My never-again weight, part 10

Welcome to my final #edrecovery blog post, and a heartfelt thank you for following me all this way. I decided to impose a 10 post limit on My never-again weight, even though in truth I could write far more expansively on both eating disorders and mental health issues. I think if I kept going indefinitely this would morph into an autobiography, and I’m nowhere near interesting enough to style out that level of narcissism.

Instead, I’m going to attempt to answer the big question: WHY? Why have I tortured my mind and body for twenty years under the tenuous medical banners of depression, Anorexia, Bulimia, EDNOS et al?

On paper, I am a textbook case. I am white, cisgender, bisexual, and middle class. I was an only child, and an academic over-achiever, placed a year ahead in school. I was a senior prefect and I won the school Latin prize. My parents divorced when I was 13. My stepfather was a rampantly abusive alcoholic. I could have been the incredibly depressing poster child for eating disorders. Anorexia Girl.

Anorexia Girl would be a terrible superhero. Her superpowers would be passing out at inopportune moments and making food disappear under mysterious circumstances. She’d appreciate hiding behind the mask and cape, but cry at the prospect of lycra. Her accessories would be a lone rice cake and a battered copy of Cosmopolitan, the thinspirational Bible.

Here’s the thing though: Cosmopolitan didn’t make me do it. I felt trapped, and needed control, so I micromanaged my diet and body as a way of bringing order to a life that was largely out of my hands. I never idolised catwalk models or supposedly glamorous celebrities. They weren’t my people, and I knew Photoshop existed. I recognised bullshit when I saw it.

Certain pop culture references did resonate with me. Manic Street Preachers lyrics. Girl, Interrupted. Cassie from Skins, who, when asked how she coped when life was fucked up, simply said “I stop eating until they take me to hospital.” I was – am – attracted to romanticised fictional portrayals of mental illness. The lost soul. The waif. The medicated version of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

Cassie didn’t make me do it either though. I was a desperately unhappy child, and I just needed something to cling to that was mine. I acted out in school to the point of expulsion. I rarely attended college. I self-harmed. I drank. I smoked. I stole. I fought. I took ALL the drugs. But disordered eating was always in the background of all of my antisocial teen delinquent behaviour. As the other coping mechanisms melted away, incompatible with university, work and basically growing the hell up, my issues with food settled in for the duration. They were the easiest to hide, and often their outward effects were outright praised. They were my comfort blanket. Now, and for every day for the rest of my life, I need to shrug off that blanket and pick up the damn fork. Eat. Live.

I never wanted to be a ballet dancer or a princess. I never dreamed of the perfect wedding day, followed a celebrity diet, or craved size zero jeans. There is no cookie-cutter Anorexia Girl. If eating disorders were ever truly the preserve of willowy over-privileged white teenagers, they certainly aren’t now.

They are a modern epidemic because they fit so neatly into modern life. Eating disorders are not the fault of narrow slices of pop culture, but they are a symptom of a society that mythologises self-discipline, control, and the impossible quest for perfection. Everyone scrolls through everyone else’s lives on their phones, beating themselves up for not being enough.

I can’t tell you how to fix that. My only sweeping, generalised advice is to be kinder. To others, in the attitude and language you adopt when talking about food and body image, but also to yourself. You’re probably an okay human. Most people are. Your life may not be particularly Instagrammable, but on the flip side you didn’t get stuck at Fyre Festival crying over soggy mattresses. I’ll leave you with that charming mental image. Perfection is a soggy-mattressed myth.

Thank you, again. 🖤

My never-again weight, part 9

Today, I weigh 47kg, and I have decided that this is my penultimate post. I am – as I mentioned back in part 1 – not recovered, but I’m a healthy weight, and it’s been over a year since my last binge/purge relapse.

Although I am historically a terrible judge of my own appearance, I like to think that I don’t look ill any more. Hopefully, if you met me for the very first time today, you wouldn’t have any reason to believe I have an eating disorder.

Yet at breakfast this morning, I had a complete breakdown over whether or not we should go into town for lunch.

I’m still scared of eating in public. On more than one occasion I’ve actually choked in the cinema, as I’m so self-conscious about chewing and swallowing at quiet points in the film that my throat seizes up.

In front of other people, I worry that I’m eating too quickly, too slowly, too much, not enough, and that everyone is judging me with every mouthful. I eat clumsily. My hands shake. I dread anyone approaching me. Talking to me. Touching me. Commenting on my choice of food. Add eating in public to my extensive list of fears. It’s right up there with sandwiches and Morris dancers.

I know it’s a cliché, but you never know what battles people are fighting in their own heads. Many friends have reached out to me since I’ve started writing about eating disorders, sharing similar thoughts and experiences, and for the most part I never would have guessed. If you’re not shockingly underweight, morbidly obese, or running to the bathroom every five minutes, then eating disorders are pretty easy to hide. I pride myself in being open and honest with people, but for years I carried this gigantic secret, only ever referring to it to a few chosen people in the most euphemistic of terms. My favourite was “bad food day”. When I told someone I couldn’t come out because I was having a “bad food day” it covered a multitude of hidden behaviours. Fasting. Bingeing. Purging. Laxative abuse. “Bad food day” was wonderfully vague. No one ever asked me to clarify the term, and me and my mess of a head were left alone to torture each other in peace.

After my relapse, I decided that the Eating Disorder service would do me more harm than good, but opted to continue the fortnightly weigh-ins with Simon. The weight gain was frustratingly slow at first. From January to June of 2018 I only went from 38.4kg to 40.3kg. Some mornings I cried at the thought of having to eat again. It didn’t seem fair when I’d only just eaten yesterday. The stress of eating was huge and constant, and the gains felt so tiny in comparison.

I tackled my fears as I went along. I decided that it was okay to be scared, to freak out, as long as I kept going. In my teens I weighed myself obsessively, so I still don’t keep scales at home, but I wrote down my weight after each appointment. By September I’d reached 43.2kg. By December, 45kg. One by one I ticked off the milestones; throwing out my smallest children’s clothes, reaching a healthy BMI, my jeans fitting again, my advent calendar.

I still have mornings when I put off getting in the shower because I don’t want to look at myself naked. I still frequently break down in front of the mirror. On the flip side, I’ve totally mastered eating chocolate.

In addition to sandwiches, Morris dancers, and eating in public, I’m scared of supermarkets, pizza, spiders, pastry, cake, having my photo taken, being called fat, being called crazy, rice, pasta, pancakes, oil, calorie counts, avocados, and other people’s dietary advice. Above all, I’m scared of relapsing.

These are my fears, tell me yours. Or rather, tell SOMEONE yours. I promise it will help. 🖤

My never-again weight, part 8

According to the eternal horror that is Facebook Memories, this photo was posted a year ago today. The Tank Girl tshirt’s legit, but I’m clearly exhausted. If you look closely, my watch is hanging off my wrist. It was a 30th birthday present, adjusted at the time to fit me exactly. In the photo above, it fell to halfway down my forearm whenever I raised my hand.

This was around the time of my final – to date – binge/purge relapse, caused directly by the Eating Disorder service.

It pains me to say that. I work for the NHS. I’m fiercely proud to do so. At 70 years old it’s a tad creaky in places, but it’s full of loyal, dedicated and selfless humans trying their best regardless. It has also, if you refer back to part 5 of this blog, saved my life twice already, even when I didn’t want it to and was a super-sarcastic bitch about it. I did, however, promise myself to tell you the truth. I refuse to add to the online repository of rose-tinted recovery journey stories. If you want pretty pictures, stick to Instagram.

My first contact from the ED service was a letter berating me for missing my appointment.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

As I mentioned before, I didn’t really want the ED referral in the first place. I was already determined, with the help and support of my husband, friends, family and nurse, to work towards a healthy weight. Having said that, I was scared that if I didn’t cooperate, then the GP would push towards hospital admission.

So, even though the Kafkaesque first letter upset me greatly, I contacted the service by text. I explained that they had probably tried to call me, but I was deaf.

I resisted saying STILL DEAF. I really was trying to cooperate.

I was offered an appointment, but it clashed with training at work. I wasn’t ready, at that stage, to talk openly about exactly why I needed time off for treatment, so I asked for an alternative date straight away. I was given one, a mere two days after the first appointment slot they offered.

Not bad, right? A shaky start with that letter, but resolved relatively quickly and sensibly. I actually had high hopes for that first appointment.

The day before I was scheduled to attend, they texted to cancel due to unavoidable staffing issues.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

I’d been gearing myself up for the appointment, and it was quite a blow, but I took it in my now slightly shaken stride and asked to reschedule.

The answer was no. It had now been too long since my initial blood tests and ECG, and I would need to get them done again before I could be given a new appointment.

I told them politely that I didn’t want to pursue the matter any further. I locked myself in the toilet at work and cried hysterically. I already felt like I’d spent the last six weeks constantly scheduling and attending appointments for tests, results and referrals. I couldn’t face the prospect of repeating everything just to tick their boxes.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

About a week later, another letter from the ED service arrived. It said that I had repeatedly cancelled appointments and was now refusing treatment, and that my GP had been informed.

This. This was the point that I relapsed.

I was so angry that I couldn’t stop shaking as I tore the letter into tiny pieces and buried it deep in our recycling bin. It felt like gaslighting, making me look and feel crazy and uncooperative to cover up their own failings. Quite frankly, anorexia made me feel batshit enough already. I didn’t need any extra help from them.

I binged and purged for six hours straight. I was ill for two days afterwards. I was also £50 poorer.

The shame of the memory is knotting my stomach and tightening my chest as I type. I was petrified that I would spiral straight back down into my old habits. I didn’t tell anyone about the relapse. I couldn’t.

I’m telling you now because I didn’t spiral, either by bingeing again or by running back to the safety of restricting. The binge was an isolated incident. A bump in the road, not a gaping sinkhole.

Life continued around me and, somehow, I gradually rejoined it. The fear and the guilt lessened. Recovery is not linear, but it is possible.

Tonight, Gareth and I are having one of our Chinese Takeaway Pyjama Parties. This is one of my favourite new traditions. I can’t unlearn all my old, destructive thought patterns around food, but I can forge new patterns, create new memories. A year on from my last relapse, I can be proud of how far I’ve come.

I have a new Lilo & Stitch nightshirt. As Stitch – and Gareth – say, our family is little and broken, but it’s still good.

My never-again weight, part 7

“Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

I know, I know. It’s one of the standard screening questions. I just couldn’t resist.

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

At this point I doubt I tipped the scales at 40kg soaking wet. I’d been asked to wear an underwire-free bra on the day of the bone scan, and I’d resorted to Marks & Spencer’s children’s department to find one that fitted. The new set was stripy dark blue and neon pink lycra, and I secretly loved it, because the underwires on all my bras had been digging into and bruising my ribs.

The women in my family tend to live forever; my exceedingly Scottish paternal great-grandmother made it to 106, and told me the secret to longevity was whisky and shortbread. I was extremely nervous though, because we have a strong family history of osteoporosis and arthritis. My mother had two hip replacements before her 60th birthday. By adding anorexia to that genetic cocktail, I was probably lucky I hadn’t broken a bone or two already.

The nurse fixed me with a hard stare of positively Paddington proportions.

“Have you had a fall recently?”

Oof, totally deserved that one. I felt like I’d just gone from 33 to 83 in a single question. It hardly seemed fair that both queries were necessary, like still getting spots when you already had wrinkles.

“No, this was just booked at the same time as the ED referral.”

Her hard stare softened, and she explained the scanning process to me. It took about 10 minutes, and the scan itself was similar to x-rays, using blocks under my legs to manoeuvre them and my hips into optimal scanning positions.

The results came back two weeks later. I have osteopenia, which is only funny because it has the word PEEN in it. It’s decreased bone density, the precursor to osteoporosis, and I definitely should not have it in my thirties. Add it to the giant list of gross ED side effects. To combat it, I take calcium and vitamin D supplements every morning alongside my daily multivitamin. If I’m lucky the supplements combined with the weight I’ve gained back should help reverse its effects. In the meantime, I probably shouldn’t go skiing.

I can take pills in the morning now, for the first time since my teens, because I don’t throw up any more. This is one of my new GOOD habits, but I still struggle to differentiate between healthy and unhealthy behaviours.

Here’s an example: taking vitamins before breakfast every day is GOOD. Eating breakfast every day is GOOD.

Eating exactly the same breakfast every day at exactly the same time is BAD. Using the same plate, knife and fork every day is BAD. Attempting to find the thinnest slice of bread in the loaf to toast is BAD. Attempting to calculate the exact calorie content of my breakfast is BAD.

See? It’s not even 8am.

I should mention, at this point, that my partner Gareth has been instrumental in my recovery. I know a lot of people were rather amused that I married a BOY, or even that I got married at all, but all I did was promise to love my best friend forever. His never-ending patience, even at my never-again weight, has been my lifeline. He has helped me establish new traditions, and taught me to start having fun with food.

I’m still scared of shopping, cooking and meal-planning. I still panic when I find out exactly how many calories there are in what I’m eating. I throw away packaging without reading it so I won’t obsess. I bury it deep in the kitchen bin so, much like rejected food when I was restricting, I won’t fish it back out again.

Thanks to Gareth, I eat homemade meals every day, and I eat them at regular but not exact times. The cutlery varies, and I have a new collection of creepy cat plates, from the charity shops of Hove. Most of them state quite clearly on the back that they are works of art, and not suitable for food consumption. I revel in the middle class anarchy.

There can still be a huge disconnect between knowing I should eat something and actually putting it in my mouth, but again, I’m working on it. Day by day, mouthful by mouthful.

I started to open up about the ongoing mess inside my head at the fortnightly weigh-ins with Simon. It was therapeutic without ever being officially therapy. I was still waiting for my ED appointment – more on that in part 8 – and appreciated his help.

“Any plans tonight?”

“Dinner and UFC. I’d like to get back into boxing again myself one day.”

“Ha! Not with your bones!”

Simon never pulled his punches. 😁🥊

My never-again weight, part 6

This has been an eventful week for me, so I’ll return to the bone scan and ED referral next weekend in part 7.

The photo above was taken exactly a year after the scary lollipop-head shot attached to part 1. In it, I am 46.4kg, in contrast to part 1’s 38.4kg. My BMI is 18.8, and I am no longer underweight. By less than a kilogram, but it still counts.

Christmas stressed the hell out of me, with its relentless onslaught of food and sugary alcohol. I dreaded a binge/purge relapse. I dreaded putting on weight. I dreaded losing weight. There was, in short, a whole lotta dread.

In the midst of it all, my mini victory was my posh vegan advent calendar from Hotel Chocolat. I ate it in the socially acceptable manner of one door/chocolate a day for the first time in…well, ever. I actually enjoyed the ritual of it, without getting obsessive or controlling. In previous years, my poor advent calendars had all been abused terribly. As a child, I cheated, removing the plastic tray insert so I could steal future days’ chocolates while leaving the cardboard door perforations intact. As an adult, I would inhale them in one swift, mechanical sitting as part of a binge, or throw them in the bin and cover them with bleach so I wouldn’t be tempted to fish them back out again. It was, literally, all or nothing.

I have wasted countless thousands of pounds of food over the years in this manner. I can’t stand waste now. Rotting food makes me angry. Leftovers make me anxious. Full fridges and cupboards are still mesmerising and terrifying in equal measure. On bad days, I can stare into them for HOURS. So, as you can imagine, that week between Christmas and New Year was a minefield. I sewed until my fingers blistered to keep my hands busy.

Afterwards, I started this blog, to remind myself how far I’d come, and to explore the feelings that I still have left to conquer.

On Tuesday, I had my first appointment with Jane, the not-Simon nurse. She’s sympathetic but brusque, which is a brilliant level for me. I’m pleased to say that I put on a tiny bit of weight over Christmas. I had my first tattoo appointment of the year yesterday too; five hours on my ribs and back, aided by homemade barbecue jackfruit and Nakd bars. I joked that I was the only person in the world who was celebrating keeping their Christmas weight on throughout January.

When you are in the unusual position of trying to gain weight, you become especially attuned to the collective cultural obsession with losing it. I spend my life throwing away packaging now. I don’t want to know how many calories are in the damn thing. I just want to eat it.

January is the pinnacle of this. Diets, detoxes, and new year/new me resolutions are ubiquitous. Teaching yourself to eat again in a world that berates you for doing so can be very lonely, but living in the grip of an eating disorder is infinitely worse. You are constantly hiding and lying, wracked with shame, guilt, remorse and self-loathing. Losing weight is not the most impressive thing a human can do. I just need to remember that, and keep going. 🖤

My never-again weight, part 5

I took my second paracetamol overdose just over four years ago. Sometimes, when I’m really upset and anxious, I can still taste the activated charcoal.

I spent three days in hospital on a glucose drip, panicking about how many calories were in it. I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I spent most of the time reading Solar by Ian McEwan. When a well-meaning nurse came round on the third morning and asked me how the book was, I told her it was so dull I’d tried to kill myself instead of finishing it.

I was being a total dick.

I was discharged after my blood tests revealed my liver function was, according to the consultant, “better than it had any right to be”. In my psych assessment, I told them that trying to commit suicide had been painful and boring, and I wasn’t planning on doing it again any time soon.

I left the hospital by myself, walked the two and a half miles home, then binged. I was angry at being alive, and figured that if I couldn’t kill myself quickly, I could at least still do it slowly.

At the depths of my depression, I binged and purged at least once a day, and often more, for hours at a time. It was, much like the overdose, painful and boring. It was also so expensive that I couldn’t afford to do anything else. I would extend my overdraft on my phone while walking to the supermarket as it opened at 7am. I binged and purged and worked and slept. Those were some of my darkest days.

Later, as the depression lifted and I was able to go a few days at a time without bingeing, killing myself slowly became a worry rather than a goal. My mouth tasted of acid and was plagued with ulcers. The constant over-expansion of my stomach bruised my ribs while the laxatives gave me debilitating cramps. Some days, I struggled to stand. The after-effects of each episode lasted longer and longer. Much like hangovers and comedowns get worse as you get older, what my body could bounce back from at 16 was beating it to death at 31.

Unfortunately, none of the ED assessments ever showed the full story. With the exception of a “slight heart murmour” on an ECG at 15, I’d never been so much as anaemic. I was, in my own ridiculous way, highly-functioning. When I ate, I ate a relatively balanced diet. I had a penchant for fortified children’s food, and I took vitamins and medication at night, when I wouldn’t throw them back up. My hair never fell out. I never fainted in public. In many respects, I slipped under the radar for far too long.

For years, this was a secret pride of mine, that I was somehow cheating the system. Even when I broke free of the binge/purge cycle and Anorexia took hold completely, I knew I would mostly look fine on paper.

At my never-again weight, my heart and liver function were still normal. My hormone levels were rock bottom, but I wasn’t deficient in anything else. My Anorexia-voice squealed in delight, but I had to ignore her. I had, by that point, lost feeling in my knees.

At my first “weight management” appointment with Simon, I had put on half a kilogram. At the time, that felt monumental. My plan was threefold: to stop losing weight, to put it on slowly and healthily, and to start enjoying food for the first time since puberty. I remember my greatest achievement that fortnight was eating a sherbert lemon and only being briefly incapacitated by the shame.

Next on the list was the bone scan, which is where I’ll pick up again next weekend.

Today, I am not underweight, but I do still suffer from some long-term side effects of disordered eating. I have a mouth full of very expensive dentistry and my digestive system is unpredictable at best. I also have a head full of bad memories and associations that I’m still trying to work through and unpick.

I’m still scared of sandwiches.

I feel like I should end this on a happier note, so I’ve added a photo of Gareth and I at the Ritter Sport flagship store and Museum in Berlin, in November 2018. Chocolate and Gareth have both been instrumental in my recovery, and I am eternally thankful for both of them. Gareth made me cinnamon porridge for breakfast this morning, and I added chocolate and raisins.

I have no idea how many calories were in it. I don’t care.

Burn After Lip-Reading

Remember Ferris Bueller’s tuneless squawking on the clarinet, followed by that proud “Never had one lesson!” announcement to the fourth wall? Well, that’s me and lip-reading. I’m crap at it. Honestly, staggeringly awful. Amazing really, because I’ve relied on it for basic human interaction for the best part of thirty years.

As I’ve been partially deaf all my life, I picked up lip-reading naturally. Unfortunately, without formal training to consolidate my skills, I have literally no idea what I’m doing. Here’s my understanding of lip-reading:

1. I stare at your face intently while you’re talking.
2. Some sparkly unicorn fart magic happens.
3. I can understand most of what you say until you cover your mouth.

Trying to explain it any further would be like describing walking. You never have to think about it, and as soon as you do you trip over your own feet like the first victim in a ’70s slasher film.

If you muted the TV when the news was being read, I could translate the odd word or so. If you gave me the context of the bulletin, I could probably pick out some complete phrases, but that’s with a walking Autocue who’s paid to spout RP directly into a camera. Real life is much messier, and how much lip-reading helps fluctuates wildly.

Oh, and it’s exhausting. Sparkly unicorn fart magic must burn a dickload of calories.

Now, a short story:

In my first semester at university, one of the lecturers took me aside at the end of a seminar to talk about my “attitude problem”. I was confused because I really liked him; he taught development theory, and was bitter about having to commute from Peckham to teach over-privileged turds like me. I’d actually turned up to every single one of his classes, even though the SU bar was open during one of them, and a double vodka was only £1.60.

When I looked hurt, he elaborated.

“You’re always trying to stare me down. It’s very intimidating.”

“I’m sorry, I’m deaf. I’m lip-reading. You’re supposed to have been told.”

He frowned and shuffled through his class notes, looking for the register.

“It says here you’re dyslexic.”

“Not even close,” I snapped. “I can spell ‘phenomenology’, I just need to be looking at you when you say it.”

Once he realised I wasn’t planning to stab him in a conveniently deserted corridor, we lived sort of happily ever after, in that I got a Sociology degree I never use, and he probably still lives in Peckham.

This, however, is a perfect illustration of the big problem with lip-reading. If you fixate on someone’s mouth, they assume you want to fight them. Or fuck them. Occasionally both.

Sometimes I do, but usually I’m just trying to work out what the fuck they just asked me. If we’re in a loud pub and alcohol has been added to the equation, that can take me an extra couple of seconds to piece together. By the time I reply, I come off as flirty, aggressive AND stupid. The holy trifecta of bar fights. It’s a wonder I got out of my twenties alive.

Next week: why being deaf doesn’t make me special. Well, except to my Mum. Hi Mum!

Deaf Becomes Her

Before Channel 4 broadcast The Undateables, I’d honestly never considered myself as such. For the blissfully ignorant, The Undateables is a point-at-the-freaks dating documentary series, which has been running since 2012. It’s an often all too literal take on Blind Date, without our dearly departed Cilla to soften the cringeworthiness. If I went on it, I could call it deafsploitation. No, I’m never going on it.

When they launched The Undateables, all the PR bumf quoted a 2008 Observer Sex Poll, the results of which were so galling that they’ve stayed with me to this day:

“Seventy per cent of Britons would not consider having sex with someone who had a physical disability. Just over one in four would not rule out the possibility, while only four per cent have actually had sex with someone with a physical disability.”

Imagine, if you will, how devastating that opening sentence was to me the first time I read it. In my consummate naïveté, I had never factored my hearing aids into my personal pros and cons list. I thought my biggest barriers to bagging a beau were my wonky nose and dodgy sense of humour. And yet, there it was. 70% of people wouldn’t even consider a deaf dalliance.

I joked at the time that the judgmental majority were doing me a favour, skimming themselves off the top of my dating pool like dead bugs. And I do try to stay positive about such things, really. I’m so positive that if I stand still for too long, electrons flock to me.

No, wait, that’s asshats. I always get the two confused.

I guess the problem is that if you skim 70% off the top of your pool, then it’s not really a pool any more. It’s a puddle. And if you live somewhere as incestuous as Brighton, then it’s a really murky puddle. With hippies in it.

Despite my jokes, I mooned over my murky puddle for a good month after reading that poll. Then I dragged myself out of the sludge, determined to skew the final 4% statistic. I don’t hide my deafness from potential partners, but I won’t make an issue out of it either. I treat it as one of the many tiny considerations you have to take into account when dating someone. I’m deaf, but I also love Italian horror films and tattoos and disturbing dystopian fiction. I’m vegetarian, but I hate hiking. Actually, I’m suspicious of nature in general. I will kick your ass at Time Crisis and Scrabble, but I’m terrified of heights and Morris dancers. I own 930 DVDs, but I’ve never managed to sit all the way through The Shawshank Redemption.

I am disabled, but I am still a whole person. And if only 30% of people can accept that? Well I’ll take that 30% and go drinking and dancing with THEM. And our party will be the loudest on the street, because that’s what happens when you let the deaf girl near the sound system.

The full Observer Sex Poll 2008 can be found HERE. Next week: why lip-reading spells nothing but trouble.

Things to Do in Brighton When You’re Deaf

Hi. My name’s Emma, and I’m deaf.

I needed to get that out of the way, because it’s incredibly difficult to broach the subject in real life. When your disability is invisible, divulging it to new people lies somewhere between the strictly factual:

“Hi, my name’s Emma.”

And inappropriate over-sharing:

“Hi, my name’s Emma and I’m a bisexual sub with a minor Tom Hardy fetish.”

I wouldn’t class it as embarrassing per se, but it’s personal information that I feel uncomfortable relating to strangers. The deafness that is, not the Tom Hardy thing. Have you seen him in Legend? He fights HIMSELF. It’s awesome.

Anyway, when I do get around to telling people, it invariably comes out as “I’m sorry, I’m deaf”, which is so painfully British that I should be made to queue up politely for an Earl Grey enema while simultaneously refusing to eat the last biscuit. What I actually mean is “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard the last five things you’ve said, and this is starting to get really awkward”, because nodding and smiling only gets me so far before I start resembling a sycophantic bobblehead.

Incidentally, if you know me in real life and this is news to you, then you’re LOUD. You probably get even louder when you’re drunk, perhaps even to the point of obnoxious. The good news is, I love you for it. People with the enunciation of Brian Blessed are brilliant, and everyone else should come with subtitles.

So my name’s Emma, and I’m deaf. Not stood-too-close-to-the-speakers-at-gigs deaf, but proper hearing aids, lip-reading and sign language deaf. At my last hearing test – and I hate hearing tests because I always fail – I registered a 40-65 decibel loss. If you want to get really geeky about it, I HAVE GRAPHS.

Why am I writing about this now? Well, I could make some impassioned speech about disability awareness and the evil pig-bothering Tories cutting Access to Work, but I want to make this personal. I have two reasons:

1. Going deaf is scary, and isolating, and depressing, and if you continue to listen to your music at that volume then it’s my duty to inform you of What Lies Ahead.
2. When going deaf isn’t scary, isolating and depressing, then it’s really fucking funny. I think I need to remind myself of that whenever I can. That and the fact that I can no longer hear wind chimes.

Coming up next time, the three worst responses to “I’m deaf”, one of which can actually get you punched in the face. EXCITING.