Some thoughts on self harm

I've had many conversations with people over the years about self harm. I've discussed it with friends, family, doctor's, nurses and therapists. I've discussed it with a line manager at work and I've even discussed it with a stranger on the train once, after they noticed the scars on my arms. So, I thought I'd take the time to share some of my thoughts based on my experiences both of self harming and of talking about it.

Firstly, I would like to make it really clear that self harm is not a failed suicide attempt, nor is it necessarily an indication that someone is contemplating suicide. People self harm for a whole variety of reasons, often the same person engages in self harming behaviour for different reasons at different times. I know that I've harmed myself in different ways, at different times for a variety of different reasons.

Sometimes it's been a way to cope with overwhelming emotion or racing thoughts that seem beyond my control. At other times I've self harmed simply in order to feel something, to prove to myself that I still could. Then there have been the times I've dissociated so heavily I can't remember what I've done or why. There is very little more upsetting than 'coming round' somewhere to find yourself with clearly self inflicted injuries and no idea why they are there. Finally, I've self harmed when the suicidal thoughts became too much to deal with, when I was truly afraid I would give in and act on them. Somehow, hurting myself seems to hold those thoughts at bay, reduce them for a time. I have quite literally hurt myself in order to keep living. For me, self harm is often the direct opposite of an attempt on my life.

Something which comes up often when talking about self harm is the idea that it is wrong, a maladaptive behaviour which is only ever harmful. I am not entirely sure this is true. Certainly, it looks like an unhealthy behaviour. I would accept that a mentally healthy person doesn't engage in self harming behaviours. Where I would argue is that it is automatically maladaptive. There are times when I have tried very hard to engage in more 'healthy' behaviours to control my thoughts and emotions, to get back to a place where I can fight them again. There are times those techniques - many developed in conjunction with a therapist - haven't worked. At that point, I would argue that harming myself is in fact a valid response. Particularly if the only remaining alternative is suicide.

For me, suicidal behaviour can be a compulsion which I find it very hard to fight. There are times it hasn't been, times where it has seemed like the best way out. On those occasions, as soon as any other alternative has been found the desire to take my life has ceased. There are other times though where that isn't the case. Where the compulsion is so strong there simply isn't time to think. Times where the compulsion is so powerful I can't simply sit and wait for the feeling to pass. On those occasions, self harm can help alleviate the compulsion. It's almost like by giving in a little, the urge is lessened to the point I can fight it once more. To the point I am able to put into practice the techniques and tools I've been given to keep myself safe. There have also been times where suicide seemed like the best option and I wasn't in the position to seek advice or help in finding another.

I am thinking now about when I was much younger and being abused by my father. I was too young to move out, running away hadn't worked and I had nobody to talk to. No where I could go for help and advice. At ten years old, I didn't even have the language to talk about what was going on even if I had found someone to talk to. By thirteen, when I made the first attempt on my life I had the language but my depression had deepened to the point that things liked talking to people seemed entirely beyond me. In situations like this, where any form of help or support seem impossible suicide can seem like a frighteningly welcome idea. At times like these, self harm provided a temporary relief from such thoughts and feelings. Temporary, but accessible as often as I needed it. It allowed me to maintain a degree of functionality, it allowed me to continue living until I reached a point that alternatives became available.

I am writing this now as someone who hasn't hurt herself on purpose for three years. It's the longest I've ever managed and I'm pleased to report that I have developed many other ways of fighting suicidal urges, of dealing with racing or intrusive thoughts and emotions so strong I struggle to cope with them. I still remember very strongly being that other, younger girl however. The one who turned so often to self harm because she didn't yet have tools to handle things any other way, or found herself in situations where those tools didn't work. I can say with a hundred per cent certainty that my life is better without self harm, but also that I wouldn't be here to realise that if I hadn't had this tool at my disposal.

I guess I want three things from this post. Firstly, to address the assumptions which can be made about self harm - it's not a suicide attempt, and whilst it can be connected to suicidal ideation or thoughts that's not necessarily the case. Secondly, some understanding that self harm serves a purpose, it can work, albeit temporarily and that for each person, each time they self harm the reasons can be different. Finally, I want anyone who reads this and identifies as a self harmer, there is hope that one day in the future you won't need that particular tool any more.

So, if you are reading this and know somebody who self harms, please try not to assume you understand and please don't judge. Anybody who self harms would be happy to find a safer, healthier way of dealing with things but there will be times this really is the best option they have available. Understand and accept that and you'll find helping them reach a place where it's no longer necessary will be easier for everyone involved.

Listening, an often underrated skill

One of the things I hate most about talking to my friends and loved ones about my mental health is this: they often assume what I want or need from them is advice and a way to fix things. There are times when that is what I'm asking for, sure but most of the time all I want is someone to listen. There are times when I need to just talk, to get thoughts out of my head and to share my experience. 

What often happens instead is a horrible cycle of frustration and upset for everyone involved. I try to talk, my confidant jumps in to offer advice. I become upset and frustrated because I'm not being listened too, because someone is trying to 'fix' me and tell me what I should be doing. They become frustrated because their advice isn't being taken on board, it can feel like I don't want to get better and ultimately they are trying to help but clearly aren't. Not a nice position for anybody to be in. We both tend to walk away from such conversations exhausted and unhappy, often with each other. 

I understand that sometimes it can be overwhelming to listen to me talk. If you don't think you can listen right now, much as that might be painful for me to hear it's also OK for you to say. If you think you might be able to listen at a different time please make that clear, though also don't assume or expect I will be able to talk at the same point you are able to listen.

When I am telling you I don't know what to do, that I feel lost, alone or helpless that's not me asking you to tell me what I should do or how to fix things. When I say I don't know what to do, have you got any ideas? Or when I ask what you think I could or should be doing, that's different. 

 Sometimes people tell me in a slightly injured tone that they don't feel they get the chance to add anything to the conversation. This is simply not true. By listening to me you are doing so much, providing something I need so very badly. Every time you start to think that not having something to add, by not having magical answers that will fix everything you aren't helping please take a deep breath and remind yourself of this fact. Listening is the single most useful and helpful thing you could be doing, taking time out of your day to hear me - someone who has spent so much of her life not being heard - is showing me that you care, that you want to help, that you are there for me in the ways I need you to be. Not many people are able to do this, so when it feels like you aren't doing enough I need you to know you are doing everything.

It's hard to just listen, I get that. I've been there too. I understand that you might also be having a tough time, that you might want to talk too. Or that you simply can't sit back and listen right now. I understand too that it's really hard to sit and listen to someone you care about in pain when all your instincts are telling you you must be doing something, when you really want to just make it all better.

That's in part why I'm writing this. None of us get it right all the time, I'm no more able to simply listen every time than you are. I think we need to be kind to each other here and simply try to understand. Every time you are able to listen, that's a time I will treasure. Every time you aren't, I will do my best not to be hurt and angry. I won't be able to do that every time but I'll do my best, you do the same and hopefully we can help each other. 

Love and hurt, a post about child abuse

I've spent the last hour trying to come up with a title for this piece instead of just getting on and writing it. A delaying tactic if ever I saw one. Thinking about the abuse I suffered growing up is always difficult, but the hardest part for me is thinking about the fact that it was missed by those who loved me. It's taken so many years to recognise that no one knew I was being abused, but that this didn't mean no one loved or cared about me.

Some of this comes down to understanding how and why I was vulnerable, which ties in to why the abuse was not noticed or stopped. As a child, my understanding went something like this: My parents are meant to love and look after me but one of my parents hurts me and the other one doesn't stop him. They both tell me that they love me, but yet they aren't looking after me. So they must not love me like they say the do or else this hurt is the same as being looked after.

I am sure it doesn't take a genius to figure out how this was a damaging idea to grow up with, that I had to chose between the idea that I wasn't loved, or that what was being done to me was right and proper even though it hurt. I wonder at times how much this idea that pain = being looked after contributed to my self harming behaviour.

As a teenager my understanding changed again. I knew what was being done to me was wrong, and I couldn't understand how someone who claimed to love me could do it. I spent a lot of the time convinced that my father therefore couldn't possibly love me. Then he would go and do something kind and thoughtful, he'd look out for in the way that I really wanted him to and I was conflicted once again. For my mother's part, I understood by now that her illness had contributed a lot towards her missing what was going on. There were weeks at a time where she was in the hospital, longer still where she was home but effectively bed ridden and reliant on us to tell her what was going on in our lives. I told her lots of things but I didn't tell her about this. To my mind, she already had enough to deal with. Then she died, and it was too late to tell her anything.

So, by my teens there was an understanding as to how I was vulnerable to abuse. One of my parents was my abuser, the other was fighting a long term, painful and ultimately fatal disease which made it much harder for her to see what was going on. I was so worried about making things harder for her that I went out of my way to keep quiet about things which might trouble her. It did become apparent in my teens that I was unwell and struggling to cope, but given my mum's illness and death there seemed an obvious reason why this would be the case.

As an adult, I can finally look back and say I was loved and I was hurt, the two aren't mutually exclusive. The hurt wasn't right or OK, it should never have happened and certainly wasn't a sign of love or care. I was failed, in that neither of my parents were able to look after me properly however only one of them was to blame for that. The other did everything she could, and to this day I think if I had felt able to confide in her then she would have done everything in her power to protect me.

So, there were a number of reasons I was vulnerable. I had a parent who was frequently absent from home or restricted to a single room due to illness. I didn't have the language to talk about what was happening to me because I was a child.  I didn't want to upset a woman who was already unwell and had a lot to deal with, and whom I loved very much. I was conflicted about my feelings for a father who was at times a monster but other times everything I wanted from a dad. By the time I had the language and knowledge to talk about what had happened to me I had been silent on the subject so long that I was afraid to speak out. There was so much fear around the idea, it would distress my mum, I might not be believed, people would think less of me for letting it go on for so long. These vulnerabilities were things my father took advantage of, then added to. He told me he'd kill himself if I told, or fought back. He told me it would kill my mum if she found out, that my siblings would hate me, that we'd all be put into care.

I wonder now how different things would have been if I'd been able to break that silence and speak out. There's no real way to know, but I have my belief that my mum would have done right by me because I know, without a doubt, that she loved me after all. As an adult, that's the one thing which seems clear and for now that will have to be enough.

Talking about suicide

After many years of dealing with mental illness I’ve reached a point where I’m quite open about my mental health. I’ve had negative experiences when sharing my story but I’ve had many positive ones as well. Perhaps the best thing to come out of it has been the way that my openness has helped other people to talk about their experiences too. Learning that I’m not alone, whilst in some ways sad has also helped me overcome some of the isolation which seems to be the lot of a person with mental illness. Helping other people by providing a listening ear or supporting them while they access professional help has done wonders for my self-esteem too.

Yet there is still something I find it difficult to talk about. Suicide, whether that be relating my past experiences or discussing the still recurrent ideas or urges that pop up, is a difficult topic to tackle. Firstly, there are other people’s reactions to is. Far too often I face a lecture on how selfish it is. Frequently instead of being able to talk about why I feel like I do I end up having a discussion about how my suicidal ideation is upsetting and distressing for those I’m talking to. I’m sure that it is and I’m happy to talk about that, but right then in that moment what I need to talk about is me.

There is a common belief that if you are talking about suicide you aren’t at risk of taking that step, but that’s not true at all. If I’m talking about it, thinking about it, contemplating it then what I need is someone to listen. To set aside their distress and help me work through mine because when I’m at that stage I’m simply not in a place to be offering support. I’m in desperate need of it myself.

I can honestly say that I don’t want to die, what I want is to no longer be in the situation I’m in. There are times when my depression and anxiety become so bad I honestly can’t see any way out that doesn’t involve death. What I need at those times is another option, another way to improve my lot. In talking about it that’s what I’m seeking.

It’s not about being selfish, or wanting attention. It’s not about having given up. It’s about not wanting to live with things the way they are and being unable at that moment to see a way to change my life. Sometimes it’s about being so afraid of my suicidal thoughts that I fear I will give in to them, simply to make them stop. Thoughts of suicide can be horribly intrusive, hard to deal with and often times come with a compulsion to act on them.

All I ask is that if I – or anybody else – talks to you about suicide, listen. Take them seriously, but don’t panic. Keep listening and keep me talking. While I’m talking I’m still fighting, still seeking an alternative. It may be that I’m not safe to be alone. Perhaps I need to be seeking professional help and support. You can help me do those things and I’m not saying that you have to deal with the situation alone. All I’m saying is that if I’m talking about this it’s because I’ve recognised that I’m not coping alone.

Later, when I’m coping better I will be happy to listen to your side of the story. I think it’s important to do so. I just need you to recognise that in the moment, I’m not able to help you. All of my energy and ability to think is taken up trying to survive until this current urge passes.

A bit about OCD

When I tell someone I have OCD I am often met with disbelief. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm far from the tidiest person. I don't obsessively wash my hands, compulsively clean up after myself/other people. This is part of the problem with the common misperception that OCD is a disorder categorised by cleaning. Whilst it can present that way for some that isn't what this disorder is about.

I've met and spoken with a number of fellow sufferers, only one is a compulsive cleaner. She cleans because she can't escape the thought that if anything in her home is out of place then the rest of her life will fall apart. For me, my experience of OCD is different but it does share some common factors. Namely intrusive thoughts of things going wrong and the compulsion to repeat a behaviour which helps me to feel calmer about this possibility.

It started when I was a kid, after the loss of someone very close to me. Much like any other child faced with death and grief for the first time I was upset and worried. If one person I loved could die, so could another. So could I. In fact anybody could die! It was someone of a revelation and it was an idea which has haunted me ever since. I have been calmly walking into town when suddenly I am plagued with the image of myself being run over, or slipping off the curb and dashing my brains out. This image will not go away, it sticks in my head and it feels so real I have found myself reached up to touch my head and check for blood before now. Or I will struggle to get to sleep at night because I can't get the idea out of my head that someone I love is dead. At times this has gotten so bad I've phoned someone up at four in the morning just to make sure they are OK.

Since this first started happening I've developed little rituals, things I can do to 'banish' the thoughts, or somehow prevent them from happening. I know that there is no way my bizarre little habits can actually stop events occurring, in the same way as I know that I can't cause something to happen simply by thinking about it. Yet I can't stop these thoughts, these fears from happening and I haven't yet been able to fight the compulsions that accompany them.

I have a ritual that involves light switches, which I have to engage in every night and every morning. I have a set of numbers which has to be repeated a set number of times, in a particular order to prevent harm coming to my loved ones when those thoughts occur. Then there is another one where I have to pull at my hair until the thoughts have faded away.

This is what OCD is like, for me. It's not always visible to other people - in fact, quietly tugging at hair is something commonly written off as just a nervous tick, counting happens in my head not aloud, you'd have to be around to witness my light switch ritual in order to know about it. Yet it is always with me, it is something I deal with on a daily basis.

The thoughts aren't always about physical harm or death, I have many more rituals or compulsions than I've listed here but the general theme remains. Each person's experiences of OCD will be different, just as we are all different. Yet there are some commonalities. OCD is often about anxiety, always about compulsive thoughts or behaviours and only sometimes about cleaning.

I have spent ages now trying to write this post and have deleted it several times. At this point I have no idea if I will manage to successfully get across what I want to say. Here goes, I'll give it one last shot.

I want children, I really do. I always have. I don't have any yet, partly by choice (the time isn't right) and partly because it's just worked out that way. I've been pregnant before and I would have chosen to keep that child despite the situation not being perfect but that choice was taken from me when I had a miscarriage. It sucks but there you go.

As a woman with mental illness I get hit with a lot of mixed messages about becoming a mother. On the one hand, my mental illness has interfered with my ability to develop a career and achieve any degree of financial stability. People keep telling me to sort out my career before I have kids. On the other hand, I'm not getting any younger and more often now people assume I've decided against having children or urge me to have them asap before the choice is taken away from me. Then there are the people who tell me having a child would be the best thing I could do. It would 'give me something to live for',  a reason to get better (apparently my own happiness and well being aren't good enough reasons). There are also the people who tell me the opposite, that as someone with mental illness I should never have children. It wouldn't be fair. I couldn't look after them. I could pass on my mental illness.

Now I'm not saying that these aren't things I should think about, of course they are. I do think about them, a lot. Particularly the stuff about my mental health and ability to be a good parent. I just don't think that other people's opinions are the best way for me to decide whether or not I'm ready to be a parent. Really, there are only two people who's views matter in this situation. Mine and my partners, as we'd be the ones going on to try for a child if we decided that was something we both wanted and felt ready for.

So then, career and finances. In an ideal world I'd have a career I loved and a steady income. It's not an ideal world and I don't. I might never achieve those things. In terms of having children this provides me with a difficulty as I'd like to provide my possible future children with an ideal life. One that's stable, where I can afford to provide them with everything they need. It's certainly something I give a lot of thought to. Right now I'm doing what I can to change my working situation. Stable employment, in a job I can stick with for more than a year or two at a time is the goal. Though I'll be honest and admit that this isn't something I'm trying to do just so I can have kids. It's more for my own benefit. It would be lovely not to have to worry constantly about money. Not to feel worthless because I have spent years at a time unemployed.

Let me tell you about my mum. She was physically ill and unable to work. In my mind, she was still a good mum. OK, so I was abused by my father and she didn't know about it because she was ill and bedridden or in hospital much of the time but I still think she was a good parent. In that situation it was my father who was the bad parent. Incidentally, my father also had a long term, steady job for the entirety of my childhood. It turns out the ability to work and provide for your children doesn't automatically translate into being a good parent. My mum wasn't well enough to work, she didn't bring in much if any money. Yet despite her illness she was always prepared to listen to us kids. When she couldn't get out of bed to play with us she used her awesome imagination to invent games we could play with her. She was the one who went through our homework with us, helping us find ways to figure it out when we got frustrated. She was the one we went to to have our knees plastered, to talk about our day and to read a bedtime story with. She wasn't perfect but she was an amazing mum. It turns out there's more to being a parent than providing financial support.

What about age? Well, age bothers me. I'm less than a decade away from the point where I can expect my ability to conceive and carry a child to start on a sharp decline. I'm not convinced I'm less than a decade away from establishing myself in a career, managing my mental health to a point where I'm happy and feeling ready to take responsibility for bringing a person into the world. That upsets me, because I want children. That said, more than half a decade is still a long time. For all my worries and concerns it is possible to achieve what I want to in that time, and if it takes a few years longer so what? My granny was having children into her early fifties. Her last pregnancy was problematic, but that was due to a non- age related illness. I know other women who have had children later on in life with no problems too.

Besides, what are these problems I could face? An increased chance of becoming infertile. That would be sad, but not the end of the world. I want children and I would be very upset if I can't have them. There's lots of things I've wanted in my life and not been able to have however. I didn't want to be abused growing up and it has had a long term negative effect on my life, but I'm learning to deal with it. I wanted a very specific career since a fairly young age and it's taken me time to make my peace with the fact that for various reasons I can't have it. It hurt and it continues to hurt, but I've still managed to have a life beyond that loss. People are amazingly adaptive. If I can't have children that will hurt, it will take time to come to terms with but I don't think it's impossible for me to do so if I'm faced with that possibility.

I could be at an increased risk of complications. That's a scary thought, but as with anything else in life you weigh up the risks versus the benefits. If the benefits seem worth the risk, then you do it. If the time comes then along with my partner I'll look at the risks, make sure I'm well informed and then make a choice. What about increased risk of disability in my child? Well, again I will make sure that I am as well informed as I can be but I imagine I'll go ahead anyway. I don't think a person with a disability is a person incapable of having a meaningful, fulfilling life. I know that not to be true. So I don't see why I would decide not to proceed just because there is a risk of having a disabled child.

So, moving on then. Should I have a child because it will give me a reason to live, because I think it will act as a miracle cure for my mental illness or so I have a purpose? No. Really, just no. Children aren't 'cures' or 'fix alls.' Children are people. Plus, I have a reason to live: Me. I've spent a whole lot of my life feeling like I didn't matter, I'm only just learning that I do. So please don't ignore me when we're talking about my life.

What about the opposite view? Should I not have children at all because I'm mentally ill? There's a lot to think about with this one. I need to consider how I'd cope with difficult times - and I know that there will be some. I have to think about how my mental health could impact on a child's mental health, quality of life and so on. Given that there are times I can't look after myself I need to think about whether I could look after a child. Of course I do. So should anybody who is thinking of becoming a parent.

Let me ask you something. Do you think people who have ever been physically ill shouldn't have children? I mean, they got better but they might become physically ill again. It's a risk isn't it? Mental illness is the same. It can improve, people recover and/or learn to manage their symptoms and mental health. Not everyone who has a mental illness will be mentally ill for the rest of their life. Most people aren't. My mental illnesses have been with me for most of my life, though I think they are better now than in my teens. More importantly, I've gotten better at recognising when I need help or support or to reconsider my treatment plan. I know how vital a good support network is.

I've never harmed or endangered anybody else, despite my mental illness. I've managed to care for and look out for other people, even when I've failed to look after and care for myself. I recognise that there is a difference between doing this on a short term basis and doing it long term, but I don't think the fact I have poor mental health should mean I will automatically fail at these things.

So there you go. I am not 100% sure I have really said what I wanted to but I've done my best. My basic point is simply that as a woman I already face a lot of pressure and judgement about my choices regarding parenthood. When you also factor in the fact that I'm mentally ill that seems to increase a whole load. And I don't think that's fair or right. Having lived with mental illness for a long time I'm much better equipped to judge how it affects my abilities and choices than a stranger.

So believe, if I ever decide the time is right to have a child I will have considered all of these points and more at great length. I will have weighed up the risks and done everything in my power to reduce them, as will the person who decides to become a parent with me.

Today I have been thinking about racism, sexism and other isms

It's difficult to think of yourself as someone who could discriminate against somebody else unfairly yet it's important to understand that this is something we're all capable of and have probably done at some point in our lives. Harder still to think that we might be doing it right now or will do it in the future. Yet to my mind it's really important to be aware that we can, to be concious of this possibility. How else are we going to catch ourselves thinking or behaving in ways that need to be challenged or changed?

Let me explain. In this instance I'm going to be using racism as the example. I grew up and live in a big city in the UK. I have friends and acquaintances of many different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. I certainly don't think of myself as a racist. I do however live in a society where racism is sadly endemic, a part of my culture and background that I've absorbed without even being aware of it.

Growing up, some of my close friends were subjected to racism. I've seen them called names for the colour of their skin and I've defended them. Even as a child it upset me when I witnessed such behaviour and I can't remember a time I didn't know it was wrong. But racism isn't only present when it shows itself so openly. It's a subtle pervasive thing.

As a teenager and young adult, walking down the road alone at night I was often quite anxious about being followed or harassed. I had good reason, it was something that had happened to me on more than one occasion. What it took me a while to realise and address was the fact that if I came across men of colour my anxiety jumped up a notch, in a way that it didn't when I was faced with a white man or even a group of white men. Why? Because at some point I had internalised and taken to heart the idea that men of colour were more dangerous than white men.

Where did that idea come from? No one in my family had taught me such a thing, but the general media did. Conversations at school with my friends did. I certainly wasn't alone with that fear. Yet I had no evidence to support it. Sure, it was all too easy to remember the times men of colour had followed me for a while in their car cat calling and making suggestive comments. Why did I find it so hard to bring to mind the time a white guy followed me all the way home doing the same thing?

I was raped in my teens by a boyfriend, who happened to be black. So that might have accounted for some of my anxiety. Only, I experienced sexual violence on a far more regular basis at the hands of my white father. I was sexually assaulted at school by two school mates, one white and one black. I was raped by an ex boyfriend in my late teens who was white. I had a stalker for a few years, he was white. Our house was broken into several times. On all but one occasion there was at least one white person involved. In fact, most of the objectionable or dangerous behaviour I've been subjected to the perpetrator was white. Yet my anxiety still increased when faced with the prospect of walking past or in front of men of colour.

This is racism, pure and simple. It might have been happening on an unconscious level but it was still there, still present. Once I realised what was going on I then had to work to change it. I had to confront myself with the facts every time I was faced with that situation and eventually, after several months it worked. It was only by being concious of what I was doing and what must be behind it that I was able to alter my thinking.

I had to do something similar in regards to my anxiety and paranoia around strange men in general, but that's digressing slightly from the point. The point is that recognising my racism in this instance wasn't comfortable. It didn't make me feel good about myself and the temptation to try and justify it, or ignore it as something I couldn't change was huge. I didn't though because I like to think of myself as a good person, and to my mind good people confront their prejudice and deal with it.

In terms of sexism, I've experienced similarly sexist ways of thinking and have tried to challenge them too. I still remember the times I felt uncomfortable around girls who didn't wear make-up or like clothes shopping because I had no idea what to talk to them about. The days before I realised that other girls were in fact people, just like me and might therefore have a white variety of interests outside of their appearance. I didn't find myself lost for topics of conversations with my male classmates, who I never discussed make-up with so it was silly to be limiting myself when it came to chatting with the female ones. I've been guilty in the past of thinking that if I ever became a wheelchair user I'd be miserable and hate my life. That was something I wasn't even aware of really thinking until I first got to know a wheel chair user and found myself being surprised at how happy they were. That there is disablism.

This is why I think it's so important to be aware of the potential we all hold to discriminate, to hold prejudices we're and let them affect our thinking and behaviour. It's important to fight this when we see it in other people, when we realise it happens on an institutional and societal level. I just think it's equally important to challenge and fight it within ourselves. It is not possible to live in a society which holds such prejudice without absorbing some of it ourselves. If we really want a society free of these things then we ourselves need to be free of them and that's only going to happen if we avoid falling into the trap of thinking it's impossible for us be prejudiced.