Category Archives: Psychobabble

Why I love my ridiculous leggings by Sasha age 33 ½

RIDICULOUS LEGGINGS ARE THE SOCIAL LUBE OF EVERYDAY LIFE. They are a handy weapon against overtly sexual hassle! They open up topics like society’s ridiculous expectations of women with people who don’t consider themselves feminists, or even think about such things that much! They make you smile whenever you look at your legs! They are a handy fuck-you to social concepts of feminine aging and social appropriateness or taking up space! Continue reading

Posted in Culture, frivolous wittering, People being dicks, Psychobabble | Tagged , | 9 Comments

of rage, postsecret and pastries: in which an eating disorder is not a fucking getout clause.

A friend of mine posted this image to Facebook earlier, with the admirably restrained aside ‘Well, why not? Most of us underweight people love a good pastry.’ The lady in question is naturally skinny – she always has been – … Continue reading

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Biological clocks: in which I am bemused and curious.

I don’t seem to have a biological clock. I just don’t. No particular pull towards children or producing them; no visceral urge to reproduce; no sense of impending loss. I’m finding this paragraph difficult to write, already, because while many … Continue reading

Posted in Culture, Psychobabble, Uncategorized | 88 Comments

It’s not what but who: the problems of desire

I have NO IDEA AT ALL, none whatsoever, how to cope with my own desire. None at all. So for me, Holly’s post is a bit offbeam. I’m mostly cheerfully open about *what* I want, the things I like doing in bed, my kinks and foibles. I can discuss *that* with strangers and friends as well as with lovers, although I too am susceptible to awkwardness in the heat of the, er, moment. But desire fucks me up. How to express wanting someone, even how to deal with those feelings and/or the possibility of rejection – I’m utterly lost. Continue reading

Posted in Culture, Hunger, kink, Love, Psychobabble, Sex, Uncategorized | 10 Comments

The Millenium trilogy: Men Who Write About Men Who Hate Women

If all men who damaged women did it by raping and murdering them, we could all hate, denounce, fear and revile them. But unfortunately, much of the time the damage is far more insidious – it’s in presenting women’s violation as inevitable (a rite of passage marked by a tattoo ‘as a reminder’?), their subjugation as unavoidable, and their bodies as the only place from which they can properly draw ‘confidence’. It’s in declaring that all men who hate women kill them. It’s in telling women they’ll ultimately need men to be safe. Continue reading

Posted in Culture, Psychobabble, Sex, Uncategorized | 7 Comments

Vertigo

And suddenly, my lost years – the years between 18 and 25, give or take, when I was basically lost to the world, first through ME and then through anorexia, are thrown into sharp relief. Suddenly it *matters* that I only lost my virginity at 22, or graduated at 25; suddenly it *matters* that while everyone else was growing up and making friends and having sex and fucking up and *living* every glorious mistake as only the young can do because the sense of perspective or of equilibrium takes a while to develop, I was essentially trapped, subject to a malfunctioning body, indulging only in the supposedly ‘mature’ and certainly more stereotypically midlife pastimes of reflection, contemplation, self-analysis. Not for me the high-speed immortality and travel (physical or symbolic) and intense emotional rollercoaster traditionally associated with youth, from 18 onwards at least; after an immensely destructive relationship, I withdrew, choosing on some level not to engage with a world that could be so hurtful, or (later) to engage only through the medium of food and with the protection of my own pre-emptive punishment, self-deprivation. And suddenly, that matters. Part of me wants to rage at the world that it’s not fair, that I want those extra years somehow added on, I want more chances – and yet I wouldn’t for anything (well, happiness? no, for that’s fleeting, and at least innocence cannot be lost twice) wish that hard-won self-knowledge unlearned, or those experiences undone. Absurd, given that I *do* look slightly younger than my age, and so maybe the world’s doing the best it can there. Like my build, another instance of genetic luck: another area in which I feel I’ve lucked out, cheated a culture that prizes youth and slenderness above age and weight and presence, in women at least; another way in which I’ve managed to scrape together a few extra shreds of self-esteem from the bombsite that was my sense of self-worth for so many years. Continue reading

Posted in Culture, Love, Psychobabble, Uncategorized | 7 Comments

Things they don’t tell you about recovery, ii: The awesome power of ‘I just can’t be fucked’

This is either completely the wrong time to be writing this post, or an ironically appropriate one; I can’t decide. For entirely self-inflicted reasons (I ripped the scab off a barely-healed, still crippling wound, and really, *really* should have known … Continue reading

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