Recent Work

While working on my magnum opus, I also write a fortnightly TinyLetter about trying to haul yourself out of depression, which you can subscribe to here; and occasionally write things on Medium that need more words than a Twitter thread can comfortably handle.


 

I Hate You Deeply: Issue 3
'Multitudes'

For the last decade my writing process has followed a strict routine. I hold my hands over the keys curled in their Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing formation. As the four clicks that mark the start of Playground Love hit I nod my head in time, and as the music comes in I start to type. There are days when instead of my fingers tripping across the keys I sit simply nodding to the music, staring into the white rectangle that fills the screen, waiting.

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Mental // Physical

It’s a popular trope to say that people, especially doctors, treat ‘physical’ illnesses differently than they do mental ones. We look at the vast array of medicines behind a chemist counter and imagine them being doled out like sweets to anyone with a back ache, or rashy butthole. If your only experiences of seeking medical help, or talking about your body online, are shall we say ‘the shallow end’ of the pool (having a virus, feeling achy after the gym, etc) then maybe you still believe this too. But for those of us who are grappling with complex health issues it is not quite so simple.

Read More on Medium...

 

I Hate You Deeply: Issue 2
'Self-Care' 

My Tillandsia are dying. The two spiky little puffs of plant that I put in a beautiful glass dome are supposed to be 'airplants', existing without soil and needing only to be soaked in water once a week. Each time I look at their crisp tendrils I think of all the things I could do to save them, that I’m not doing.

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A List of Reasons Why The DWP Stopped Paying My Benefits 

  • I missed an appointment. When I challenged this, it turned out the appointment had been 3 years ago, and I’d attended.

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I Hate You Deeply: Issue 1

In my second therapy session of the week my therapist asks me a question she’s asked a dozen or more times “When do you first remember feeling that?”. With a breath I break my stream of consciousness rant, shut my eyes and think hard. Trying to remember something that far back feels like flicking through a rolodex in my mind, images fluttering by fuzzy and quick, gone in a heartbeat. I tip my head back, feel my eyes move behind my lids, as though this will shuffle the entries, bring the right one to the top. 

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