Hung up - Phone Phobia

(Photo by dissent_is_cool)

I'm trying to blog about my mental health a bit more, as despite knowing how common some mental health issues are, I still cringe talking about my own issues. I suffer quite badly from anxiety (not so much anymore from the physical feeling of anxiety thanks to tablets, but the thoughts are still very much there) and I am aware that some of the things I have anxieties about are absolutely ridiculous. I could even laugh at them if they weren't so crippling.


One of the many things I hate: phone calls. I hate phone calls a ridiculous amount. I hate answering calls, I absolutely despise ringing people. The only person I can ring without panicking is my mum. It makes me feel pathetic. Scared of phone calls? How ridiculous.


My landlord frequently rings and I ignore it. I just tried to apply for a volunteering placement, but then I panicked and realised they had my number and would probably ring me to talk about my enquiry for the position, so I didn't apply. When I say I hate phone calls, it's because every time my phone rings I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, I feel like I'm going to throw up and sometimes I even get dizzy because I get anxious so suddenly. It's completely ridiculous and yet I feel completely out of control of it. In the past my mum has tried to force me to make phone calls because she sees it as me just being awkward, when in reality I honestly feel like I'd sometimes rather chop off my own leg than call someone.


I get pissed off with myself all the time because of it. There are certain situations which I associate with extreme anxiety, and they remind me that despite generally feeling free from anxiety since I started on anti-depressants, deep down I'm still very much a puppet to my anxiety. The hardest thing for me is the anxiety being internal - it's not something external that I can eventually work my way up to battling...it's basically me working myself up to confronting myself, and my anxiety itself has a habit of making me try to forget about things bothering me. So I get confronted with the fear, try my best to forget about it, and push it to the back of my mind. Then each time the anxiety gets brought up again it gets more severe and makes me feel even worse about myself.


So ultimately, at the age of 20, I still avoid phone calls as much as possible, which is really beginning to interfere with things. I struggle to ring my friends so I find it hard to stay in touch unless I see people face-to-face or contact them over Facebook or by text. I struggle to make doctors appointments and I just went a week without anti-depressants because I had run out and was so nervous about ringing up my doctor and changing my appointment to an emergency appointment that I simply didn't do it, and instead made myself ill for a week.


On the rare occasions when I absolutely have to make a phone call it'll probably take me about half an hour to prepare myself before I can even pick up the phone. I'll have to have the things I want to say written out word for word and I'll probably have to say the words over and over again until I'm absolutely positive of what I'm going to say. Sometimes I read over the words so many times that they lose their meaning and I end up mincing my words anyway. However obviously phone calls are not scripted, and so the more off track a phone call goes, the less prepared I am, and the more uneasy I start to feel. Without exaggeration, when I'm on the phone to someone I feel about as tense as if I was stood on the edge of a 50 foot building and could fall off any minute. It's an absolutely horrible feeling, and made even worse by the fact that I know it's completely irrational and ridiculous, and that because of this I'm constantly told to stop being lazy and just make the call. No one really understands that when I say I'm scared of phone calls, I mean I am actually terrified of them, and at the moment, as has been the case for many years, I feel completely unable to do anything about it.


When it comes down to it, I think the thing that frightens me the most about phone calls is an immediate worry about sounding weird/coming across rude or awkward/mincing my words.  I've always been ridiculously shy, self-critical and very conscious of what other people think of me and I think that plays a huge part in it. Despite overcoming my shyness considerably in other situations, the fear of phone calls has always remained. The thought of coming across as rude whenever I'm anxious makes me worry, as I would end up feeling disproportionately guilty and due to anxiety, would think about it over and over again and end up feeling more and more guilty. The fact that I have nothing other than the sound of my voice to communicate panics me, as I can't use my body language or smile to communicate, and thus I feel like anything I say could be misinterpreted and reflect badly on me, or even offend whoever I'm on the phone with. It frustrates me that it bothers me so much, but I find it impossible to not worry.


The point is that when I'm anxious I feel vulnerable, and despite being 20 and supposedly independent, trying to overcome this has seemed like such a massive task to do on my own that I've simply avoided doing it at all costs. I feel like I would need someone to hold my hand the whole way, and yet to me it seems like such a ridiculous thing to be scared of that simply asking someone to help me to get through it would seem unnecessary. I think ultimately I won't try and confront this ridiculous fear until someone forces me too, or at least checks up on me and makes sure I'm actually doing it. I suppose I could start by ringing up friends and family and then work my way up to people I don't know, but the thought worries me so much that instead of wanting to face up to it, I just end up cowering away each time.


As for now, I'm stuck. At the moment I want to volunteer and yet the prospect of one phone call scares me so much that it's putting me off. It frustrates me to high heaven so I can only hope to somehow get over this damn thing. Until then I'm going to sit here on my arse and regret not doing anything about it. Hmph.

Hairy Pits

(2 & a bit weeks worth of fuzz...)

About three weeks ago I decided that as a little experiment - and frankly because the exam period is a long, boring one and I wanted something to do - I would grow my armpit hair.


Why? From the moment I developed armpit hair, I'd never considered doing anything with it other than shaving it off and pretending that it didn't exist. It's hammered hard into girls from a young age to deal with "problematic" body hair, because if you are hairy you don't fit into the polished expectation of what it is to be female. I don't see hairy armpits in magazines. Every female I know (as far as I'm aware of) uses some form of hair removal on that area. If you have hairy underarms you'll probably get plagued with "eww"s from the opposite sex, and your mum might even beg that you shave it off because it's not ladylike to have hairy underarms. You are not acceptable as a female unless you modify your body, as apparently the female body in its natural state is not good enough. Isn't that a bit...odd? It's not so much a choice between shaving or not shaving - for the majority of women the only real option is to shave or be deemed disgusting, unfeminine and unattractive. Without the male-dominated view of female beauty as dainty, pristine and hygienic, would women even shave their underarms?


Now I look back I feel sorry for my 13-year old self for feeling pressured into shaving, but I think doing something like this would prove to myself that I can still feel confident without shaving my armpits and more important, not feel like I'm compromising my "sexiness" by doing so. I hoped to prove to myself that next time I go to a festival, instead of worrying  about how on earth I'll stay fuzz-free for a week I'll instead worry about more important things, like running out of vodka. I don't particularly care about having hairy armpits, and I can't quite believe it's taken me this long to realise that if I don't want to shave...well...I don't have to.

Why just armpit hair? Basically because I frequently don't shave my legs for extended periods of time anyway (I'm lazy and I don't really care) and I only started altering my pubes when I become sexually active (what a term, ha). For me personally there's a lot of debate about whether to shave/wax/trim/vajazzle your pubes but no one ever discusses whether to shave or not shave armpit hair. Some people go wild over hairy vaginas and yet I don't think I've ever heard one person say "Armpit hair? Mmm, yeah, that's hot!" It seems that armpit hair is one of those things that's always been seen as inherently unfeminine or unhygienic. Even the word "armpit" seems so repulsive that we often replace it with "underarm" because it sounds a bit nicer.


So anyway, I haven't shaved for three weeks-ish and I have a nice little armpit bush growing. Not so much like the Australian bush, a bit more like a slightly feeble Manchester bush that's struggling to grow in a garden after a harsh winter and not a lot of rain - I blame fine hair and being naturally blonde - so it's a bit pathetic, but it's a bush nonetheless. I've found the whole process surprisingly easier than I thought it would be and I don't really know why it never occurred to me to try it before, especially as in the past year I've come to the radical conclusion that my body is my own and I can do whatever the hell I want to it. Obviously no one is chaining us up with our armpits in the air and mowing the fuzz off with a Bic disposable razor, but if you're a woman and you feel that you have to shave your armpits otherwise you'll feel unfeminine, ugly, disgusting and face similar negative comments, then someone is essentially chaining you up and making you shave, and you should be really quite pissed off at being made to feel that way.


The big test was last week, as I went on a night out in a top that allowed me to get my fuzz out in public, and I was pretty nervous about doing so. Obviously when you're dancing you're going to put your hands in the air and do some pretty embarrassing dancing - if you're me, anyway. No one mentioned anything despite the fact that I tried to get my armpits in every photo and was dancing with my arms in the air and pointing to them and generally trying to get them out at every possible moment like a proper drunken idiot. I felt great. Either no one mentioned anything because they were being polite, they didn't notice, they just didn't give a fuck, as it should be. Either way, I felt good for it and I know that if someone did confront me about it, or insult me I'd be confident to unleash a can of feminist rant on their ass. We're all allowed preferences, for example on a guy I absolutely despise soul patches and deep V necks but I don't go round expecting all lads to stop having soul patches and wearing deep V necks just because I don't like them. If you don't like underarm hair it doesn't make you a bad person, and that's perfectly fine, just don't think you should expect me to shave to please you.


Verdict? 


I didn't feel any less "womanly", I felt about as sexy as I always do, and if anything I felt more confident. At the end of the day, probably the most important thing I learnt is that it's only hair. It really shouldn't matter, yet body image expectations are such a massive source of unhappiness for many that it suddenly does matter. It's not really about whether or not you shave, it's about feeling comfortable to do what you want with your own body and to realise that it's okay to not fit in with expectations. I think often people get so hung up in the shaving/not-shaving argument that they miss the point. Shave if you want to, and if you don't want to shave...don't shave! The thought that anyone should actually care about a bit of hair coming from your body to the point where they feel like they can get you to change your body to suit their needs? Tell them to fuck off. The most important point is to do what you want. I could decide to shave, I could decide not to shave. I could dye my armpit hair turquoise and plait it and sew sequins onto it. What do it matter to anyone, honestly? Is it even that big a deal? 


[If you want to read more on the subject of body hair alongside body fascism I would massively recommend this post by Nyika.]

Hey love, nice tits!

(Illustration by Sina Becker)

There’s a garage at the bottom of my road that I have to walk past if I want to get pretty much anywhere, and several times a week up to several times a day (depending on how often I walk past) I get wolf-whistled at, stared at, or have something muttered at me as I walk past. There have been occasions where a man stood outside the garage has completely stopped what he is doing purely to ogle at me for a good 30 seconds while I walk towards him. Last week I heard a wolf-whistle, looked behind me and several men had come out of the garage to stare at me as I walked down the street, with one man actually gestering with his hands the shape of an arse at me.

And you know what? I absolutely fucking hate it. It makes me feel awkward, exploited and downright annoyed. I get fired up every time it happens and I get the usual same bullshit responses:

1. Stop moaning.
2. You’re nitpicking.
3. You shouldn’t wear clothes that make men want to shout things at you.
4. You should stop being a female.
5. You should chop your breasts off.
6. It’s a compliment. Why can’t you take a compliment?
7. IT’S YOUR FAULT FOR LOOKING NICE.
8. STOP HAVING A BODY!

    Etc…

You know what I have to say to you? Honestly? Fuck. Off.

Fuck. Right Off.

The sheer fact that I have to justify how awkward/uncomfortable/pissed off/dirty street harassment – and yes it is harassment because I consider it to be so, so fuck off on that issue also – makes me feel is just ridiculous. “But they’re only being nice! You’re so ungrateful! They’re just acknowledging your body!”

Ah yes, I need to have my body validated by a group of men on the street. I think I’ve even had someone tell me to be thankful they weren’t groping me or following me down a back alley (kind of blocked that one out of my memory though). I’ve had someone else ask me “well Caf, what else are they going to do?”

Er, well, I don’t know. They could just NOT SAY ANYTHING, PERHAPS?

Not to generalise but the overall consensus whenever I mention anything is females agreeing, sympathising and getting angry. An equal amount of men do the same, but I then I always get more than a few men who ask me why it’s bad, why I don’t get flattered, why I complain.

I get it. You don’t get wolf-whistled at or objectified on a daily basis. You don’t generally get asked to suck someone’s dick on the way to a bus stop at 8.30 in the morning, and then called an ugly slut when you roll your eyes and decline, be it politely or not so much. Silly me for misinterpreting that as offensive when it’s actually a compliment! Do you often have a group of guys on the other side of the road shout something odd at your friend, only to result in you laughing and having “Who said you could laugh? Ugly bitch!” yelled at you? You probably don’t do you? So I understand that you don’t get it, and that you might even think street harassment is made up or that it never happens. Oh I can assure you, it does. And please, if you don’t get it, PLEASE, don’t pretend that you do.

You can go as far as trying to understand an issue, but if you aren’t the victim of that issue then it’s not your place to decide how that issue should make someone feel. You just don’t get to do that. I can do my best to understand racism and homophobia and ableism but I’m not necessarily a victim of them so who the fuck am I to say that a certain insult doesn’t hurt a certain person, or to try and explain how someone feels for them? In the same way, if you don’t get subject to street harassment on a daily basis, who the fuck are you to tell me what I should get angry about, or what should make me feel flattered, or what should make me feel uncomfortable?

I don’t hate men, and I feel like I have to tread on eggshells whenever I talk about a certain group of men who do wolf-whistle; call me a slut as I walk past them on a night out; feel it’s alright to grope my arse at the bar and then call me “uptight” when I tell them to fuck off.

Apparently if I dress a certain way, anyone is allowed to pass judgement on the way I dress. So if I wear a short skirt, I’m obviously inviting you to wolfwhistle and shout “sexy!” at me, in the same way that I suppose having large breasts warrants men to shout “TITTIES!” at girls with large breasts and think it’s okay because, well it’s womens fault for having boobs, innit? Next thing we’ll be saying that it’s acceptable for women wearing low-cut tops and short skirts to be sexually assaulted because by dressing that way they’re basically just “asking for it”….oh….wait.

But then it’s not even that, because I’ve been wolf-whistled at hungover, wearing my scruffiest clothes. Some days I’ve opted out of wearing a dress and going for jeans instead because I’ve wanted to blend into the background as much as possible, and have still had obscene things shouted at me. I’ve been tempted to turn around and shout “Seriously?! Even NOW? But I look like dog shit today!” but I just cannot be arsed because I know I'll only be subject to more degrading comments. In the comments section of ­this article a girl explains a man who shouted suggestive comments at her “tried to justify himself by saying I was wearing jeans which made my bum look nice, and if I was going to do that, well he was perfectly within his rights.” Sigh.

From the comments I’ve gathered, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only resolution is to stop being female, to walk around in a full body sack that hides any indication that I am in possession of a body, and which could possibly convince people that from my neck to my knees I’m actually made of Milkybars and jam. I also should carry around a taser gun around with me and shock anyone who “compliments” me.

By wolf-whistling at me you’re just confirming to me that you basically think I’m a walking ornament. I’ve called street harassment ‘objectification’ because well, it’s a pretty common form of objectification surely? Since however long back in history, women have been admired as nimble objects, as things of prettiness, of ornaments that just so happen to move and breathe and think (but not for themselves, because we’re still not allowed to do that without being told to “stop being stupid”). In many countries, women are still only allowed to undertake “feminine” jobs in factories and are hired on their attractiveness over their technical abilities. I know some people will say “but Caf, you’re overanalysing things, you’re just nitpicking, you’re just making an issue when there isn’t one” but there IS a fucking issue, and stop telling me that I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable, or WORSE that I should start taking absurd, crude and downright vulgar comments on the chin and be thankful for the validation of my attractiveness by my male counterparts? It's hard to even laugh it off anymore because it's endless, tiring and frustrating. I imagine a good deal of men don't realise the effect a few words can have on someone, and judging by the response I've had from a few individuals when I've mentioned it on Twitter, I can only hope that by actually discussing the issue I can make some people aware about how much of a big deal street harassment is to a lot of people, so at least even if you aren't carrying it out, you can stop making a woman feel stupid for getting upset over something she has every right to be pissed off at.

I guess I should just learn to accept getting “TITS!” and “ARSE!” shouted at me as I walk to the bus stop, as obviously having the presence of certain parts of my anatomy pointed out to me by random strangers is quintessential to my existence, just in case one day my tits fall off and get lodged down a drain and I have to ask some heckling buffoon to help me retrieve my breasts from the Manchester drainage system. Where would I be without being reminded that I have a reproductive system, eh? God forbid that I actually forget I have a body one day because I’m sure without having certain parts of my anatomy pointed out to me on a daily basis I’d somehow forget that I’m actually human and implode. Haha, imagine that. Sigh.

Sedimentation of the soul.

So it’s 1.46am with an extra “FUCKING WHAT TIME IS IT?” in there somewhere. I’m currently writing about sand. Yes, my geography degree is not just about colouring in and standing in rivers and climbing up hills, I also have to analyse sand. I have to spend hours in a lab looking at sand through a microscope, looking at the colour and shape of sand, and I have to describe in technical terms how round or pointy the sand is. This sand is white, it is very pointy. No, no, good heavens that will not do. I have to explain in several pages why the sand is pointy, how pointy is this sand compared to that sand, what sand is sand and sand the sand sand sand.

To survive the sandy pit of hell that is currently my degree – hell, I don’t even fucking like sand, I fucking hate beach holidays because I burn in the sun like a roast chicken in the oven and I’d rather go on a city break anyway so my melatonin-deficient decrepit body can rest in the cool air-conditioned realms of cool air-conditioned buildings instead of burning like yes, a roast chicken– I have started to drink tea. Today I alternated between Yorkshire tea, green tea and peppermint tea. I drank so much tea that my wee practically turned clear which never normally happens because I don’t drink enough. Every time I burp my mouth tastes of Polos and I’m slightly worried to go to bed in case my blood actually turns to peppermint tea and my body bursts and tomorrow morning my housemates find a deflated minty wreck of a corpse where my usual lively – well actually no, I’m practically comatose when I’m asleep anyway – but where my body would normally be happily sleeping and they’ll find me and look at each other and sigh.

And all of this. All of this minty death because I have to talk about sand. My actual mind is now set in a sandy desert – all of my thoughts are set out on camels running across the desert that is my mind. Desert as in full of sand, and also deserted, because all other rational thoughts think “SHIT THIS SAND IS BORING I’M OUTTA HERE” and do a runner but here I am, my physical body, at my laptop at 1.51am, talking about sand. 

Eye of a Tornado

There are some days where being awake hurts. The sheer thought of existence causes you so much distress that you wish to sleep more than anything in the world, because sleep is the closest you can get to not existing. The closest to escaping from having to be, to think, to act, to eat, drink…go out. To go to university, to get dressed. To move. The banality of existence is so plain to you that you wish to take no part in it. Communicating with yourself is too much, let alone with others.

Emotions run away from you, your brain substitutes. This is what makes people happy, your brain tells you. This is funny, now you need to laugh. Did you laugh? You weren’t paying attention. The whole thing is just a personal struggle of will, to function. A greyish drone shrouds your thoughts, someone holds your head under water. You don’t struggle.

You could be halfway through making your breakfast and you stop – your batteries have expired. They don’t properly recharge like everyone else’s. You never quite recharge. You wake up and repeat the cycle of telling yourself how to exist. Must walk upstairs, must open shower door, must wash hair, must get out, must dry hair. If you stop for a moment you resign to emptiness, staring blankly at the wall.

You are living in your own head apart from it’s not really you – you is buried somewhere deep inside, locked in a vault miles away from the part of your mind that deals with the practicalities. Eat. Piss. Shower. Sleep. No emotions, the only way of expression a sigh or the odd utterance. The couch becomes host for the shell of your half-dead body as it surrenders to its half-dead existence. Head is silent yet whirring. You drag yourself to bed in the hope that you’ll manage to fall asleep and not exist for a few more hours.

I feel depressed occasionally, but today I woke up and felt the most depressed I’ve felt in two years. The last time I felt like this is somewhat un-documented; I lost months. I can’t remember anything for what I did from November-March, can’t remember if I did anything, said anything. Can’t remember the places I went to, the only thing I remember is the stomach churning feeling I felt one morning as I woke up and had to continue living. In a dream you go into autopilot and float. And here I was, having to live again. The only thing dragging me through the day was the countdown until when it would be time to go to bed and not exist for a bit longer. Being asleep was the only time I didn’t fucking ache.

Existence dominated by lack of existence. It comes and goes. I’ll probably be okay in a couple of days. I need a cuddle.

World Mental Health Day 2011

Illustration by Claire Pitt

So today is World Mental Health Day! Why is this important?

As many as one in four people will suffer from some kind of mental health issue at some point in their lives, yet it’s still an issue that is presented as a taboo and swept under the carpet.

We are quick to judge people who aren’t “normal” by society’s standards, and can be just as quick to disassociate ourselves with those who have mental health issues by calling them “weird” and “crazy”. But at the end of the day, we’re all people. If someone fell over in the street, you’d probably (if you were nice) help them up, yet mental health is an issue that many run away from. It can truly happen to any of us, and it does. Instead of running away from it we need to start talking about it. Granted, you probably aren’t going to discuss suicide over a cup of tea, but then again, why shouldn’t you? Getting things out in the open is one of the biggest things that’s helped me, purely because it’s helped to drain the negative thoughts out of my head, which used to orbit and eventually become obsessive that they blocked all other thoughts out. It’s also helped me to realise that there are lot of people in a similar situation to me, especially people I already know. It’s an issue very close to home and a lot of people, like me, are almost too good at keeping things quiet. But there’s really no need to.

I reckon I’ve always suffered from slight anxiety but when I started university, the stress of moving away from home and living with people I had absolutely nothing in common with and didn’t like made me feel completely alienated, and gradually the pressure from work amplified it. I had another health problem which I constantly worried about, gradually to the point where I felt permanently anxious and had to spend hours getting ready just to pep myself up to leave my flat; often I’d been running through all the bad situations that could possibly happen so obsessively that I wouldn’t even be able to leave for panicking. Out of all the things I’ve experienced, anxiety is on another scale. The word “anxiety” doesn’t sound too bad in itself, it sounds insignificant, just a bit of worrying: one might worry about trivial matters that hold no real significance, but anxiety is more than that. It comes with the obvious; anxiety attacks which I’ve had my fair share of, which gradually manifest into a fear of fear itself which is possibly the most fatal vicious cycle as it means a fear of well…everything…but also there’s an inability to see past the present moment, and the worst, the “fear of impending doom”. Then there’s the general feeling that you’re never going to feel any different and will have to constantly spend your life making-do rather than actually living, which ultimately led me into dark periods of depression.

So long story short, eventually the anxiety got so bad that it overrode everything and I felt like I couldn’t cope anymore. I somehow got talking to someone on Twitter who eventually told me to go to a doctor, but actually checked up and invested some time into making sure that I did, and asked me how it went (you know who you are, and I can’t thank you enough). Going to see my GP was something I wanted to do for so long, but I was too ashamed and embarrassed about how I would address the issue, and thought they might just think I was stupid or I didn’t have a “real” problem. If I hadn’t have been actively encouraged to go I can’t even imagine how much of an anxious wreck I’d be now, and if you honestly have anything that’s getting you down then go and see a doctor too. I can’t endorse it enough. Get a friend to go with you, or even like I did just get someone – anyone – to check up on you once in a while. It’s a scary process to go through alone but once you get past that initial hurdle you will notice a massive difference. I eventually got prescribed anti-depressants to help with the panic attacks – being me I was completely sceptical, didn’t think they’d do much – but within a few weeks and after a couple of initial side-effects, I was as right as rain. Despite a few wobbles now and again, the panic has completely gone. I'm actually amazed at how easy it was, considering the level of anxiety I was experiencing before. I thought I’d never be rid of it, and so to suddenly feel completely “normal” and without panic was amazing. No weird feeling in my chest, no claustrophobic feeling like I needed to get out of certain situations and as a result, no worrying. Or, if I did worry about panicking, it never culminated in actual anxiety. I no longer avoid or panic about certain situations and can actually do things I want to do, not just the things my head will allow me to do. I can go to places, and feel calm, and enjoy myself because my head isn’t preoccupied with anxiety.

Mental health isn’t a smooth ride and there’s always things in life that will resurface and bite you on the arse from time to time, but I can’t imagine how I coped the way I did, and I honestly feel so much better at the moment. I can go to my lectures and not feel like I’m going to run out midway through because of an anxiety attack. I can go to social events and actually have fun. It’s amazing the things you’ll put up with when there’s no visible alternative, and there’s absolutely no need to, but I think the main problem is 1. an embarrassment of confessing to have such a “taboo” problem and 2. people simply not knowing what’s on offer to them, and how it can actually make a massive impact.

Personally, I think one of the biggest issues with mental health is that ultimately, it is all in your head, so it’s really easy to feel alienated and alone when you’re going through a rough patch. But if you go through the process with someone else then it makes it so much easier. If you know someone with a mental health problem, or even if you see someone who might be a bit down, just ask them how they are. Seriously, talk to them. Make them feel appreciated, and let them know that someone cares about them. You don’t have to be a qualified counsellor, and you don’t have to be an expert in mental health. All you need is patience, a little understanding, and less prejudice. Stop labelling people as “crazy” and stop mocking people who have mental health problems, because it could happen to any one of us. It makes the world of good, and I imagine it doesn’t require a massive amount of effort on your part, but can be life-changing to someone else. Everyone deserves to be happy.

So go on, give each other a big hug, have a cup of tea, and let's talk about our problems.

How are you today?

Get into Greer

Illustration by Suzy X

Whether you call yourself a feminist or whether you prefer not to label yourself but still believe in equality for both men and women, you are a feminist. It’s not a dirty word and it does more good than harm, so why are people so afraid of it? It’s fairly simple.

The majority of people who oppose feminism generally do so because they don’t understand what the word means. The feminist stereotype is hardly appealing and representative, and so the cause is grossly misunderstood. Feminism is simply a belief. It’s the belief that anything a man can do without getting called out for, a woman should be able to do too. A belief that a woman should be able to wear a certain outfit without having to feel like a slag (another word I hate) and if she does become victim to a sexual assault, she shouldn’t expect to be blamed for the crime just because she’s a woman. As great as boobs and vaginas are, we aren’t just a pair of tits on legs and we aren’t there for the primary function of titillating men. Surprising, I know.

If you now understand what feminism is and still don’t believe in it, then I suggest you piss off.

Whilst you yourself may have never thought “I am a feminist”, you might be. You don’t have to label yourself as a feminist to be an ally of feminism. The thing I do have a problem with however is a person who comes out and says “I’m not a feminist…but that doesn’t make me a misogynist”.

Let’s be honest. While you don’t have to call yourself a feminist and you don’t have to actively identity with the cause, if you agree with the ideology that women are allowed to have a voice and fight back against prejudices towards them, then you are a feminist. If, however, you specifically say that you aren’t a feminist then in short, you’re saying that you’re against the notion that women and men should be on equal terms. You’re essentially saying that you still believe that women should be the “weaker sex”; that women don’t deserve to have equal pay wages to men; that a woman shouldn't get a choice in how she presents herself.  You don’t believe that a woman should be able to stand up and say “I’m not an object. I’m a person, and I get to control what I do and what happens to me” and I think there's something fundamentally wrong with that.

If you think that feminism is an “overreaction” and that we “need to harp down” then you are a prime example of why feminism exists, and needs to exist. Purely the notion of some people thinking that women fighting against misogyny is not necessary shows just how deeply embedded misogyny is in our society. Those who have said to me that “things aren’t as bad as they used to be” and that I should “calm down” are missing the point entirely. Take for example, the Topman t-shirt fiasco. A couple of shirts with slogans degrading women. The thing that staggered me about the whole situation was the amount of people saying that it was an overreaction, purely demonstrating that misogyny is so blase these days that we are almost called out if we have a problem with it, and that essentially, we are expected to just sit down and take abuse because we are women, and because, I guess, we are used to it. But because we are used to people constantly undermining us and objectifying us, does it mean we have to put up with it? Of course it fucking doesn’t. It’s not the 1950s anymore and there isn’t as much obvious sexism, but it hasn’t gone away. It’s just subtle. Some of you might not even notice something was sexist unless it was pointed out to you. It makes it harder to fight back against. It’s hard to say “this has serious misogynistic undertones” without people moaning at you for picking at details, for making “a big deal out of nothing”.

So do you still think feminism is extreme? If you are against feminism, you are against women and you are against equality. You don’t have to be a woman to be a feminist. If you treat women as an equal rather than an object who has to submit to your desires then there are benefits for all of us, not just women. The rewards are endless.

Have a think.

Are you a feminist?