Let's set some stuff straight.

Apparently I've caused quite a stir.

Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post.  And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.

This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people.  Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself!  Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves.  I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.

So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one.  I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices.  People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.

The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest.  Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another.  I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest.  What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation.  I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only.  To me, I can see both sides of the debate.  I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality.  Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same.  But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled.  I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted.  But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety.  It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either.   I consider it to be neither.

Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability.  I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so.  But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude.  I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer.  So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude.  And wrong.  And irritating.  YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.

I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said.  I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves).  Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't.  I haven't decided yet.  But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot.  And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you.  Because believe me, it isn't the case.

Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you.  Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts.  If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.

With respect,

Tina.

Spoons aren't just for sick people

Came across this today: Spoon Theory.

It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.

As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman.  No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child.  I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.

Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace.  Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere.  Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw.  By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted.  I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening.  I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon.  When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito.  I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD.  He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.

When I'm tired I can't make decisions.  I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed.  Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset.  And very, very tired.  I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late.  He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background.  Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.

Today, my spoons are all gone.  But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.

Tina.