died four years ago, after two years of suffering from ovarian cancer, aged 58.
Living with the knowledge that some one you love has an illness that statistically will kill them, but trying to be positive, enjoy each day, mentally prepare yourself for the worst and to continue with everything else in your life is, what I can only call a head fuck. It’s taken me these four years to really understand what effect this has had on me. I think some sort of numbness came over me and I became obsessed, subconsciously with finding some kind of meaning in everything.
Maybe some of this came from the conversation my mum and I had the day after tomorrow we were told her treatment wound stop and she would have about two weeks left to live.
By then we knew I had inherited the faulty brca gene which caused her ovarian cancer, giving me a 50% chance of developing the same disease and an 87% chance of breast cancer. As mother’s are prone to do, she blamed herself for my situation, but I told her, her illness has brought me the knowledge that would save my life, as I would take the opportunity given to me to have a mastectomy which would reduce my breast cancer risk to 4%. It was a beautiful conversation. I had the mastectomy and reconstruction 24 months later.
I never cried or felt sad, I felt certain that this was something that proved my mum had not died in vain: her diagnosis meant I would almost certainly avoid the same fate. I knew that would be what she wanted. At least her suffering was not in vain.
For the record, I remain thrilled with my mastectomy and reconstruction and have never had an ounce of regret. But, on reflection I do wonder if my lack of sadness or hesitation was a bit unusual.
Whilst my mum was in her final two days, at the hospice, I signed up to take part in a skydive. Again, this was a good experience and I raised a lot of money for the lovely hospice that took care of us all. Sitting around a bed waiting for someone to take their last breath is a difficult situation.
It is a strange limbo, that’s hard to describe and, I suppose is an intense ending to the experience of loving someone with a terminal illness – the mental confusion of waiting to grieve being in the periphery all the time. I was determined I was not leaving that hospice without having done something positive, in this case signing up for fundraising.
And so, I continued on a path of looking for meaning. I signed up for a post grad counselling course, I did a fire walk, me and my friend expanded our little charity activities into a bigger organisation. All of these things were fantastic. It’s also fair to say I never let myself stop for a minute.
Then there is the way I viewed myself. I was determined that I would look back on my life, secure I had lived it to the full, and with no regret about missed opportunities.
I dedicated myself to my legacy, as I saw it, to be regarded as an amazing friend. I never stopped to think how vulnerable that left me and, maybe inevitably this has meant I’ve found myself in an altogether different grief, for friendships I thought were real, but were not. The loss of one person in a family inevitably changes the dynamic of the rest of the family. Trying to find a new normal for everyone is hard.
My mum was also a person with a lot of close girlfriends and so I sought to find friendships which were like surrogate family relationships. This has led to poor judgement on my part, with my giving too much of myself to people and not seeing this was not reciprocal.
Grief, is a process that must be worked through, but for which the end can never be reached, and which inevitably changes all it touches. I have found it hard to understand how it has affected me until this time has passed.
In memory of my lovely mum.
Last night I went to our local Mosque with some friends to experience Iftar. Before I went I thought I might write about that experience, but actually it is my journey there I want to discuss.
Before I went I visited a friend’s mum, who is a Muslim, and she fitted me with a head scarf. I then drove to the Mosque. As I walked the short distance to the car I became nervous about people staring at me and potentially shouting.
As I drove on I realised I needed petrol and so went to the petrol station. As I used the pump I could not shake the feeling that people were making assumptions about me and I felt slightly panicky.
As I queued up to pay in the petrol station I felt concerned about what people might say about me and was pleased to get back in the car.
Why did this worry overtake me?
Well reports have shown that Muslim women are the most likely to be the victims of hate crime, and awareness of that was certainly with me, I felt a real fear I could be the victim of such an attack.
To some degree the scarf, on one hand an innocuous piece of fabric, made me feel that I had put a target on myself.
I imagined, that if anything were to happen to me people would apportion blame to me because of what I was wearing. It was really insightful to experience how some Muslim women must feel whenever they leave the house.
Then there is the feeling of assumptions being made about me, based purely on what I was wearing.
This felt deeply uncomfortable, not least because it reminded me of how sometimes, try as I might not to, I make snap judgements about people based on what they are wearing too.
This was only a small experience but, it certainly gave me a new perception.