Crystal Healing : Getting Back Into It

We have always been a very crystal orientated family – thank you Waldorf education – and have used them for healing (as well as home decor and tooth fairy offerings) since I was under double figures.

But, since moving to Sweden last year, I haven’t had contact with my crystals – mar a couple of clear quartz and rose quartz pieces that come with me everywhere – or my mother’s impressively vast collection. (My mother has been a practitioner of crystal healing for years.)

Being back in the family home for a little while has meant I’ve been able to have hand to crystal contact with my collection again…and my mother’s. I’ve also been mining her books on crystal healing, including the quite frankly fucking epic tome The Crystal Bible by Judy Hall.

I need help with a lot of shit, to be blunt, so I decided that instead of overwhelming myself I’d take it nice and easy and source the crystals that would help balance me, protect me, dissolve negativity and prevent negative energies from entering my aura. The past several months I’ve been that rabbit in the headlights, the rabbit you almost kill at stupid o’clock in the morning. You know the one. And I’ve needed, desperately needed some peace restored.  

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So I reached out for hematite and amethyst. The hematite to carry around with me, the amethyst (well, this particular one) to have in my room. I rummaged through my mother’s crystal boxes and when my fingers found the smooth hematite stone and gripped it, I felt a change in me.

Almost instantly I felt calmer, the internal chatter in my head paused. At that moment my Dad shouted me to go and look at a medallion his Dad had dug up half a century ago. I went to him, the hematite in my hand, and I listened to what he had to say. Midway through the conversation I noticed that I’d been able to give him my FULL attention. If only you knew how long it’s been since I’ve been able to do that for anyone…the internal chatter has always gripped onto 50% of my focus. And this was even before I’d had chance to cleanse it.

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Hematite has always been a good stone for me because, psychologically, it’s very strong. It’s a self-esteem booster and is excellent at helping to overcome compulsions. It’s also a winner mentally. My concentration and focus has been fucking awful recently, embarrassingly awful, so it’ll do me so much good to have some hematite around. I also have circulatory problems and, yep, you guessed it, it can aid me with that issue too.

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I’ve also felt a closeness to amethyst and feel that a room is somewhat barren without a beautiful chunk of it somewhere. This purple-lavender stone, while being one of the most common, is actually bloody powerful. It’s a natural tranquilizer and overcomes blockages of all kinds. I need it for it’s calming effect. It helps me to feel less all over the place and more focused and in control. My memory has been terrible of late, and thank fuck, it helps with memory too. As a bi-polar person, it’s an essential stone to have as it balances highs and lows and also helps promote emotional centering.

Both stone haven’t been cleansed as you see them now…it’s something I’ll do tonight – I’ll be using a breathing cleanse –  then tomorrow morning I’ll start using them proper.

 

Review : The Ghastling Book One

Now, where did I first see The Ghastling…I think it was over on Instagram but I can’t exactly be sure. All I know is that suddenly it was in my life, and I burnt my fingers typing in my bank account details to purchase the first book in the five book series. I had a feeling that it would give me the same satisfaction as Misty Annuals had done back in the early 90’s. I HAD TO HAVE IT. The Ghastling is one of those print publications where I find myself thinking ‘How the fuck did I only JUST NOW find out about this?’ It’s been on the scene of the weird since 2014 and I feel somewhat embarrassed that it’s taken until 2017 for it to come across my radar. But it’s here now, and that’s what really matters.

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Founder and editor Rebecca Parfitt has been working in publishing since 2006 and it was in 2014 that she founded The Ghastling, a literary magazine devoted to ghost stories, the macabre and the oh-so strange…

As I dug a little bit deeper – I have the tendency to want to know almost too much about people. I’m English, it’s what we do – I discovered that Rebecca – talented woman that she is – is also a writer of fiction and poetry. Her debut collection The Days After is published by Listen Softly London and it’s on going on my ‘to buy list’ IMMEDIATELY.

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But back to The Ghastling. I bought the first issue for about £14 plus P&P from Amazon and it arrived pretty swiftly. Could have been a bit quicker, but it’s just because I’m an impatient bitch wanting her dose of 1st class horror yesterday.

First impression when I tugged the slim but gorgeously printed publications out of his cardboard sleeve was ‘yes, wow, love it, yes, freaky as shit front cover illustration…kind of reminds me of myself when I get out of bed in the morning, fucking yes I’m glad I bought this.’ And then I opened it up. And I nearly died.

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Memories from my childhood, from the Misty Annuals, from all the beautifully illustrated ghost story books, from all the Enchanted World Series volumes…they all came flooding back as I carefully leafed through the pages.

I was bowled over by the gorgeousness of each page’s layout, of the vintage illustrations peppered throughout, of the contemporary artwork that periodically appeared including two haunting paintings ‘Jane’ and ‘Sarah’ by Anthony Ryes.

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Then I started proper. The editorial letter was spot the fuck on. I love a good, strong editorial that leaves me chomping at the bit. That’s exactly what Rebecca’s did. Here’s an extract:

‘Our fears take on many shapes and forms: from the intangible – the lurking shadows in the periphery of the mind; to our own mortality and fear of what comes after and will it come back for us…? Whether they occupy our real or imaginary space, they manifest and structure our everyday lives – this is what it feels like to exist.’ – Editorial

Opposite the editorial was what’s probably one of my most adored darkly inspired illustrations in recent years by the writer and graphic artist Paul O’ Connell. 

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Then followed the ghosts and the oddballs and I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the couch with each page turned. The writing of every story was exquisite – Rebecca makes for a solid editor – suitably tingling my spine. I get weak at the knees at the sight of a good ghost story and I was left so freakingly satisfied. Now, while I didn’t relish each and every one, several of them will be re-read and re-read and re-read. The stories I’ll be thumbing again include A Cold Calling by the brilliant Fay Franklin which I wish had been a few pages longer.

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‘Have you ever met a ghoul? Well, no, of course you haven’t. But it’s a term we use so loosely these days that we think we should know what it means. Those faces, the ones in the cars crawling past a recent road accident, peering out, goggle-eyed, at the scene of death and devastation on the other side of the road. They’re the ghouls of our modern world.’ – A Cold Calling

Another couple I’ll be visiting again are Knock Knock by Storm Jones, Stitch In Time by Marged Parry and Confession by Christina Thatcher.

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“He had a knack for discovering things,” my mother said to everyone throughout my childhood. When I was 8, I brought her a dead robin that had started decomposing beneath one of our pine trees in the yard; it had some needles stuck to its eyes, chest, and feet and it looked like it had bled out all of its blood.’ – Confession

I always really appreciate it when a magazine features a page of info on the contributors – bloody fascinating stuff that nearly always leads me onto wanting to discover yet more about who I’ve just encountered.

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All in all in all, The Ghastling was a magnificent little publication and it’s inspired me, massively so in fact, to really push HARD with the press I’m going to be establishing. As soon as I’m able, I’ll be swooping over to The Ghastling to pick myself up the other four issues.

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More On The Ghastling

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Calling On The Moon In My Time Of Need

I captured this photo over a week ago. I was feeling creatively dead, and of 300 or so photos taken during a three hour walk in the woods, this was the only one I kept.  The others were so freaking bad I felt embarrassed to keep them on my memory card and deleted them fast.

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I’ve always thought it to be beautifully eerie to be able to sight the moon during daylight hours. After I captured this shot, I stood and watched her for about ten minutes. She made me feel kind of alright and had me shrug off my low mood.

I soon found myself thinking about a book my mother used to own when I was growing up. She might still have it tucked away in a dusty cardboard box somewhere where the ghouls gather at the back of the attic. (Seen as though I’m here, I might as well have a look and see if I can unearth it.)

It was called Moon Moon. Written by Anne Kent Rush and published in 1976 it was a magnificently heavy, passionately researched book all about the moon and the relationship women have with her. While it might be a bit outdated, if you’re interested in moon worship it’s a must-have.

When I got home – I could still see her from the kitchen window – my curiosity was ignited and I went in search of moon quotes. Here’s some of what I found…

“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls. ”
— George Carlin

 

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”
— Sylvia Plath

 

“I am not the same having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world.”
— Mary Anne Radmacher

 

“She didn’t quite know what the relationship was between lunatics and the moon, but it must be a strong one, if they used a word like that to describe the insane.”
— Paulo Coelho

Reading Myself Better

I am in England at the moment, visiting my folks and the first thing on the agenda today was to visit my old thrifting grounds.

It was my every intention to overhaul my wardrobe. So convinced was I that I would stagger back to my parents house with my body weight in second-hand threads, that I very nearly bunged all the clothes I’d brought with me – and which I’m sick of the sight of – into a black bag ready to be given away.

Thankfully though, I didn’t, because I found NOTHING worthy of buying and wearing. Which is shocking because Stockton, the town where I wander, is the charity shop capital of England.

I also found that one of my favourite second-hand hangouts has increased the price of their threads by £1. (Pretty much everything in store used to be £1.50…now, thanks to the conservatives no doubt, they’ve have to up their prices to £2.50.) Pleased I was not. £1 is a lot of money.

However the tides turned when it came to book hunting. While I wasn’t able to find anything Arctic related that I wasn’t already in possession of (FUCKING DAMMIT!), I did actually find two books which I’d gone out with the intention of finding. And what was the likelihood of that happening!?

The two books I was out hunting are actually in my mother’s possession already, but if I were to take them back to Sweden, it would be over her dead body. The two books I’m rambling about are The Nature Doctor by Dr H.C.A. Vogel (which I paid £1.50 for) and Foods That Harm, Foods That Heal by Reader’s Digest (which I paid £2 for) – two of the best tomes you can own if you’re interested in safe, healthy eating and complementary medicine.

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Over the past several years I’ve always turned to these two books when I’ve needed health advice of the natural kind. (Fuck you Google, you got nothing on these!) I’ve always felt better turning to books for advice on my body and what I’m putting inside it. When I was suffering from hypochondria several years ago, I stupidly lived on Google, believing all it told me – that I was, in fact, dying from everything.

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What I LOVE about Food That Harm, Foods That Heal is that, like all Reader’s Digest books, it’s a sturdy tome that could survive a world war. It’s gorgeously illustrated, all of the topics have been thoroughly researched and the writing is SOLID. It’s laid out in a useful A-Z format and before (nearly every) entry there’s a bullet pointed list telling you about the benefits and drawbacks of each food stuff. I’ve read this book from cover to cover – it’s really that interesting – and I’ve dipped in and out of it when I’ve needed advice on a certain something.

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What I LOVE about The Nature Doctor is that it’s exhaustive, sublimely written and, while it’s quite an old book now – this edition, the 50th was published in 1989, the original in 1952 – much of the advice trumps the majority of advice about traditional and contemporary medicine today. Though you have to take some of Vogel’s opinions with a pinch of salt and remember he was writing in a different time.

As a pagan witch, if I can heal myself naturally – mentally, physically and emotionally – I’m going to do it…and this book provides much the guidance I need to be able to do so. Tonight I will be consulting both books for an insight into the lymphatic system – mine is sluggish and I need to devise a plan to remedy that.

If you’re interested in natural healing or are even heavily experienced in healing yourself with the help of mother nature, I highly highly recommend you track these down post haste.

My Arctic Library : Men Of The Frozen North

I had a thought a couple of months ago…’I wonder if I could collect all the books ever published in English about the Arctic?’ The thought made my blood tingle and my heart get all over excited.

Within moments of having the thought, a new dream was born. I decided that, no matter how long it would take me, I WOULD, one day, own every work of Arctic literature published in my native tongue.

I own probably around 60 books about The Arctic – though the number I’ve read reaches into the hundreds. Thank fuck for libraries is all I have to say. I have no idea where I’d be if it wasn’t for libraries. When I say libraries save lives, I really mean it.

Anyway…once I’d had the idea of building up an ultimate Arctic library, I jettisoned myself over to Facebook and Instagram where I put my idea out into the open, and asked if anyone would be willing to part with their own Arctic literature to help me establish my library proper.

I wasn’t too surprised when nobody joined the conversation…I mean, not everyone is so into the Arctic that they have a collection of books dedicated to the northern most part of earth.

But then…then I received a lovely message from one FB friend, Iris, from America. She sent a photo of Men of the Frozen North by Peter Freuchen and said ‘would you like it?’ I was a bit overcome and nearly burst into tears before replying I’d love it! When I asked about the postage to Sweden she said not to worry. My heart wanted to pop out and give her a bloody, juicy hug.

Hardly a week later and there was a package for me. A heavy package. A package that definitely contained more than a book. After breaking through the dense sellotape seal and thick cardboard I found a treasury of gifts.

I pulled them out, one by one. Each was wrapped in black tissue paper and exquisite silver ribbon. There was even a tiny handmade coffin box holding two of the gifts. A handmade coffin box! For me! 

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My tattoo written in Elder Futhark reads ‘Proceed from the dream outward.’ (Carl Jung)

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The parrot feather is my book mark for this journey.

I stood there for about ten minutes, looking at this beautiful bounty. I could feel the salt water gathering on my eyeballs. The kindness, the mother freaking kindness was just so much! The package was so exquisitely prepared, the gifts – which included a water buffalo tooth, a parrot feather, several bars of handmade chocolate, a hand made witch patch and several packets of jerky – so lovingly considered.

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When I’d gathered myself, I explored Men of the Frozen North. I smelt it. It hummed deliciously of old bookshop and was in immaculate condition for a book that’s older than my mother. (It was published in 1962.) I examined the contents page while squealing excitedly about what I was going to discover. (I was particularly excited about Part IV The Lapps as my knowledge there is a little weak.) I fanned through the pages, my eyes darting over words, illustrations and photographs. You’d have thought I’d never seen a book before.

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Men of the Frozen North was written by Peter Freuchen – his life-worn portrait on the back cover of the book is deeply humbling – a Danish explorer, author and anthropologist. He’s renowned for his role in Arctic exploration, in particular the Thule Expeditions. He was also a serious badass, the sort of badass we rarely see in today’s world.

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The 6ft 7 Dane wore a coat made from the skin of a polar bear he’d killed himself, he amputated his own toes with no anesthesia and once, when trapped in a tomb of ice after being caught in a blizzard, made a knife out of his own shit and carved his way out to safety. Needless to say, I’m pretty fucking excited about what’s going to unfold when I start powering my way through Men of the Frozen North.

If you think you might be able to contribute to my Arctic Library and be a part of this ambitious dream, let me know in the comments or you can send a note to katiemariemetcalfe@hotmail.co.uk I would be ever so grateful!

 

Witch In The Kitchen : Turmeric Smoothie

I haven’t been treating my body very well recently. And that’s not like me at all. I’ve been devouring excessive amounts of sweets because I’ve felt like ‘I’ve deserved it…’ also because I’ve been trying to make up for all the years I denied myself pick n mix.

I’ve not drinking enough water, and have been staying up until dawn to finish work. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And I know it. I really, really know it, and that’s what makes it so bloody ridiculous that I’ve allowed myself to get to this state! But it happened so fast, that I started to feel shitty I mean. Like, a few days of eating some some sweets has done this to me. Sweets can be bad magic if you abuse them!

My energy has dribbled away, leaving me slow to move my limbs, slow to respond to life and irritable. So fucking irritable. My flesh isn’t used to being treated like this. It’s used to being looked after like the temple I need to remember it is.

My sleep has been poor too. When I’ve been able to drift off that is. My thoughts have been racing more than usual, my brain firing random, useless bullshit at me. Stuff that I really don’t need to be thinking about ever.

If I do manage to get some sleep nowadays, I’m hounded by dreams more complicated and long-winded than Gormenghast. They leave me feeling more knackered when I wake up than I felt before I went to bed. My health isn’t right at the moment, and it’s getting to me. I know food is one of the main reasons I’m feeling shitty, so I’m putting the candy aside to pay more attention to what’s fueling me.

I’ve been slowly filling up our spice shelves slowly, and turmeric is the latest addition. When I was growing up, my mother always had an impressive spice collection going on. I always thought there was something magical about it, and I wasn’t wrong…spices are the magic in our kitchens.

Sometimes I’d just go through them, the jars of spices, one by one, and sniff them out of curiosity. Sometimes a bit too hard and my little nostrils would set on fire. Some things never change – I still sniff spices, and my mother still has an eclectic collection of spices, some with names I’ll never be able to pronounce. If I’m going to someone’s house, and find they have more spices than cinnamon and nutmeg, I’m always impressed.

I was writing about Turmeric – also know as Indian Saffron – recently, and have become a convert to India’s golden spice. This superfood which makes our cooking dazzle, is capable of so much more than just flavouring and colouring our food – it can actually work immediately to better our physical, emotional and psychological health. Fucking perfect!

Curcumin, the stuff in turmeric which makes it golden, can actually help to ease anxiety and has shown promise as an anti-depressant. As well as being capable of improving your mood, turmeric is also a miracle healer for pain. It is, however, difficult for the body to absorb, so it’s advised to always add a dash of black pepper to whatever you’re using the turmeric with, as it greatly enhances absorption. I didn’t on this occasion, but I’m going to add a dash next time and see how it works.

I just cobbled this turmeric smoothie together using some a dash of common sense and some of my favourite smoothie ingredients – no processed sugar, no bad shit at all! And it turned out to be…really, really fucking good! I mean genuinely, this is going to be something I’ll be having several times a week. It’s surprisingly sweet, perfectly spicy, comes out with this delicious frothy topping. It also drinks down so smooth it’s like having a desert…but what that’s good for you in a hundred different ways.

I’m not saying give up sweets all together. Hell no. Just be more conscious…for example maybe get a bar of organic chocolate and savour it properly, instead of getting a bag of pick n mix and just putting it into your body without even engaging your senses into what it is you’re eating.

Let me know how it turns out for you, and if you start to reap the turmeric rewards! I’ll be posting some more turmeric recipes soon, so if you enjoyed this one, keep an eye out.

*I had my smoothie with some Valdosta Pecans – Glazed Mix that a friend kindly sent me from the states. DIVINE combination.

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Ingredients

  • 1 banana (frozen if you wish, though mine was just refrigerated)
  • 250 ml of skimmed milk (though you can semi skimmed, full fat or soya)
  • 3/4 tsp cinnamon
  • 3/4 tsp turmeric
  • Small handful of oats

Directions

  • Place all your ingredients in a blender and blitz until smooth. Drink slowly and really enjoy.

Why I Am Going To ‘Woman The Fuck Up’ About Money

I don’t know when or why I became sensitive about money. I  do remember when I opened my bank account though…I was 12 and had £10 to put in that I’d received for my birthday. And believe me, I was dead set that that £10 wasn’t going anywhere.

Every time I could put something in there – be it £2 or £20 – I felt like I was accomplishing something really fucking significant. I felt no shame in going up to the cashier and saying ‘I’d like to put this £2.50 into my bank account please.’

As a family of six, money was never something we had much of, and while my friends were rocking their new Nike trainers, I was wearing my aunties hand-me-down mid 80’s Reeboks that were three times too big. While my friends were crossing the sea to Greece, my siblings and I stayed with my Grandmother in a caravan on the blustery North East coast of England. While my friends brought in licorice and chocolate to school for break time, I brought in half a jam and margarine sandwich made with Safeway Own Value white bread. Despite our frugal living, we were happy and my childhood was one I wouldn’t change, it was impossibly rich in creativity, adventure and love.

My mum would welcome in all the kids from the street, and give them the food she worked two jobs for. Our homes during the years – we moved a few times – became refuges for kids whose parents didn’t give two shits about them, or kids who just wanted to get away and discovered that they found peace at our house. It was a very rare occasion that mum made anyone go on back home. Some would stay for days, others weeks. Our house was always a buzz of activity with new faces appearing every five minutes.

“It’s hard enough to give fearlessly, and it’s even harder to receive fearlessly.
But within that exchange lies the hardest thing of all:
To ask. Without shame.
And to accept the help that people offer.
Not to force them.
Just to let them.” – Amanda Palmer

I was seventeen and in collage when I got my first job. I worked the weekends as a catering assistant at a KP Foods factory and brought home £47.60 a week. I hated my job. I hated getting up while the rest of my family were sleeping and cycling in the dark to a factory whose smell made me gag from even a mile away. I hated the fact I was always given the shitty jobs ‘Katie, clean out the smokers room…’

I hated that 80% of the people I cooked, served and cleaned up after were spiteful and rude and seemingly unable to eat a cooked breakfast without half of it ending up smeared all over their table. I’m sure they did it because it would mean I’d have a nightmare scraping it up once they’d left, and the bean juice and egg yolk had dried. I hated the bitching and the behind the back talking. I hated that my skin and hair smelt like I’d been dipped in the deep fat fryer whenever I was finished for the day. If I’d been able to smell my bones, I think they would have stank too.

Much of the time I’d go home and cry. But I didn’t quit. I worked every weekend for three years at that place before packing it in. What would get me through wasn’t thinking about what I’d spend my money on, rather what I’d write when I got home. I was working on my second book and it took up almost all the hours when I wasn’t at college or work. It was my everything. It was what made me get up in the morning.

Several other jobs followed this one, none of them enjoyable, none of them satisfying, none of them made me think ‘hell, I want to do this instead of writing as a career!’ My mental health meant that I wasn’t as ‘on the ball’ I should have been. My anxiety meant I was afraid to confront customers. My values and how I’d been brought up left me unable to pressurize people into buying things I knew they probably couldn’t afford.

“From what I’ve seen, it isn’t so much the act of asking that paralyzes us–it’s what lies beneath: the fear of being vulnerable, the fear of rejection, the fear of looking needy or weak. The fear of being seen as a burdensome member of the community instead of a productive one. It points, fundamentally, to our separation from one another.” – Amanda Palmer

I never ‘fitted in’ with any of my work teams and was always the ‘weird one.’ I didn’t mind being the weird one, but I did mind the gossip, I did mind the laughing, I did mind the ‘quiet word in my office’ moments where I was told I ‘had to come out of myself.’ I couldn’t come out of my self. Hell, I was enough out of myself by turning up when fatigue made my body heavy as an iron lady. But it was always the thought that ‘when I get home I can write’ that got me through.

I’d known, since I was a kid that I’d ‘have to work a normal job’ while waiting for my writing career ‘to take off.’ And I’ve worked enough ‘normal jobs’ to know I don’t cut it, that it’s not for me. My bi-polar and anxiety means that to get to my ‘normal job’ is hard enough as it is. Many don’t realize that managing to get through the day when you have bi-polar is achievement worthy of reward. This quote from Carrie Fisher sums it up quite perfectly:

“One of the things that baffles me (and there are quite a few) is how there can be so much lingering stigma with regards to mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder. In my opinion, living with manic depression takes a tremendous amount of balls. Not unlike a tour of Afghanistan (though the bombs and bullets, in this case, come from the inside). At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with this illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of. They should issue medals along with the steady stream of medication.” Wishful Drinking, her 2008 memoir about her mental illness and prescription drug addiction

I’m a lone wolf who thrives in solitude, and feels weakened when she’s crowded or put under the rule of someone else. I’ve never wanted to work for anyone but myself. I found my life’s meaning when I was four years old, and I’ve never strayed from that path, not even for a second. But to keep on that path, I need to do something which, at first, made me feel ashamed because I’m a fucking proud woman…

Since being in Sweden I’ve been living off my savings, freelance writing work, hand outs from my parents and by the support of my partner. But the savings are gone now. The work doesn’t pay well, and the discussion of ‘getting a real job’ has been raging for months. I’ve been working harder, faster, but the money never seems to catch up.

I’ve signed on at what’s essentially the Swedish Job Centre, but I don’t get any hand outs nor do I get any actual useful help. My partner thinks that, despite me having a 1st class degree, it’s almost inevitable that I’ll have to work as a cleaner or something. To think of this makes my heart become as heavy as a handful of wet sand. It makes me feel weak and helpless and vulnerable. It makes me worry about the hours that I’ll have left to create and do what I need to do to keep my spirit from rotting.

The contents of my bank account have always been a secret. I haven’t wanted to share its numbers with my family or anyone else. And when someone has asked ‘how much is in there?’ I’ve become deeply offended and angry. A large part of me feels I’ve let myself down by not being a fully self-sufficient writer by the age of 30.

“There’s really no honor in proving that you can carry the entire load on your own shoulders. And…it’s lonely” – Amanda Palmer

But not I’m letting my guard down. I’m not going to be secretive about money because if I want to make it I need to ask for help. I need people willing to support me in my journey to becoming a fully self-sufficient writer. I’m not only asking for help with this because writing is what makes me happy, I’m asking for help because writing is what helps me keep my sanity.

So I’ve established a Patreon page. There’s the option for you to pledge as much or as little as you would like to, and with each pledge comes a reward. By setting up a Patreon page, I’ve let go of my sensitivity to money and am openly asking for support in my life’s mission.  I’ll leave you with this uber poignant quote from the incredible Amanda Palmer whose book The Art Of Asking I highly recommend.

“Asking for help with shame says:
You have the power over me.
Asking with condescension says:
I have the power over you.
But asking for help with gratitude says:
We have the power to help each other.”  ― Amanda Palmer

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