Tag: mental health

May feature: Activist’s anxiety and duty of care

When deciding what topic to write this month’s feature on, I was horribly spoiled for choice. It feels as though so many massive issues and events have arisen in May, all of which I want to sit and dissect: the Alabama Abortion Ban; Theresa May’s resignation; the cancellation of Jeremy Kyle; growing criticisms over Love Island. There’s too much. The concept of having to “pick” one topic to write passionately about filled me with activist’s anxiety – a term I use to refer to my constant anxiety that I’m not doing enough, for enough issues, in the world. We are limited in our dispensable energy, so where should we direct it? (N.B. I do not consider myself an activist in the literal sense – I am using the word metaphorically to refer to anyone who fights for, talks publicly about, or tries to learn about current social issues).

When Emma Watson gave her famous UN speech when she was elected Goodwill Ambassador for Women in 2014, she declared the need to take action toward gender equality and make positive change. Concluding her speech, Watson encourages her audience to ask themselves two simple questions:

If not me, who? If not now, when?

With this, I felt an urgency and a need to do something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I wanted to do something. That same urgency is still with me now. When I rewatch that speech, I get the same single of excitement for the impact I can make on the world if I channel my energies in the right direction. But what is that direction?

Back to May 2019 – it’s been a mad one. There are a lot of issues I want to talk about, but anxiety is holding that back. (TW: Suicide). The main chip on my shouting-about-stuff-on-the-internet shoulder right now is television; namely, the recent tragedy of the late Jeremy Kyle guest, and subsequent discussions of duty of care in reality TV. Like most people, I am in full support of the show’s cancellation. Have I watched it before? Yeah, I have. But I’ve also learned a lot and come to realise the classist voyeurism that it really is. Despite the defense that “no one is forced to go on” and “they get paid and get put up in a nice hotel”, that’s not quite justification for faux help show in which guests are consistently and repetitively humiliated, shamed and ridiculed. Oh, and guests don’t actually get paid.

The fact that it took someone taking their life for this show to finally be cancelled is incomprehensible, and has rightly opened a massive discussion around duty of care. Now, as we enter the preface of summer, Love Island is on the horizon alongside the yearly analysis of its highly problematic production and orchestration, which still has had little impact on the show itself. In particular, criticism of Love Island has resurfaced given the tragic suicides of two former contestants – Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis – within the past year. The extremely intense format of the show – basically Big Brother does dating – orchestrates romantic encounters and holds the participants captive on a ‘luxury’ holiday. Again, many argue the ethical issues with this are overruled by the participants’ consent. The issue there: many don’t fully know what they’re getting themselves into.

The internet right now is positing Love Island in a marmite situation, with half of people ready for weeks of binging the show, and the other half calling for its cancellation. ‘Jeremy Kyle was cancelled after one suicide – why hasn’t Love Island been cancelled after two?!’ A valid question, and one I keep asking myself.

Love Island and The Jeremy Kyle Show are fundamentally different, in that Jeremy Kyle positions the audience in power, able to laugh at and ridicule its contestants. The show even became its own descriptor for personality – ‘they’re the kind of person that would be on Jeremy Kyle’. Love Island, on the other hand, encourages us to idolise perfectly sculpted, socially adored people who fit beauty standards. However, that in no way undermines the factor of mental health in the show’s production, particularly given that the level of fame is much greater in this show, with contestants often facing piercing hatred online, clinging to them for years. Clearly, something needs to change, and this is something that the public are increasingly discussing – we now need producers to listen and act. We also, though, need to acknowledge our role in the Love Island dialogue, and cut the cruel judgements and criticisms thrown at contestants every year across social media. Omg, so-and-so is like really annoying and not even that attractive and needs to shut up?! Listen to what you’re saying. Remember the impact that could be having. And be quiet.

Besides this fatal issue, Love Island is not exactly well known for its diversity. One box-ticking POC each year and now one plus size model? That’s not enough, ITV. Whilst I’m anxious to denounce the show altogether when I don’t know all of the facts, I can’t help but feel my chest tighten at the thought of Sophie and Mike, and the undeniable influence the show had on their lives. It makes me uncomfortable at best. This, to me, feels not enough – to simply feel anxious and uncomfortable. At the end of the day, I’m not doing anything to help. This is when we need to give ourselves a bit of a break.

We need to realise the importance in the ‘try’ and the ‘talk’. We place such emphasis on doing enough, to the extent that we live in our own self-destructive all or nothing binary (what is it with this society and binaries?!). Mostly vegan people are slammed for not being fully vegan. Someone who fights against the barriers women face in management positions is criticised for not focusing on more life-threatening issues like poverty. We are all fearful of not doing enough, that we forget that the world is made up of small things and different things. Yes, there is a time for lobbying and protesting and boycotting, but that isn’t everyday. If it was, we’d live in total anarchy. Those small efforts formulate the granular construction of our existence. Those fleeting conversations are what infuse our living rooms with a better, more progressive attitude.

I will angrily shout about issues that fill me with rage, and use my voice and ability as best I can to do something good, but I will try to quieten that internal voice that tells me I’m not doing enough, or that I’m doing it wrong. If we’re doing something, then it’s likely not wrong, because it means we’re either progressing or we’re learning. That fear I got from Emma Watson’s call to action was not the idea of doing something, but the idea of doing enough. In realising the power of our small contributions, that mantra takes on a more accessible light. I don’t know for certain, but I’d guess that most social progress started, at some point or other, with someone feeling uncomfortable.

Charly Cox, She Must Be Mad

AUTHOR BIO

Charly Cox is a writer, producer and poet. At the age of 23, she is already a bestselling poet, with her debut collection She Must Be Mad reaching incredible acclaim in 2018. Cox will be releasing her second collection, Validate Me, later this year. In her witty, bluntly confessional poems on mental health and the pain of growing up in the modern world, Charly Cox is a true icon. On a personal level, she is my greatest influence as a writer at the moment, and her achievements at just 23 seriously motivate me to get my writing ass into gear.

REVIEW

I don’t think that I can start this review in any other way than to say – and Charly Cox would probably laugh painfully at this phrasing – that her writing is a genuine breath of fresh air. I’m a big fan of bringing under-represented issues and modern experiences into the creative sphere, so when Cox released a collection of poetry and prose about the very issues I care most deeply about, I was ready.

This collection is a raw and honest documentation of growing into adulthood, encumbered by a mass of mental and societal issues, as well as a bursting wealth of emotions. From the first page, Cox’s voice is authentic and confessional, bursting with stories and sensations from times close and far away. Whilst it includes both poetic and prosaic forms, these seem to weave interchangeably. She Must Be Mad is one of those real gems where you almost forget what the writing is exactly, because you’re so immersed in each word.

Charly Cox is just two years older than me and, with many similar experiences in adolescence, this collection tugs at many chords within me. I appreciate that others might not find such a close bond with the book on a personal level in relation to mental illness and body anxieties, however this does not undo the beauty of each work. Anyone can feel connected to the delicacy and fragility with which she describes love, and the poignancy in her writing on adulthood, childhood and family.

It’s hard to choose favourites in this collection. They all feel so closely intertwined, like a family of poems – some sister poems, some cousin poems, some parent-child poems where you can recognise the different perspectives she develops. Split into four sections (:’She must be in love’; ‘She must be mad’; ‘She must be fat’; and ‘She must be an adult’), Cox compartmentalising these experiences whilst simultaneously transgressing those boundaries as each poem invariably connects with another. As a whole, the collection was soothing to read, like the cool relief you expect from anti-anxiety meds that you don’t ever get, instead just feeling a bit less shit (half joking, half painfully true – but everyone’s different). Whilst the beauty of reading is in the transition of power from the constructive writer to the interpretive reader, I can’t help but connect with Cox’s expressed emotions in imagining this book to have been a welcome weight shifted from her shoulders. Like the horrific vomit whilst hungover that makes you feel surprisingly better. (Me right now: reads Charly Cox once and tries to make everything into a funny, chatty metaphor).

Circling back – I find it hard to choose favourites considering I’ve dog-eared half of the book’s pages, but some poems really stood out for me. Namely: ‘She moves in her own way’; ‘I prescribe you this’; ‘all I wanted was some toast’; ‘wrong spaces’; ‘kindness’; ‘pint-sized’; and ‘seaweed – for grandad’. They are all poems that I will inevitably return to on dark days – and good days even. Brutally honest and times, and cosily charming at others, Charly Cox appeals to the mind in every state. What’s funny is that throughout this review I keep referring to Cox’s writing as poetry, when some of it is prose. To be honest, it’s all poetry, because it’s written with that delicate, witty, intricate, meaning-manipulating rigour that comes with good poetry. Charly Cox is a poet through and through, and a damn good one.

April feature: Feeling triggered by other people’s mental health

It’s 2019, people are talking, and mental health is on the agenda – at least, more than it was on the past. We may be opening up more about the labours of anxiety and depression, but many less palatable disorders remain unmentioned. In the same respect, we are often more open to discussing the ‘prettier’ sides of anxiety and depression; the self-care, avant-garde poetry and confessional tweets. In contrast, the darker symptoms and implications are left just that – in the dark.

I saw a tweet relatively recently why no one discusses the fact that a consequence of depression can be not showering or maintaining general cleanliness. A ‘gross’ suggestion, and also indicative of the aesthetic lens through which many people view mental illness. In this way, self-harm (an infuriatingly glamorised act which undermines the very illness it represents) is viewed more pleasantly than a body that hasn’t showered for five days. Neither should hold more aesthetic weight than the other, because aesthetics is irrelevant and dangerous to perceptions of mental health. Rather, these are both signifiers of a potentially fatal illness. Viewing them in a judgmental and aesthetic way attributes morality to mental health symptoms and closes the discussion we’ve worked so hard to open.

In the same thought bubble, I want to discuss the idea of being triggered by other people’s mental illness. I have seen very little discussed on this topic, but it’s a huge intrusion upon my life. What makes this topic so relevant is that it is closely tied to multiple other key points of discussion around mental health – namely, setting boundaries, saying ‘no’, triggering/trigger warnings, and the importance of speaking out. As easy as it is to shout about ‘speak up!’, we don’t talk about the person that is being spoken to. We preach about the importance of ‘saying no’, but we don’t talk about the request that is being asked. These conceptualised ideas are part of a very real, messy, complex dialogue, in which both parties can be equally vulnerable. Let me put the situation to you: an incredibly vulnerable person reaches out to another incredibly vulnerable person for help; the first person feeling unable to speak to anyone else, and the second feeling unable to cope with the proposed issue. What do we do from there?

In this situation, I genuinely don’t know what I would do. This is the perfect example of where ‘speaking up’ doesn’t quite meet the cut as a one-stop solution to mental illness. The idea of speaking up as a one-stop solution can lead to the person in this scenario, having reached out and received no help, feeling truly hopeless – that there is no other way out. This is why diversifying the dialogue we have around mental health is so important. ‘Speaking out’ worked wonders as a start-up campaign to get mental health into a wider social narrative, but we need more.

However, I acknowledge that even this proposed situation in itself is more complicated how I’ve presented it. It depends who each person is – for example, when my friends are struggling, I’m always more than happy, able and willing to help. If I am feeling vulnerable or unwell at the time, I seem to instinctively use helping them as a distraction from my own pain, and I fully immerse myself in doing what I can do help. If someone who I’m not close with is struggling, then I usually can’t deal with it – then comes the panic and self-imposed responsibility and blame. That’s just me, though. Some people may feel unable to support their friends but more able to support others by being less close to the situation. In the words of another common trope from the mindful discussions going about – we are all different.

So what’s the solution? How do we balance a world of speaking up whilst respecting the needs of people who feel triggered by other people’s mental illness? Well, there isn’t one. That’s very key to the discussion we create around mental health. To posit the issue of mental health as a problem/solution equation is to simplify it miles past its messy, congealed reality. There is no ‘solution’, but rather tools, support, opportunity, progress, comfort, aid, recovery. Recovery itself isn’t even a solution, because mental health isn’t that black and white.

I’m not here to slam on the growing discussions around mental health. I frigging adore it, and am all the way here for it. I just think we need to be mindful of how this discussion progresses. Rather than spreading the word until everyone knows it, we ought to spread the word and then spread the sentence, the paragraph, the book. That way, sufferers of mental illness may feel increasingly able to reach for and welcome support in a variety of ways, and in ways that respect both parties. We’ve gotta look after each other you know.

Laura Thomas PhD, Just Eat It

Author bio

Laura Thomas PhD is registered nutritionist and vocal advocate for intuitive eating, regularly calling out the BS of diet culture. After growing up in Scotland, Laura ventured to the US to pursue her postgraduate studies, staying in the states for several years before returning to the UK. She is now based in London, and is a practicing nutritionist, as well as the host of a food and wellness podcast ‘Don’t Salt My Game’, AND author of the recently released ‘Just Eat It: How Intuitive Eating Can Help You Get Your Shit Together Around Food’.

Laura Thomas PhD

Review

When I first saw the title of Laura Thomas’ book – specifically the ‘help you get your shit together around food’ part – I felt attacked in a very necessary way. I’ve been playing around with recovery from disordered eating/eating disorder (I still don’t know which it is) for two years now and, whilst I claim to be A-OK, I can’t hide the fact I tally up my calorie intake and calculate what I’ve earned each day. On picking up Just Eat It, I immediately knew that by reading I was signing up to A) finally admitting that my eating is still very much disordered, and B) unsubscribing from diet culture once and for all. It felt like a big task just starting this book, weighted with so much mental baggage.

There are a number of reasons why I chose this book. Firstly, I want to celebrate women/non-binary people who are doing important things, and this book is so inconceivably important. I genuinely didn’t realise how much diet culture has infiltrated us with toxic attitudes until reading it. Secondly, whilst you can gather from the picture above that Laura Thomas is a slim, white female, Just Eat It raised a huge awakening in me about the fatphobia ingrained in society, and how fatphobia is often the discrimination that we don’t talk about – perhaps because we’re all perpetrators. Laura Thomas’ explanation of the poison of diet culture and her gentle guide through the philosophy and practice of intuitive eating gave me not only a personal lifeline for my messed up eating habits, but educated me in a way that left my totally shocked by the attitudes of my own subconscious, and our surrounding culture.

Before I really get into the review, I feel like I should give a brief overview of how Laura Thomas describes intuitive eating, because this concept is often manipulated and distorted. Intuitive eating is, above all, the practice of restoring your body’s innate ability to decide when, what and how much it wants to eat; of listening to your body’s natural hunger and fullness cues (rather than your FitBit or MyFitnessPal); of completely abolishing the moral connotations of food in favour of food neutrality; of taking down the fatal fatphobia that plagues not only society but also our own minds, amongst various other things. It’s natural that this should seam daunting – or, if you’re like me, not at all daunting, until you begin reading and you’re confronted head-on with the realisation of just how conditioned we are in diet culture. If you’re fortunate, it might not feel daunting at all. My boyfriend for example is naturally a great intuitive eater – he eats when he’s hungry, stops when he’s full, and caters to what his body wants when choosing food. I look at him and genuinely can’t grasp how he does it, because every food decision I make is weighted with hundreds of time-consuming, ultimately pointless thoughts.

For all of its guidance and analysis on the topic of intuitive eating, Just Eat It is a massively important read. However, it tends to much more than that. Perhaps my most pressing take from the book was its commentary on fatphobia. Whilst I consider myself a valiant body-positivity advocate, this book opened my eyes not only to my internal fatphobia, but also to the sociopolitical, and physical dangers that come with our fatphobic society. But firstly, some myth-busting:

In 2013, a team of researchers led by Dr Katherine Flegal conducted a meta-analysis, one of the strongest pieces of research we have available. Meta-analyses pull together data from multiple studies into one mega-study; the researchers were hoping they could find out which BMI category has the highest death rate. They found that the ‘overweight’ group (BMI 25<30) had the lowest death rate, and that those in the ‘obese’ BMI group of 30-35 had the same risk of death as those in the ‘normal’ group. Seriously. This isn’t a fluke finding either. A large Danish observational study of over 100,000 people found that those in the ‘overweight’ category had the lowest risk of death from cardiovascular disease and total deaths.

Just Eat It, p. 171.

Surprised? I was. Like most people, I grew up under the impression that becoming ‘overweight’ meant you were more likely to suffer from heart disease and more likely to die earlier as a result. This is genuinely the equation that is dealt by our society. When a larger body is present in the media – e.g. Tess Holliday’s infamous Cosmo cover – uproar ensures, in which people with slimmer bodies slam that this ‘glorifies obesity’, ‘makes their weight seem ok’ and ‘puts a bad influence on children to desire larger bodies’, all in the name of ‘obesity = bad health’. All of these reactions make me simultaneously want to laugh and cry. Imagine claiming that children will see this cover and want to have a larger body, as if children aren’t bullied every day for their size. Imagine seeing any body weight, shape as size as anything other than ok.

Laura Thomas makes a point of saying that the term ‘obesity’ is an over-medicalised term, and this struck a big chord with me. It’s true. ‘Obesity’ is a word that suggests A) being too big and B) a medically credible opinion, meaning that people throw the term about thinking that it justifies fatphobic views. For most people, ‘obesity’ genuinely translates as ‘unhealthy’. This terrifies me. Yet, in Laura Thomas book we are presented with the evidence that being in a larger body does not make you more likely to die. This really shouldn’t have surprised me – it’s not as if every person spouting fatphobic comments has been brushing up on their medical evidence. That’s just not the world we live in now.

So, we’ve established that health-focused fatphobia is BS. So what does kill people in larger bodies more than those in smaller bodies? Fat-fricking-phobia.

It all makes so much sense. Just Eat It unapologetically declares the facts that many of us know but don’t acknowledge. When larger bodies are discriminated against, shame is induced. When shame is induced, people value their bodies less. They feel – as they are told they are – unworthy. They might stop their usual running routine which they love, because people in the park laugh at them (you know, the same people who shout ‘why the hell have they not done something about their weight?!). They might stop going to the yoga class that really supports their mental health, because their classmates laugh at their poses. They might stop going to the doctors about health concerns because they’re so damn fed up of it being pinned down to their weight. They might ultimately fall ill, fatally even, as a result of a health issue undiagnosed because they weren’t taken seriously by healthcare professionals. They might develop eating disorders or other mental health conditions because the relentless hatred thrown at larger bodies is so fierce that it’s just too much to bear. That – not being ‘overweight’ – is what has the potential to kill people with larger bodies.

That paragraph may have felt slightly overwhelming, but it felt necessary to get this out. It is quite literally a fatal issue. Even on a more day-to-day level, people with larger bodies are generally subjected to a lower quality of life as a result of treatment towards their weight.

Weight stigma has been linked to:

– lower educational attainment in children

– increased weight-related bullying and teasing in children (which may lead to disordered eating and eating disorders)

– being penalized in the workplace in terms of salary, employment opportunities and promotion decisions

– negative stereotypes such as lazy, undisciplined and gluttonous

Just Eat It, p. 48

Are you angry right now? Do you feel furious at the infinite subtle fatphobic comments you hear every day, knowing the impact they have on so many people? You should.

I chose to include Just Eat It in my current reading project because its discussion of fatphobia, in culture and in medical practice, is something we cannot ignore. Stop feeling uncomfortable when you see a larger body on a magazine cover, stop fearing lower belly fat (a goddamn biological necessity), stop equating larger bodies with inferior health. That, in itself, is the biggest health risk.

February feature: Calling out #fitspo and modern diet culture

This post comes at the start of what will probably be several discussions about food, body image, diet culture, and intuitive eating. After reading Laura Thomas’ Just Eat It, I genuinely feel that my entire mindset around food, my body, and my priorities has dramatically altered. Until this point, I considered myself to be a body positive fighter against ‘slimming’ teas, body shaming and unrealistic, idealistic beauty standards. Whilst I may have argued these points in earnest, I couldn’t deny – and still can’t deny, although I’m working on it – the pointless hours I had spent worrying about my body, what I ate, and everything in-between.

Diet culture is a strange phenomenon, because most people seem aware that it exists, but very rarely do we truly acknowledge its dangerous depths. Beyond that, it is easy to forget the many forms that diet culture takes, especially in modern society. It is no longer just the print advertisements showing the same body types time and time again; diet culture is woven into just about every piece of content we consume. I have made many attempts to rid myself of this toxic influence, ironically by pursuing attitudes and trends that are just as embedded in diet culture as those early forms.

Through my recent journey of trying to unlearn these toxic doctrines, it’s becoming increasingly clear that diet culture operates above all in rigidity, restriction and regulation. Whilst we may label it under ‘diet’, the more important descriptor is ‘culture’, since even the D word has now been rejected by many. Whilst seemingly a significant improvement, the result is in fact the masquerading of diets and diet culture under new trends, lifestyles and regimes. This is where restriction and regulation becomes important, because the new diet trends of our society all maintain that common indicator of an unhealthy and restrictive diet. Examples include ‘healthism’, increasing rates of orthorexia, gym-culture, protein marketing, and evolving body trends which now embrace the toned, big-bummed, skinny waste yet still curvy (aka near impossible) figure. These are all components of modern diet culture.

The dangerous thing about modern diet culture is its denial of its true form. Diets have traditionally been very open in their intent; torch fat! lose weight! get that summer body! Sure, many people still embrace these attitudes, but the majority of dieters probably don’t even realise that they’re on a diet. I certainly didn’t. When I carefully calculated my macronutrient and calorie intake, maintaining prescribed ratios and *god forbid* never eating more fat or carbs that I was ‘supposed to’, I genuinely didn’t believe that I was on a diet. I was on a fitness journey; a quest to build muscle and feel strong. What I was doing felt like the absolute antithesis of dieting; after all, I wanted to gain (muscle) weight, and I justified the regulation by insisting that this would ensure I ate enough, at the risk of eating too little (as I previously had done). Perhaps this was a necessary part of my journey from severely disordered, restrictive eating to a healthy relationship with food and my body, but I doubt it.

In reality, this was a way for me to maintain the same control over what I ate and how I looked that fuelled my under-eating in the previous year. I may have kidded myself that I was now in the game of gaining weight, but there I was turning a blind eye to the hour of cardio I did every day after lifting weights, the careful regulation of my eating, and the obsessive desire for a flat stomach (as if I had no organs to house). I believe that this is the same journey that many other people, girls in particular, are susceptible to. In the boom of fitness influencers and Instagram #fitspo, the thin ideal has been reshaped – not only are we told to be thin, we are also told to be toned, and have natural curves in the ‘right’ places. I’d be lying if I said my fitness goals weren’t entirely driven by aesthetics; it may have felt good to reach a new personal best on squats, but only because it meant I’d be growing my ass a bit more.

My point here isn’t to shut down fitness influencers or say that they are perpetrating disordered eating behaviours and body confidence, but it’s not far off the mark. I believe that these ‘influencers’ hold a huge responsibility to deliver fitness content that does not encourage a prescribed body image, fat-shame, use problematic terms, or demonise vital parts of our body like fat. (FYI, there’s a reason that female lower belly fat is ‘stubborn’ – it’s goddam supposed to be there). No one is denying that many people pursue fitness for goals outside of aesthetics, but in the growing popularity of before and after pictures, it’s time to realise that #fitspo is the new #thinspo, and realise our own responsibility to others and ourselves to not appropriate fitness and exercise as another body-shaming diet tool.

This all ties in closely with disordered eating, because eating and exercise go hand in hand. As Laura Thomas says in Just Eat It; if it has rules, it’s a diet; and fitness culture is certainly filled with guilt-inducing, regimented rules. Heavy calorie restriction and over-doing the cardio is just as much disordered eating as tracking your protein intake in between gym sessions. One may be more physically dangerous than the other, but both nonetheless inhabit diet culture and disordered eating. Perhaps even more dangerously, the disordered eating behaviours among fitness culture are masqueraded by language that instigates a false sense of empowerment. Protein-rich snacks are literally everywhere; the new golden star in food marketing which immediately makes a food ‘good’. In the dichotomy of good and bad food, fitness culture has introduced a wider set of terms; rather than just ‘healthy’ and ‘unhealthy’, ‘portion control’ and ‘greedy’, we’re now bombarded with dozens of macronutrients, micronutrients, ‘superfoods’ and whatever else, giving that dichotomy even more ground. We live in the days of ‘cheat meals’ in which one chocolate chip cookie is both demonised as progress-inhibiting and sensationalised as the biggest, most exclusive treat of all time. How could such a conflicting, loaded and restrictive language of food ever be considered healthy? When pleasurable foods are limited to days labelled under a negative term like ‘cheat’, yet still loaded with the exclusivity of a wild indulgence, something so basic as a biscuit can become fitness culture’s drug. No wonder we end up knee deep in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, wondering how the hell we got there.

Exactly a year on from my first introduction to weight lifting and fitness, my mindset couldn’t be more drastically altered. I exercise regularly because it makes me physically feel great, creates a satisfying tiredness that makes curling up with a book all the more fun, and most importantly because it boosts my mental health. Just as she encourages the benefits of intuitive eating, Laura Thomas also discusses the importance of intuitive movement, and how this can reconnect us with our body in a healthy, kind and genuine way. A month ago, a trip to the gym would feel worthless to me if I’d forgotten my Fitbit, because I wouldn’t know how many calories I’d burned and therefore how much food I’d earned (hint: food is not to be ‘earned’ – you’ve earned it by being alive). Now, I’ve sold my Fitbit (terrifyingly, a mentally difficult task), move in accordance with how my body and mind feel, take a lot less time staring at my stomach in the mirror, and feed my body exactly what it wants. No one can press the benefits of intuitive eating like Laura Thomas, so I’ll leave that to her, and say simply that having read her book has changed my entire outlook on my body, undoubtedly rippling into the contentment of my mind.

Reflecting on Veganuary: When ethics clash with disordered eating

So here we are, already one whole mammoth-month deep into 2019. I’ve been thinking about the topic of this post almost constantly throughout January, and even in the months leading up to it. As a vegetarian with an extremely complicated and relationship with food, I always knew that transitioning to a vegan diet would be equally complicated. So I didn’t do it. Didn’t even try, in fact – and I have no regrets.

That intro probably seems like I’m about to start vegan-bashing, which is absolutely not true. The ethics of a vegan lifestyle is, quite frankly, goals. I’d love for that to be my lifestyle. I follow lots of vegan accounts across social media because I find the whole movement, and the strength that it is galvanising, very inspiring. Seeing stats on the increasing number of vegetarians and vegans in the world warms my heart with the tiniest shred of hope that we might actually be able to slow down the cataclysmic ecosystem failure that our planet is facing. I watched the documentary Land of Hope and Glory last year and obstinately decided that I would complete – not even just attempt – Veganuary, and continue the lifestyle thereafter. Honourable intentions, sure, but I was forgetting the most important agent in this whole agenda – my own body and mind.

Having established that I am absolutely an advocate of plant-based living and depending as little as personally viable on animal products, I want to discuss the restriction it inhabits. Veganism, like vegetarianism, is a restrictive diet. It is restrictive for ethical reasons, but that doesn’t prevent the fact that it is inherently restrictive. Restriction is the entire point – you are cutting out entire food groups, labelling them as ‘bad’ and ‘no-go’ foods, attributing a sense of shame to the consumption of those foods. This is absolutely my attitude towards meat, and it aligns with my ethics. At the time I decided to become vegetarian, I didn’t even think about the impact that this restriction might have on my relationship with food.

When I remember the amount of time, pain, stress and anxiety that was consumed by my over-restrictive diet, I wonder why on earth I didn’t seriously take this into account when transitioning to vegetarianism. Truth is, the nutrients I was losing didn’t relate all that much to my past fears of food. I made this change whilst in the depths of exploring weight-training and trying to make #gainz – a lifestyle which was naturally (in my mind) impacted by cutting out 90% of my protein intake. In my obsessions with macronutrients, I saw meat as purely protein, and cutting it out meant only that I’d have to source protein from elsewhere to fuel my #fitnessgoals. Perhaps I was just in a good place with my eating, but I really believe that the nutritional make up of this food group was largely responsible for why giving it up didn’t affect me mentally. However, I want to press on the fact that this may not be the case for all people. Restriction is restriction, and whether or not I was able to cope with it, that may not be the story for many others.

So here I am having made a huge deal of the restriction involved in giving up meat. Good lord, imagine now giving up everything that contains any trace of animal produce. That’s a lot of food off your plate. And, if you think of the products that you automatically associate with dairy – cheese, butter, cakes, ice cream – there’s a trend to be seen. When I watched Land of Hope and Glory and declared my future veganism, I thought about what I’d have to cut out and how I would navigate this new lifestyle. When I realised I would no longer eat cookies, biscuits, cakes, and basically every other delicious snack (except for vegan options), I got a pang of excitement for the amount of fat and sugar I’d be cutting out. I envisioned a 2019 where I was at optimum health, practiced clean eating and lost a few pounds in the process. This honestly sounded like a dream.

Truth is, it was a dream. When I decided to be as vegan as possible to prepare myself for Veganuary, I tested myself by resisting cookies whenever they were in the house. When I ultimately ate a cookie, I was so angry at myself. Filled with guilt, shame and self-resentment, I couldn’t stop thinking about the impact this would have on my calories in/out balance, how the added fat to my daily food would automatically make me gain weight. Hold up. What?

I didn’t think at all about the milk and butter that had gone into those cookies that had come from the animals I was supposedly fighting for. Truth be told, in that moment I didn’t care – I’d eaten a goddam cookie and my body was about to pay the price. It was after this incident that I realised I was using veganism not as an ethical lifestyle, but as a diet tool masqueraded as being ‘good for me’. In my mind, the logic of supporting animals, the planet, and myself with all the natural whole foods I’d be eating, meant it was a no-lose situation. That would potentially be the case, if it weren’t for the fact that diet culture is so ingrained within me that I subconsciously manipulated an ethical decision into a desperate plan to lose weight.

‘It’s almost like an eating disorder, but they’re calling it veganism’

Kim-Julie Hansen, Talking Tastebuds ‘VEGANUARY SPECIAL’

Now, I’m fortunate in recognising this. I honestly think a year ago this realisation wouldn’t have occurred to me and I’d be full-steam ahead on the vegan train. Maybe it would have been fine, improved my skin, made me more energised, cleared my conscience – but maybe that would have come at the cost of my relationship with food and my body, not to say all of the progress I’d made in recovery. I am fortunate in the voices I listen to and the influences I take in. In the ‘Veganuary Special’ episode of Talking Tastebuds, vegan author Kim-Julie Hansen discusses the prevalence of vegan influencers who use veganism as way of encouraging orthorexia as a healthy lifestyle choice. After expressing her love of vegan junk food (finally, someone has done it), she criticises the culture of veganism adopted by many that focuses on juice cleanses, detoxes and intermittent fasting. One more time for those in the back please.

More recently, I began reading Laura Thomas’ new book Just Eat It. The cover boasts the slogan, ‘how intuitive eating can help you get your shit together around food’. Um, yes please, sign me up. I bought it immediately and this thing is pure gold. Seriously, like, how is it that every damn sentence is stating exactly how I’ve felt around food for years? – Anyway, circling back; Laura Thomas gives a modern take on diet culture and the many ways it embeds itself in how we eat.

‘In a world where ‘diet’ has become such a dirty word that even Weight Watchers have dropped it, pursuit of weight loss has become passé and people have ditched diets in favour of the more rarefied and esoteric ‘lifestyle’ movements like clean eating, wellness and even veganism. In an attempt to distance ourselves from overt dieting, we have developed new, creative ways to engage in disordered eating behaviours.’

Laura Thomas, Just Eat It, p. 28.

My god. If that’s not a word for word account of my attitude towards food in the past year, I don’t know what is. To be clear – Laura Thomas is not denouncing veganism as an ethical choice whatsoever. She simply criticises its appropriation as a diet technique, and I’m all here for it.

It seems that a lot of people are finally on board with shutting down diet culture and criticising the impact it has on our relationship with our bodies, yet we’re reluctant to admit that it has seeped into other avenues of our eating choices. While many fitness influencers are chugging the spirulina and goji berries, there’s very little conversation on the impacts this can have on our mental health. This absence of discussion is what leads many people (like myself) to feel guilty for not being ‘good’ enough – in regards to either health or ethics – unaware that this is the same guilt that feeds a desire to make ourselves thin.

So, while I header this post with a picture of my vegan, healthy looking breakfast, know that this was my breakfast of choice because it gives me energy and stamina (and porridge with peanut butter is life). After that, I was immediately excited about the strawberry custard creams I have in my cupboard, because who the hell doesn’t need strawberry custard creams in their life? I even dared to make the decision to dunk some in my tea. Maybe you’re not a dunker – if so, don’t hate – but those are the only kind of food choices I want to be making.

Sex Education: A long-needed discussion

After the raging success of You, Netflix has just pulled another biggie out of the bag with Sex Education, which premiered on 11th January. As soon as I saw sex-advice-guru Oloni, creator of Laid Bare Podcast, praise the show on Twitter, I knew it had to be good. I immediately watched it and have been basically inhaling episodes ever since. Don’t worry though, I won’t spill any spoilers here.

Sex Education is a show that I painfully wish I’d seen when I was sixteen. Petrified of being rejected, paranoid about my body and completely oblivious to any real sexual knowledge, my only encounters with sex were raucous scenes in rom-coms and overhearing guys in high school talk about masturbating. Delightful, but not very educational.

Watching Sex Education immediately took me back to that fearful feeling, reminding me of what it was like to be in school and surrounded by an entire student body who all seem to be having sex. The premise itself is refreshing and a wonderful source of information and reassurance for now-teenagers who watch the show. In this long-delayed discussion of teenage sexuality, Sex Education deals with a plethora of experiences, problems and feelings experienced by teenagers (and beyond) exploring their sexuality. One note of mystery to the show is its elusive setting; the British accents with incessant Americanisms, the latest technology and pop-culture references with retro style fashion, all raise questions about when it is set. I was interested to find out, but when Google gave no answers I decided I loved this enigmatic framing. There’s no real need to ground the show in a specific time and place; it explores issues that are timeless, whilst maintaining both a relatable modernity and gorgeously grungy aesthetic.

My favourite character in the entire show is Eric. He is vivacious, buoyant and truly hilarious. His homosexuality is not explicitly talked about much at the start of the series, because it’s not a big news-flash that he is just out here living his best sexually open life. Most significantly, watching Sex Education made me realise that platonic male relationships between straight and gay men are rarely explored in television. In Eric and Otis’ friendship, there is never an implication that their friendship is impacted in any way by Eric’s sexuality. Why would it be? Those straight men out there (I see you) who would find it uncomfortable having a gay close friend because ‘what if they hit on me?!’ are confronted with this wonderful friendship that, shockingly, is not defined by the sexuality of its members.

Eric’s character arc throughout the show is beautiful and absolutely warms me. He suffers greatly for his identity, battling a desire for safety in conforming with an inherent yearning to flaunt his absolute truth. His experiences incorporate a really moving blend of the trauma faced by so many people, alongside his individual personality which flourishes in every episode. Like Eric, there are other characters who face problematic experiences. Sex Education also deals with issues of sexual uncertainty, homophobia, revenge porn, abortion, and more. In this way, Sex Education tackles the darker and more dangerous implications of sexual exploration, as well as the thrilling lighter side. On the surface of every episode is a discussion of the characters’ awkward, nervous, fumbling sexual encounters as they navigate maturity. It’s hilariously gross and I love it.

Since it only aired a little over a week ago, I’m hastening from discussing too much (if any) of the plot because I’m not about that spoiler life. Also, I wanted to focus on the thematic importance of the show. It’s remarkable. As exhilarating and exciting as it often is, the coming-of-age experience in sexuality plays a huge part in later life. My poor self esteem and fear of my own body arose exclusively from when everyone around me seemed to only talk about sex. My inhibition that I was inherently ‘bad’ at sex (before I’d even had it) because I knew nothing about it derived exclusively from the faux confidence buzzing around my peers. Sex as something I viewed both in awe and fear, and I’m sure may others have felt the same way. Like many other parts of life, the eruption of sex-talk in school often leads to a self-defence mechanism – cue student entering Otis’ sex therapy simply so a girl he liked would think he wasn’t a virgin. It was funny onscreen, but touched a more problematic nerve of this apparent need to be something that you’re not. We call out diet culture for making us feel the need to look a certain way, and call out capitalism for making us feel the need to have all the latest products. Yet we don’t call out the generally under-educated culture of sex during our formative years, for making us feel not experienced enough, not grown up enough or simply not good enough. When I was sixteen, fears about sex and my body dominated about 90% of my anxieties. If I’d had Sex Education in my life? That number would have plummeted to a solid 65%.

So I urge you to watch this liberating, colourful show. It’ll make you laugh and cringe and maybe cry. Shout about it and tell everyone you know to watch it, because we need more. Personally, I would also love to see a season two that possibly explores issues of consent, since this is the issue most critically left out of sex education (at least when I was in school). Either way, we need another dose. Netflix, keep dropping these bangers, you’re doing great.

Fatphobia: in culture and in consciousness

Today I re-watched the Friends episode, ‘The One With All The Thanksgivings’. I love Friends, but its problematic tropes are no secret, particularly the transphobia towards Chandler’s dad, the various examples of toxic masculinity and the fatphobic ‘fat Monica’ gag. In this episode in particular, the last two are rife. The characters recall past Thanksgivings in which Monica overhears Chandler call her fat (after mocking her for her weight behind her back beforehand, I might add). This triggers Monica’s decision to lose weight – problematic enough as it is – and Chandler is immediately attracted to her in their next meeting. One thing leads to another and, in a bit to seek revenge for his treatment of her, Monica accidentally drops a knife which severs part of Chandler’s little toe.

I’ve always found what happens to be strange, but now it just pisses me off. Two things are exposed: that Monica’s extreme weight loss came as a direct result of being mocked as ‘fat’ by a guy she liked, and that Chandler’s injured toe was an accident – yes, still an accident – that came as a direct result of him calling her fat. Yet Chandler is the one who gets to storm off, demanding alone time and unwilling to even talk to Monica. I’m sorry, what?

When I was younger and found that sequence a bit strange, the feeling I hadn’t yet discovered was utter tiredness towards this toxic masculinity that exudes entitlement and ignorance. In a battle between a malicious remark and an accident caused by the trauma of that remark, how is the man with the slightly stunted little toe the one who gets to be mad? It honestly makes me rage. There’s also the fact that Chandler doesn’t remember calling Monica fat – clearly so mundane in his vocabulary that it didn’t even make the cut in his first memories with his now girlfriend. Honestly, I cannot.

This episode aired in 1998, over 20 years ago, and so is filed away in the ‘of its time’ category of ‘not ok’ aspects of culture. But regardless of a show’s filming date, when it is replayed incessantly to the present day it is important to question these tropes. After all, the fat girl and the trans parent are still laughed at to this day.

In this instance, and in all of the examples I’ve seen of people hating on the character of Ross in particular for his frequent (unchallenged) toxicity, I am somewhat relieved that modern audiences are one step ahead of antiquated views. We allow these elements of the past to remain, so long as they undergo our rolling critique. It’s good, and it’s giving the consumer a proactive role in cultural censorship, but it can make us feel more ahead of our time than we really are.

Two hours ago I ate what I estimate to be four servings of granola. Possibly the least interesting sentence you will read all week, but for me it instigated immediate fear, repulsion and anger towards my body for taking an action that – in my head, at that moment – would result in me becoming fat. What’s worse: the fact that I immediately believed I would become fat, or the fact that I felt terrified of that possibility? In the style of my favourite podcast: I’m a feminist, but I openly acknowledge my cognitive dissonance in aggressively challenging fatphobia, whilst also being terrified of gaining any weight in my own body. I’m dealing with two issues here – the completely twisted and media-influenced perception I have of the relationship, processes and functions that occur between food, exercise and the body, and my unconscious fear of gaining weight. Who am I to fiercely call out fatphobia when I myself can’t shake the fear of gaining weight? I’m a hypocrite, I know, but I promise I’m working on it.

‘If we are feeling bad about our looks, sometimes the thing we need to address is the feeling, not our actual physical appearance’

Matt Haig, Notes on a Nervous Planet, p. 59.

I believe that many people struggle with the same hypocrisy and the same fears. We have been indoctrinated with the idea that fat = bad, and in our outwards thinking culture we forget that deconstructing fatphobia is as much an inside job as an outside one. In the past year I have really, truly been trying to diminish my inherent fear of fatness that came as a consequence of my disordered relationship with food. So in the process of recovery, I had to teach myself not only to love and respect my body and to understand the vitality and joy of food – I also had to teach myself that gaining weight wasn’t the enemy. I would say to my boyfriend, ‘even if I did get fatter it’d be fine wouldn’t it? Nothing about my life would change, right?’, and he would say ‘Charlea, you’re not at all fat!’, believing that I was still building up this fear. Instead, I was trying to reverse the demonising that I had placed on gaining weight. If I gained a few stone, nothing about my life would change, and anything that did would almost certainly by the result of socially prescribed views on weight gain. If I retreated to my own thoughts, I would be the same person, and weight gain would cease to be the enemy.

So now, reminding myself of this journey – of the incredible voices and influences that have helped me, of the value in who I am outside of my physical appearance – I don’t really give a shit about how much granola I ate. I no longer want to get out my scales, weigh out how much I think I ate and calculate the calorie intake. I no longer want to tailor my trip to the gym around burning more calories, before having a vegetable-based lunch purely for minimal consumption. I want to continue to fight and call out fatphobic media content, and to maintain this regained consciousness for the next time I fall victim to the pressures of beauty standards. I’m happiest when I’m sat reading, with a cup of tea, surrounded by the people I love. And since my weight has zero impact on this scenario, I won’t even allow it to take up space in my mind, because I have shit to be doing and saying and no magazine cover will continue to derail my happiness.

December feature: A love letter to my body

Post-Christmas, or post-mince pie indulgence, I’m reminded of the importance of loving my body. My up-down relationship with this little ecosystem of existence is generally on the up, yet the usurpation of normality at Christmas rocks the boat. I was excited for homemade mince pies and the yearly chocolate orange in my stocking, knowing the whole time that a feeling of guilt would eventually arise.

I wrote about the topic of obsessions with food at Christmas in a recent post. This, a love letter to my body, is the afterthought to this post. Christmas is over and we can return to our normal lives (or have to return, for those more begrudging). After the big event, this is the debrief.

We live in a society that encourages us to be additive with the external and subtractive with the internal. By that, I mean that our consumeristic, capitalist culture instils within us a desire for more and better. A longing to keep up with the latest fashion, the fastest technology, the newest trends. Our feeble assets are transient and part of a throw-away culture, yet we continue to want more. Why do we not have a desire for more towards our bodies?

Sure, there are some things people want more of on their bodies, but the general consensus is that of subtraction. I have wished for less spots, less fat, less body hair, less stretch marks, less cellulite; only recently have I started to wish for more. More strength, more capability, more comfortability. This idea of more and less is not about tangible wants, but the idea of worth. As Matt Haig states in Notes on a Nervous Planet, ‘If we are feeling bad about our looks, sometimes the thing we need to address is the feeling, not our actual physical appearance’. When I desire to take away from my body, this usually derives from some shallow beauty standard that objectifies my feeling of self-worth as no more than some physical trait.

Here’s a mantra for 2019. Instead of desiring less tangible assets (fat, spots, cellulite), desire less harmful attitudes towards your body. Instead of desiring more shallow signifiers of beauty (clear skin, hourglass figure, toned physique), desire more contentment, comfort and confidence in your body.

It has taken me years to come to this realisation. I have my days, like recently, when those toxic thoughts encourage restriction and guilt; when I reflect on my Christmas with thoughts of what I ate rather than the fun I had. I have always been a lover of food, and even more so since turning vegetarian, but I know the difference between love and obsession. There are many stances that we are encouraged to take when considering our food. Food is solely fuel; food is fattening; food dictates our health; food is a moral standpoint. I have channeled my obsession down every one of these paths, and none of them have benefited me or my mental health. This is a love letter to my body to say I’m sorry that I thought food was the star of its own show.

When I fretted over what macronutrients I was consuming, I forgot to listen to my body yearning for chocolate because I’d had a bad day. When I insisted to myself that recovery meant eating lots of cake to prove I could, I forgot to listen to my cold, sniffly body craving warm vegetable soup. I forgot to listen to the entity that all of this food is destined for. I’m not a big fan of New Year resolutions, or the idea of needing to ‘fix’ yourself. However, in 2019 I plan to listen to my body a whole lot more. I want to eat and move and strengthen in ways that my body needs and wants. I want to treat my body like the cosy, thatched-roof-cottage home it is, and I urge you to do the same.

Have yourself a merry day

Merry Monday! I hope you’re having a calm, happy, fulfilling day. This isn’t any ordinary Monday – it’s Christmas Eve. For many, that’s the best line you can read, but fork others it’s a terrifying prospect.

Maybe this isn’t just any other year for you. Maybe you’re suffering from: grief; loss; separation; heartbreak; loneliness; poverty; physical or mental illnees; generally hard times. I’m a fan of the mantra proclaimed by my favourite film (Love Actually, obviously), spoken by the deliciousness that is Hugh Grant: ‘Love actually is all around’. It’s a beautiful thought that resonates more than ever in the festive season, with its innate values of joyful gratitude and familial congregation.

Nonetheless, however sentimental the season may be, we can’t forget the reality. These are days like any other, except emotions are higher. Happiness is inflated, as is sadness. Whilst I’d encourage everyone to consider those less privileged at this time of year and be thankful for what you have, I want to speak directly towards those who aren’t 3000% #feelinfestive. If you’re a bundle of Búble-induced joy, this article may not be for you.

If, like me a year ago, you find yourself overwhelmed by the suffocating elaborance of Christmas, then I’m here to give you an out. You don’t need to have a great time. It’d be wonderful if you did, but let that potential for happiness be organic. Shake off the ‘Grinch’ and ‘Scrooge’ accusations, and any pressure whatsoever to be festive for that matter. Like any other day, event, situation, your wellbeing is priority.

In the spirit of encouraging this festive* joy (*festive optional), I’d like like to give three little nuggets of Internet brilliance which may be of help to those dreading the big day.

Firstly, one of my favourite comedians, Sarah Millican, runs a wonderful campaign every year on Christmas day. The #JoinIn scheme creates a Twitter community on Christmas day where people chat about anything at all. Sarah Millican encourages those who are alone, or not alone but equally unhappy, to take to Twitter to chat to strangers who are feeling the same way. Whilst the idea is a sentimental one, the discussions held by participants can be about any mundane or simple topic. It can be an emotional confession, a chat about your favourite food, or even an update on what you’re up to. #JoinIn is simply a way for everyone to feel part of a community on Christmas day if they may not be able to find such community at home.

My second recommendation is one I’ve mentioned in a previous post: Venetia Falconer’s podcast Talking Tastebuds, and her recent episode with Dr Robin Hart. The episode, titled ‘How To Manage Stress & Anxiety At Christmas’, was released a few weeks ago and provides the perfect detox from Christmas chaos. I’ve already listened to it several times, going back to particular sections that really resonated with my anxieties and gave some welcome support. Dr Robin Hart speaks with such genuine knowledge that it’s impossible not to listen to his wisdom. This, combined with the compassionate dialogue he has with Venetia, makes this episode of Talking Tastebuds a joyful and comforting listen. (Available on iTunes, Acast, Spotify, and more).

Finally, I have to include some yoga in this post. Yoga has been intrinsic to my improved happiness in my mind and body over the past six months, so I couldn’t leave it out. The wonderful thing about yoga is that it embodies so much: physical exercise (endorphins), stretching (physical relaxation), and mindfulness. Practicing mindfulness can be of immense support during a time of chaos, reminding you to return to yourself and not get caught up in the external. However, I think the physical element of yoga is equally important. By connecting with your body through the poses and by connecting movement with breath, yoga makes practicing mindfulness much easier. It allows you to form a seamless path from movement, to body, to breathe, to mind. With that in mind, I urge you to take half an hour to follow this cozy yoga practice from the YouTube channel Yoga with Adriene, led by yoga teacher Adriene. Mishler. Best enjoyed with comfy clothes (fluffy socks optional).

All of these tools will make difficult Christmases a little less difficult. You might love Christmas but just feel the stress hit hard, or you might hate it altogether; any feeling is perfectly fine and valid. So stretch yourself out, plug in your earphones, take to the Twitter, read Matt Haig’s tweets, watch your favourite TV series, listen to non-Christmassy feel-good songs, have a bath, take time for yourself.

Either way, I hope you have a bearable Christmas, if not a genuinely pleasant one.

Here is a Christmas doggo, just because.

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