MS Is My Boyfriend Residency: 17-21 Oct at Live Theatre, Newcastle

Amy will be at Live Theatre, Newcastle from Monday 17 to Friday 21 October to R&D her new show MS is my Boyfriend. It’s about what multiple sclerosis is really like. You’ve heard all the usual …

Source: MS Is My Boyfriend Residency: 17-21 Oct at Live Theatre, Newcastle

On Knowing Who You Are

This is not as simple as it sounds. What if you’re not an easily bought list of ingredients? What about unknowns, voids, personality sections you’ve repressed or not discovered? What if you still don’t know, decades in, exactly who you are?

I’m into evolution. I enjoyed all the church stories about gods planting fossils in cliffs and sediment, for shits and giggles, that really the earth was created, like, 6000 years ago, and dinosaurs were a creation blink, a foil, a tale told to gullible recipients. But I dig evolution. I like that once we were something quite different and now we’re this. And what we are now: unsatisfied consumers sucked in by any club offering rewards (buy 50 drinks and we’ll be your friend for a year), is that actually any better than how we started?

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I used to think life was a game. Get certain ducks in a row and you’re sorted. This was total wishful thinking, and wrong: life’s greatest attribute, plus its suckiest, is surely the unpredictability of it. If you know where you’re going, what your exact journey will be, and all the things that will happen getting you there, how is that in any way satisfying?

Surprises can be shit. 2014 was a roll call of unwanted, unexpected fuckery. And none of that self-help BS about how painful experiences break then make us applies. Some things just break. I lived in a bin and I’m not grateful to the bin for the experience. Which isn’t negativity. I’m just not a fan of denial. Sometimes the things that happen aren’t good and there is no making the best.

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Which is not the same as giving up. It’s the opposite of it. You don’t find yourself through the bad stuff, but in spite of it. You cling to any shred of what feels true, to you, and clutch it even when opposition is rife, Hulk-strong and bellowing. You’re forced to be who you are, really, because everything else is exhausting.

So much of life is performance: we’re different characters for different people, and we assume roles, some of which we don’t get to choose. But what happens during a shitfest is, you no longer have the energy for pretence. Playing those roles, keeping that status quo, becomes impossible. This is also not failure. This is so much better than failing. This the best ‘fuck you’ you can ever deliver.

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If you’ve a speck, clue, nagging stomach-pit feeling about who you are really, what you’d be if you were the most YOU you could be, listen to it. As someone who has stepped outside of the rigid set of rules they were bound to for about two decades (and this binding felt choiceless at times), I can’t recommend enough letting yourself explore possibilities. Just all possibilities. What if you didn’t listen to the should and shouldn’t instructions, opinions of friends, acquaintances, family? What if you evaluated what you got out of every interaction in your life and were honest about it?

We’re happiest when we get to be the person we want to be. Not the person other people want us to be. This is the scariest, hardest, most difficult to implement, lesson of my life so far. But there’s nothing quite like doing what you want.

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On Anxiety

For the past month I’ve been attending Anxiety Club. I can’t tell you about it because like all important clubs it has those unbreakable first two rules (you don’t talk about it, yo!) I was skeptical about how much it would help.

Everyone has at some point felt that their problems are unfixable, so tangly not even a specially designed hairbrush can unfuck those knots. But what if your problems really are things which can’t be fixed, like illnesses without cures, friends and family getting sick and you adopting the role of mere bystander because there’s literally nothing you can do, friendships and relationships being inextricably…challenging? Are you meant to learn to live with the unsettling fear your body whirs with, which I can only describe as being made to watch nothing but Johnny Depp films post-2000 for the rest of your fucking life, or is there a way to calm the fuck down and exude positivity and find a way forward through the sick street mess your life is? 

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I used to be a strong person, if there is such a thing. Not that I think there are simple categories of weak and strong, a detectable level like a BMI of how much gumption you’ve got. But my mum raised me to never fucking give up which, for the most part, has served me well. Trouble is, this can also be an underwater weight pinning you to the sea floor if you can’t separate out the things it’s positive to never give up on from the things you really shouldn’t slog at if it’s at your own detriment. And this might sound terribly simple, like a times table you already have instilled in your brain, but for me this is an important measure. When is it time to give up on something? Is there ever a moment you’ve given everything you can? And are there moments you’re trying but shouldn’t? Can not giving up force you to stay in situations you absolutely shouldn’t stay in, purely because you don’t want to lose out on the Scout badge you’ve been incrementally working towards? These questions and more are totally tied to my anxiety.

Screen Shot 2014-11-21 at 10.28.21I’ve become a bit obsessed with Cheryl Strayed, and not just because Reese Witherspoon going on a really long walk is up there with Whiplash as the best of the Oscar fare. Her other role, alongside being an impossibly brilliant woman of the ungiveupable variety, is as problem page writer for The Rumpus, Dear Sugar. A compilation of her columns is the first book I’ve read in 2 years (before you berate me for being a writer that doesn’t read books, you should learn the facts which are both medical and TV related), and the letters she answered were always helpful, whether I’d experienced the problem expressed by the letter writer or not. 

Along with anxiety, I’m a lifelong sufferer of guilt, which I can in part attribute to my upbringing at Catholic school, though that can’t be the complete story, as my brother and sister aren’t similarly afflicted even slightly. I must have been born pre-disposed to it, like so many of the other fucking devastatingly beautiful shitfests my life contains. But my guilt is as ever-present as my sarcasm, and to lose it completely would be to scrape off a layer of heart flesh, like knifing colourful mould from cheese so you can eat it. 

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Strayed addresses guilt head on, and her words might be mantras, because there’s nothing more revolutionary to me, in this moment, than her declarations. I guess I gravitated toward her right now because I’m in Anxiety Club, because I’ve got a complicated plate in front of me, because what was meant to be straightforward and obvious isn’t. Strayed is therapy alongside CBT and Mindfulness (and that’s a topic for another day, because I have far too many words on that particular trend).

“What if I forgave myself?” is one of my favourite sentences in Wild. “What if I forgave myself?” It seems so simple but, trust me, it’s not. And the brand of guilt I’m programmed with means my first response to any situation, whether I’m at fault or not, is guilt. But for the things I’m truly sorry, the things I shouldn’t have done, or are questionable, or I can’t change, what if I just forgave myself? What if forgiving myself was the only way forward from all of this? 

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Perhaps one of my problems, and one of the reasons I’m stuck in my unpliable brain right now, is that as a late-life atheist, I’ve been raised with a man in mind meant to save me and forgive me for any faults I make as long as I’m sorry, feel bad, repent and beg for another chance. But what if I’m only responsible to myself? Can’t I just forgive myself, and know that a part of my journey included this complicated-as-fuck period in which I had to join Anxiety Club in order to get some perspective? What if I forgave myself? No Prince Charming, Jesus, George Clooney, superhuman male figure ready to swoop and exonerate me. Only me, forgiving me. For everything.

Guilt’s not the only reason for joining Anxiety Club, and there are absolutely pieces of information I’ve taken home with me which I’m concurrently melding with American TV wisdom to form the tenets of my new brain structure. But guilt is an intrinsic part of who I am, for better or worse. As for anxiety itself, or stress or depression, even if it sounds like the worst thing you could ever do, go to those workshops or clubs, appointments or classes, even if they initially make you more uncomfortable or anxious than you were before. Eventually something will sink in: osmosis is inevitable. We’re too quick to blame ourselves, to get into a cycle of feeling like shit which we can’t get out of. But what if we chose to believe the opposite, put the work in, and believed we were better? That our histories didn’t have to be perfect, and every questionable or terrible thing we did, made us, and continues to make us.

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So I’m adding a rule to Anxiety Club, and it’s all Cheryl Strayed: “What if we just forgave ourselves?” It’s what I’m going to be working on, and never not working on, now.

xoxo

On Rejection

I’ve never been good with mantras: having them, keeping them, knowing when I should repeat them. But I really fucking need one right now. I’m not sure what it would be. Something mundane like “You can do this!” or “You’re a good person!” or “Life can be great again!” (Exclamation marks for painful enthusiasm).

Rejection slams any mantra down. Makes you wonder why you made one in the first place. When, really, in rejected times, that’s when you need to cling closer to that mantra, that hope slice, that speck of potential light.

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I’ve been told I’m a negative person, that I should really address this if I want people to stay in my life. But this isn’t right. I’m a realist, sarcastic, at times unhopeful, darkly, but that’s not the same as negativity. I might be depressed or anxious, but I get out of bed, I go to work, I cherish my friends and family, especially those who accept every shitty thing about me and still seem to like me.

Being rejected sucks. There’s no way around it. And even with a mantra tattooed on your heart, I can’t promise you won’t slip slide into a sludgy despair pool ready to lung-fill and complete-swallow you. But whatever it was you applied for, tried for, asked for, well, remember the hope you had to do that in the first place? That was all you. And that can be you again. 

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Sometimes a situation’s too complicated to untangle in your own head and it’s more than fine to ask for help when it is. Things might feel impossibly twisty like they’ll never be okay ever again. And people telling you you’re negative, that you should pick yourself up for them, are an attachable weight that sinks you further.

My advice? Anyone that makes you heavier than you need to be, spreads you with an observation about yourself that’s not only untrue but truly offensive, misinterprets you or tells you to change things about yourself to be more palatable, announces you’re bad at things you know you can solidly do: those people, my friend, can go fuck themselves. 

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In the middle of a shitfest like this, it can be natural to blame yourself, guilt yourself, wonder if you’re at fault as you’re the common dominator. I can’t beg you enough to talk to your closest friends, tell them everything, even the worst things you’ve done. If they love you, they’ll only ever be there for you.

And if someone continually gives you advice which seems unfair or wrong? Cut them loose. Not everyone’s for keeps. It’s no-one’s fault, but nothing needs to be forever. And my guess is that you’re pretty wonderful. Maybe you’ve made some sketchy decisions, done things your grandma might disapprove of, but who hasn’t? You’re human, and you deserve to be happy.

Been rejected? Don’t worry. We all have. The only mantra you need? “Fuck it!” ❤

On Strength

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You don’t know if you’re strong or not until you have to lift something really heavy. Before that, you assume you are, but you don’t really know. You figure you could handle anything because you always have and your mum drilled a mantra into you like, “You’re a strong person. You won’t let this get to you. You’re better than that.” And you believed it. Or the fact that she believed it in every moment you wanted to quit, that was enough.

But one day you’re going to be dealt something the equivalent of the highest setting on one of those machines at the gym, where your legs literally won’t move anymore. And replaying inspirational quotes in your head will only get you so far. Katy Perry songs will work as motivators, then they won’t. And that’s when you’ll figure out if you’re strong, or not.

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What I really hate is this one quote that gets bandied around a lot on FB and Twitter, and regardless of religion, I think it’s bullshit. That god only gives you a level of crap you can deal with (*I don’t think they used the word crap). That “he’ll” never pile more on to you than you can actually handle (whether or not there’s a god is anyone’s guess, but there sure as shit is no gender attached if there is). That everything that happens is a trial, a challenge, a lesson to learn, part of the rich tapestry of life, filled with ups and downs and problems to overcome.

But what if crappy stuff just happens? What if there’s no lesson to learn from it? What if you have too much to handle? Isn’t it better to admit that you’re struggling than pretend it’s a part of some grand quest an invisible being has sent to you for unspoken reasons?

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Strength isn’t pretending everything’s okay when it isn’t. Strength is admitting you might not be able to lift the really heavy thing which seems to have pinned you to floor, like a cartoon tonne falling on Tom, dropped by Jerry from a great height. That maybe your roster is a little much for one person, and not being able to handle everything you’ve been dealt isn’t weakness.

Strength is about seeing your limitations. About asking for help. Knowing that whether you learn a lesson or not, whether there’s an inspirational quote which sums it up or not, you’re strong because even though the shit got to you, you were in the bin and thought you might never get out again, you carried on anyway. You figured out your process and you moved forward in any way you could like you were fighting for your life. Your complicated, ridiculously tricky, unlearnable-from, unswappable, questionable, ache-making, un-sum-up-able life. But yours. All yours.

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Bad Blood

It’s a game. Like in Saw, or Scream, it’s a game. And games are fun so enjoy it. Why aren’t you enjoying?

I’m winning. Except there aren’t exactly winners but if we’re tracking I’m absolutely ahead. I guess.

You should be proud. My attention’s scattered, not been this focused since 1999. Got my first boyfriend. Lasted, like, less than a week. Christian boys get confused by god messages and prick tease bible study best friends who call cry when landscapes change.

You know my game play. I know you’ve seen it. I don’t play to win, not since 2006, the final Christmas I monopoly stole from the bank.

Sabotage is much more fun. Not got the tactical skill to outright beat 8 players. I just want all my turns to end. But you, you’re playing to win, like there’s a prize, an outsmarting skill set.

But there’s an empty box, babe, with a charity sticker stuck to it and a bunch of scattered pieces and comradeship like chivalry is dead and I don’t even miss it.

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Dear opinionists,

You do not know a thing and, if you did, you still wouldn’t string a sentence eloquent, worth listening to.

I might never. True. But if I do, don’t think me wrong for not following your advice incrementally, because you wouldn’t follow it fractionally. And you know it.

Everything is perfectly photocopied, the toner picking out every grey, giving sheen only new machines can, and each internet page is perfectly clear also. Everything’s perfect, exactly, and other options are an antiquated ideal you’ve knocked out of yourselves because those you admire did.

Speak to me like a kid one more time. I double dare you to do it. Tell me what I am is wrong. Pry until you’re satisfied. And when you’re licking my bones, magnifying glass study, see the cracks?

I’m learning to clay mould myself with hands which worked better four years ago. And I’ll Polyfiller myself up, and I’ll miss evenings we spent and moments we connected, like episodes of Saved by the Bell: non-specifically. And the overall impression you’ll have left will be exclusively defined by how you treated me when my worst was cake base scraping me. Whatever you said then, sticks. And I’m sorrynotsorry. I guess next time you’ll know not to judge people whose lives you so little know.

Months from now I’ll be 70% myself again, sort of statue strong, and everyone’s scared, everyone will be. Because my own mind. Yes, that, will be a thing once more. I can’t wait for it. And the people, indispensable to me? Ones that believed me, and in me, when I didn’t. Coercion-less. How rare and fucking brilliant that is.

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