Little ADD Things: If I can’t see it, I forget it exists

There are several things that I often say. I apologise too much, I say “isn’t it” a fair amount, and I blurt out nonsense whenever I catch sight of an animal. (“You’re a great dog yes you are yes you are!”) One of the things I’ve said a lot recently is “Sorry, if I can’t see something I forget it’s there.”
I’ve come to realise this is pretty central to my experience of having a weird brain, but I figured I’d note it down – along with the strategies I use now – in case it helps anyone else. It’s pretty embarrassing to admit, but I doubt I’m the only one.
I need to have things around me that I use, or am working on. I like to have things out because once those things are put away, I forget they exist.
This goes for projects, whether creative or schoolwork. When I’m working on something, I like to be immersed in it; but once the project work is tidied away into folders I’m liable to forget it’s important. And as soon as I forget, I move on to something else.
I like the project to be visible and present. Whenever I research organisational skills, I find the suggestion “Put sticky notes up around your room! Put reminders up!” But reminders didn’t work for me, because they quickly fade into the background.
The best thing for me, generally, is just to have the project itself be as visible as possible.
When I was working on my dissertation, I had the document with my draft in it constantly up on my laptop. I also had the contents page, the notes page, and a list of sources to look at. I had a browser window open, where my research was tabbed and bookmarked. I had the books and notes out, too, so all in all I couldn’t walk in my room or open my laptop without being reminded that I was on deadline and should schedule a research trip.
I figured out I needed to do this because I previously procrastinated for four months and did no dissertation work whatsoever. I had some notes in a folder saved in a corner of my laptop, and that was it. But once I started working on it, and the project became visible and ever-present, my brain clicked into action. “Oh, this is important! Well, let’s do it!”
This all leads to some… eccentric habits, and odd situations. Like keeping all your clothes out on hangers, (because when you put them away in drawers you forget they are there). Or being surprised when you open a drawer and find an entire old project that you forgot about but for a brief time was the most important thing you’d ever done.
I got a new laptop last year through the disabilities programme at university, and had to have a ‘training session’ with an advisor. The advisor was horrified to see my Documents folder, which was a kind of bin for essays and other writing. It meant whenever I clicked on Documents, I could see everything I was working on at once. It was a kind of maelstrom of works in progress, completed essays, old poems, and article drafts.
“This is terrible.”
“But I like it this way,” I said.
“Put everything in folders,” she said. “Divide the folders by subject or topic.”
I practised saving documents neatly into the right folder for two weeks. After that I went back to saving files straight into the bin, with a sense of relief.
Having individual folders probably works for many people, but for me it was dreadful. I was a lot more likely to continue working on that important essay when it was the first thing I saw in Documents, not when it had been saved into the Japanese Art subject folder where I’d never look at it again.
I am not saying this is a perfect system, or even a good one. But this way the documents are alphabetised, and they’re out where I can see them. It’s like those people who have cluttered workspaces, but still know where everything is.
This also goes for books. I like Kindle because you can scroll through all the books you’re currently reading – all together! All in one place! – rather than having to hunt around to find all the books you’re reading. It even shows you where you’re up to with each book. Its layout is such that I feel comfortable saving books into folders and setting up reading lists.
I am still trying to find the perfect system. I’ve made great progress in minimising the amount of clutter in my room, tidying away anything unnecessary or unused and keeping the things that I use visible in my living space. But like everything else, it’s a never-ending work in progress.

Top 5 shy women artists

It’s hard sometimes, being a woman artist. We don’t get called “poetesses” any more or have to write under male pseudonyms like the Brontes, but if you read the comments on any interview with a woman writer most of them will probably be about her looks rather than her books.
Women artists get judged a lot on their personas, too. If you’re confident and egotistical you’re criticised for being “too much”, but the quiet and reserved JK Rowling has been attacked for being “cold”. So as an antidote to this weirdness, here’s my celebration of shy, quiet, introverted, reserved women artists.
I’ve missed out Emily Dickinson (who probably had social anxiety, and rarely left her room) only because she’s probably the poster woman for shy female artists. Here’s my top five:

1. JK Rowling

JK Rowling doesn’t need an introduction: the author of Harry Potter is one of the richest and most famous women in the world, adored by millions of people. But she has a surprisingly low public profile, and the first time I heard a radio interview with her it struck me how soft-spoken she is. This wonderful article explores how Ms Rowling has been criticised for her quietness and reserve (Gawker’s Caity Weaver wrote that it made you “not want to hang out” with JK Rowling). JK Rowling is an affirmation to shy, introverted women writers everywhere.

2. Dora Carrington
StracheyCarrington.jpg
Known as Carrington, she was a painter and decorative artist who was friends with the Bloomsbury Group after World War One, and had a long and probably platonic relationship with the gay writer Lytton Strachey. Although she is often seen as a hanger-on around more famous people, Carrington was a distinguished artist in her own right, and her paintings hang in the Tate to this day.
Carrington was a tomboyish, bisexual woman who was painfully shy. The artist was self-conscious and often found it easier to communicate with animals than people; she “suffered from physical awkwardness, turning her feet in and hanging her head”.*

3. Alice Walker

Alice Walker is an American author and activist, known for her novel The Color Purple and other works dealing with themes like racism, equal rights, abuse and redemption. On being asked if she “screams the truth”, she replied “I never scream and I think that silence is the best way to get real attention.”
As a child, Walker was shot in the eye with a BB gun fired by her brother. When a layer of scar tissue formed over the wounded eye, she became painfully shy and self-conscious. The scar tissue was removed when she was 14 and she later became valedictorian and was voted queen of her senior class. She says that she drew value from her injury when she realised it had allowed her to begin “really to see people and things, really to notice relationships and to learn to be patient enough to care about how they turned out”.

4. Regina Spektor

Regina Spektor is a Russian Jewish American composer, pianist and songwriter. She is probably best known for her radio hits like ‘Fidelity’ and ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’, but has composed thousands of songs. A CNN profile said that “in person, the classically trained pianist is shy and soft spoken”. Spektor tours a lot, but keeps a low public profile and rarely shares much about her personal life; she sometimes releases interviews, but seems to prefer staying in the background and out of the public eye.

5. Ali Smith

Ali Smith is a Scottish writer and the author of short stories and novels, such as Hotel World, The Accidental, and How to Be Both (which recently won the Baileys Prize). She creates beautiful, playful, inventive fiction which explores themes like love, loss, and justice.
Ali Smith has described herself as “quite shy” and prefers to talk about her work in interviews, rather than herself. A Guardian profile said: “Smith has always believed that an author must remain as anonymous as possible or risk impeding the fiction for her readers. Too much biographical information “diminishes the thing that you do” she says. “You have to remain invisible.””

*Virginia Woolf’s Women, Vanessa Curtis, 2014

Videogames bring out my weird aggressive side, and I love it

My piece on videogaming and alternate personalities, for the lovely Banderola!

the Banderola

(Credit: http://www.geforce.co.uk/games-applications/pc-games/civilization-v) (Credit: http://www.geforce.co.uk/games-applications/pc-games/civilization-v)

written by Zozi

Both of my brothers are gamers. Whenever I mention videogames to my little brother, he fixes me with a weary and cynical eye. “Yes, but you’ve only ever liked two games,” he says. “The Sims and Civilization.”

To keep the upstart in his place, I remind him that I remember the dawn of the Internet age, when we played The Crystal Rainforest and I got Encarta as a present. “I remember when not every child in our class had a computer,” I thunder. “You weren’t even born then.” I feel like an old woman of the hills, complaining about this new-fangled electricity.

He is right, though. I don’t buy new videogames (unless you count upgrades of games I own). I respect that videogames are an art form, but I use them for escapism and not to challenge or push myself. So I fit…

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On writing about mental health and exploring vulnerability

Last year I wrote a post where I declared:

“One problem with [media] presentations of mental illness is that they assume everyone’s problems will be helped by the same techniques. More importantly, the issue is always placed firmly in the past tense: “I was anxious, but then I…”

I’ve been writing this blog for ten months now and it’s taught me a few things: like, writing about mental health is hard. Sometimes you just have to crack on and do it.
Since writing that post I’ve definitely hit a temptation to place experiences in the past tense. “Should I write that my anxiety is flaring up? Should I be open about my intrusive thoughts? Or should I couch it in general terms?”
Sometimes this tension occurs because it’s hard to write from the centre of ongoing experience. You end up removing yourself from your writing, however autobiographical it looks. But then I find the more of myself I put in a post, the more people enjoy it, and I still don’t know why.
One thing I do know is that whilst I use my experiences to write about mental health and disability, the blog isn’t dedicated to documenting my issues. I don’t really like people using my blog to check up on me personally, because I think the content of my writing is more important than whatever it says about me.
The paradox is that I write openly, so I have to remember that my life is not public domain and I am under no obligation to share everything.
I once saw the poet Warsan Shire read, and I remember the room went quiet. There were gasps and some tears. By the end of the reading I had heard exquisite poems that explored vulnerabilities and trauma, but I knew as much about Shire herself as I had at the start.
Nor did I feel I needed to know. That’s not what her work is for.
Some people are keen on investigating the hidden autobiographical meanings in confessional poetry and this is because the poet has played a trick. They’ve confessed, but they haven’t told you everything – and why should they? Vulnerability is a precious thing which should be handled with great care.
The compulsion to overshare in public can be cathartic, but it’s also addictive. We live in a culture where women’s suffering is frequently consumed as entertainment. In that environment I know I must take responsibility for my own experiences, and take control of what I share.
And lastly, that leads me to Liz Jones.
Much as I hate the Daily Mail, I like its journalist Liz Jones: she’s a good writer, albeit highly problematic. She has written openly about topics like her anorexia and OCD, her body image issues, and her self-hatred.
Last time I looked, the comments on her pieces were a mix of vitriol and concern. Liz Jones was mad, she was ugly, she needed help and the editors should intervene. It was like seeing a crowd watching someone having a breakdown.
My thoughts:
1) How awful to see someone’s suffering packaged as a fun lifestyle column to entertain readers.
2) It was brave of this writer to share private experiences, and a shame that she was stuck with an audience of Daily Mail readers.
3) What was drawing me, as a reader? Was it a negative fascination with Ms Jones herself, or was it that I had a nagging feeling she might be playing a trick – leading readers to believe everything she said was confessional, and then possibly making things up?
4) Was I complicit in suffering as spectacle? After all, it doesn’t matter what you think about a crowd if you’re part of it.
So I stopped reading.
I have no easy answers to these questions. But I admire anyone who writes from a place of vulnerability, who writes of unpopular experiences, who opens their wounds in writing. I just hope that vulnerability can be handled with care, not exploited by other people.
Lastly my thoughts on this are summed up in Jenny’s Diski’s piece ‘In Defence of Liz Jones’ and I suggest you read it in its entirety:

“I couldn’t see what the universally abominated Liz Jones… had done wrong… She was making a very personal statement about what it was like to be someone who continuously experienced life as not worth living…
In a world that didn’t demand an upbeat ending to every story, she might have been thought to be offering a real insight into a long-term depressive’s point of view. Other people in her condition (I’m one of them), seeing the way she’d been attacked, might conclude that it was better not to talk about their experience, for all that society presently tells itself that it is vital for people to express their feelings.”

Thoughts about thinking

On being illogical
Once I got in trouble at school. I was pulled aside by a fearsome teacher who bellowed at me “YOUR PROBLEM IS THAT YOU CAN’T THINK PROPERLY!” I was sixteen at the time. I still don’t know what she meant.
Actually, this teacher was constantly telling me off for the illogical way I thought. (She once told me that sometimes I “bordered on lunacy”.) This is because grammar schools like logical thinkers, not scatty maladaptive daydreamers.
Anyway, a while ago it struck me that maybe I don’t think properly.
I’d just finished writing an opinion at the time. Looking at what I’d written, it hit me that this was apparently something I thought – but I didn’t
know I thought it, until I wrote it down.
I am very suggestible; I can convince myself of anything. Sometimes arguments about abstract topics don’t feel real to me, so I pick the side that seems least bad. Later on, I see a contradiction of the position I chose and realise that I should think that instead. I am at best thinking about things that involve real situations and people, rather than solving abstract logical problems.
I wrote in my notebook:

“Maybe I don’t really think – I just seem to absorb ideas and sensations and arrange my impressions somehow. (But then, isn’t that just another way of thinking? It is just not the trad. academic way, where you have very verbal and linear thought processes.)”

In Philosophy lessons, I always preferred discussing moral questions to solving logical ones. Ethical questions are so complex and many-sided that it was more fun to explore them, through narrative, questions and discussion, than to ‘solve’ them.
Perhaps this is because I was raised Christian. When Christians answer ethical questions they work from a firm moral foundation, which gives them confidence to approach the question from all angles and admit it if they don’t know the answer. But then, that’s not at all exclusive to Christianity.
Perhaps it’s because I seem to understand ethical problems best through narrative, not logic.

Unbalanced brains
When I had my ADHD assessment I tested highly on verbal comprehension, reading accuracy, spelling, and working memory. That made sense because I know I can write, analyse books, comprehend complex texts, and play around with words.
In contrast to that, I scored much lower on remembering sequences, and on processing speed.
The clinical psychologist told me I have a processing delay. That explained why I sometimes see something happen and take a minute to understand what I saw. It also explained why I was branded “slow” in school, despite simultaneously being labelled “gifted”.

A superior way of thinking?
Society prioritises a certain kind of thought. Logical, linear thought, rationality, and set opinions are valued over intuition, making connections, vision, sensing, receptivity, pattern recognition, faith, and observation.
The qualities I listed second are often seen as being fuzzy, imprecise, inferior ways to think. But I’d contest that qualities like intuition and sensing can be extremely precise and useful skills.
Take music: a good conductor should have a painfully acute ear, and must be able to sense the ebbing and flowing energy in a performance and pick out any mistakes immediately. They must observe every aspect of a performance. Most musicians can hear music in their head, and have a strong sense of beauty.
Learning the science of music requires logic, yes, but music requires all your abilities. Pattern recognition and sensing are vital to music, and other disciplines too. We undervalue those skills greatly.

Intellectualism
Let’s talk about the way Western society worships ‘cleverness’: which is basically seen as the ability to do maths and science, memorise a lot of information, problem-solve, and win arguments. In some circles, every issue must be up for debate (however sensitive), and being emotionally invested in a position is simply weird.
This attitude is based in a very white, Western, masculine conception of thought, which is itself rooted in structural oppression and prejudice. It was held for centuries that women are more intuitive, emotional, prone to hysteria and incapable of logic, whilst men were naturally more rational. (Those views are still being aired.) White supremacists also hold that other races are intellectually inferior and incapable of rational thought.
In this paradigm, white male = capable of rational thought, which makes you fully human (“I think, therefore I am.”) Anyone perceived to exist outside this bubble of rational thought must be less human. Rational thought has long been a trump card, held over the heads of people who are assumed to be inferior.

I am not saying that rational thought is Bad in itself; it can be used for great purposes, by people of any background. But I am saying that there is no superior thinking style, and that logic and rationality are perhaps overrated. Your way of thinking does not make you more or less human than anybody else. There is no inferior way to think!
Intuition, pattern recognition, sensing and emotion have long been seen as inferior to logic. How much of our prejudice against non-linear, intuitive thought is based on a bigoted view of thought?
That leads me on to my last point: that it’s ableist to worship logic.
I was 19 before I found out that some neurodivergent people find it hard to think in a linear, logical way. Before that I’d assumed being a good person and being rational were somehow the same thing, but neurodiversity advocates like Mel Baggs changed my perspective.
Much of Baggs’s writing is about hir thinking style, which is non-verbal and based on sensing and pattern recognition. Like many other Autistic people, sie is also preoccupied with ethics.
Being unable to think logically in the conventional way does not make someone wilfully ignorant, nor does logical ability necessarily make you a better person; you can build a logical argument to justify the most evil actions. Let’s not forget Aristotle and Plato argued logically for slavery, and 19th-century scientific racists thought their own arguments were highly rational. Thinking style has nothing to do with character or views.
However, different thinking styles have everything to do with people’s brains being wired differently, which makes for an interesting and diverse world.
So let’s not dislike ourselves for “not thinking properly”. Enjoy the way you think. It’s the only way you will ever know, and the world would be poorer without it.

Can you learn to love reading?

I have a young cousin who doesn’t like reading. She’ll open a book and read it to you, but after a minute you realise she’s making the story up or telling it from memory. Drag her through a text, word after word, and she quickly gets frustrated.
I’ve tutored other kids who felt similarly. They know how to read, but it’s such hard work – whether that’s because of learning disability, bad teaching, or any other reason. They have been taught to read; technically they know how to do it. But ask them questions about what they’ve read, and they go blank and shrug. To them, the page is full of traps. Reading is a horrible, grinding, plodding chore.
You can teach someone to read. But can you teach them to love reading? To read a book and understand and enjoy it? Plenty of people leave school knowing how to read, without learning to love reading. I’ve met educated adults who have never read a book for fun.
The latter always surprises me, but then I can’t remember when I didn’t read for pleasure. I thought reading was for pleasure, even though at school they said it was work.
Once I’d learned to read, I was unstoppable. When I was six my teacher phoned my parents and said wearily “We’ve run out of books for your daughter.” Dad asked if the school had a library. “She’s read the Junior Library,” the teacher replied.
Being a bookworm as a child is probably more fun than being one as an adult, because most adults aren’t really expected to read. No one will give you a gold star if you’ve read twenty books in a month. You don’t have to read for pleasure.
Why should you read for pleasure, anyway?
One could argue that reading is a necessary skill, and it doesn’t matter if you love reading so long as you can do it. You don’t have to love driving to drive a car. You don’t have to love maths to pay a bill. Reading for pleasure is just an extra.
To which my response is: what a drab, dry view of the world, where enjoying art is an extra! Where everyone reads the bare minimum only because they have to!
I think reading for pleasure is one of the best things anyone can do. Reading fiction helps you become more empathetic. Reading for pleasure puts children ahead in the classroom, it develops the mind, the imagination, and the heart.
And in daily life, we are now more than ever surrounded by words. On sites like tumblr and AO3, everyone is writing. Everyone is reading. Almost no one earns money from it. Why are we all doing this, if we’re not getting something out of it?
A love for reading is an advantage – albeit to the soul and not the wallet, although books in any format are less expensive than most hobbies. Capitalism doesn’t reward a love for reading, but then capitalism will only reward what is beneficial to itself, not what is beneficial to you.
Returning to my point: you can be taught how to read, but you can’t be taught how to love reading.
Not directly.
Good teachers can infect you with their enthusiasm for books. You can be put in the vicinity of a lot of books, which always helps.
But you’ve still got to sit down with the book and fight it out. You and the page. You and the author’s voice. You have to go forth and conquer.
To me, it seems people usually learn to love books by being… interested. There is no way to understate the amazing things humans can do if they are very interested in something. Take 
the author Sally Gardner:

I eventually ended up in a school for maladjusted children because there was no other school that would take me… I had been classified as “unteachable” but at the age of fourteen, when everyone had given up hope, I learned to read. The first book I read was “Wuthering Heights” and after that no one could stop me.

Then there’s the author Sue Townsend:

I was afraid of my primary-school teacher because, when we had to read out loud, she’d slap our legs if we got a word wrong. As a result I didn’t learn to read until I was eight, when I stayed at home ill… My mum brought a pile of Just William books home from a rummage sale and I taught myself to read with William—The Outlaw… Once I started to read, I never looked back.

I am not saying that being interested in something can always make you able to do it. What I am saying is that a love for reading cannot be taught, it is something you must discover for yourself. There are no short cuts, but plenty of rewards.
Virginia Woolf wrote:

“However we may wind and wriggle, loiter and dally in our approach to books, a lonely battle awaits us at the end. There is a piece of business to be transacted between writer and reader before any further dealings are possible.”*


*The Common Reader, Robinson Crusoe