Gum on My Shoe: 2025

Monday, 5 May 2025

Come Along with a CSA Survivor to a Smear Planning Appointment: a Vlog by Aimee Wilson

Trigger / content warning: mention of child sexual abuse and rape

This post is inspired by a recent video blog by my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. The twelve minute video is titled “Come along with a CSA survivor to a smear planning appointment with Northumbria NHS Gynae.” As well as showcasing the video itself, I want to share my response to it and why I feel this is such an important topic.

What’s it About?

Here’s what the vlog is about in Aimee’s own words.

Being a CSA [child sexual abuse] survivor, I have had to meet with Gynae to discuss having my smear test under a general anaesthetic. I filmed this vlog to provide advice and empathy to other survivors and to bring insight to those who judge people for struggling with this procedure. Don’t judge a person’s journey when you haven’t walked in their shoes!

It’s characteristic of Aimee to share her lived experience in the hope it might inform and help other people. To note, the video covers Aimee’s appointment to discuss options for her upcoming cervical screening, not the screening itself.

The vlog is available in full on YouTube and in five parts on Instagram (part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5). Note that the first thirty seconds are silent.

What’s a Smear Test?

For anyone unfamiliar with the procedure or the terminology, the following description of cervical screening (smear tests) is taken from the NHS website.

Cervical screening, which used to be called smear test, is a test to check the health of the cervix and help prevent cervical cancer. It’s offered [in the UK] to women and people with a cervix aged 25 to 64.

The website includes further detailed information about what cervical screening is, why it’s important, when someone will be invited for a screening test, how to book a test, what happens at the screening appointment, the results, and further help and support.

What Did I Think of the Video?

I was part way through watching Aimee’s vlog when she messaged me to ask how my day was going.

A: Are you home yet?
M: Just on my way now. I’m listening to your YouTube. About your gynae appointment.
A: Oooooo thank you!!
M: Aimee, it’s one of the best, most important things you’ve ever done. And that’s saying a lot!
A: Wowwww thank you so so so much! That’s such an incredible comment! Can I screenshot it and post? I’ll tag you obviously.
M: Yes of course!

True to her word, Aimee shared my comment shortly afterwards, saying that it had made her day. That’s a lovely thing to hear, but I was only saying what I believe to be true.

Why Is it So Important?

But why is this such an important topic? I posted the following comment Aimee’s video on YouTube.

This is such a great thing to do, and I know it will be of value to so many people. People in similar situations as yourself, but also people like me who have no first hand experience but want to understand and know how to support friends and loved ones. Thank you.

I know little about what it means to have survived rape or sexual abuse. The little I do know is thanks to people like Aimee who have trusted me sufficiently to share what they’ve lived through and how their lives have been impacted. That’s the most I can claim by way of experience, but at Aimee’s suggestion last year I wrote an article about being there for a friend who’s survived rape or sexual abuse. Aimee’s vlog adds considerably to my understanding.

What Does Aimee Talk About in her Video?

Aimee opens with a brief introduction and trigger / content warning. She explains the background to her situation including her past experience of sexual abuse and rape. This appointment is to meet with the gynae team at her local hospital to discuss her next cervical screening. As Aimee describes, she finds things like this very difficult. Her first cervical screening was conducted under general anaesthetic. “So this time I’m just going to discuss the idea of doing it in the same way.”

She makes clear her reasons for making the video. “I thought I would bring you guys along with me because I know it’s something that I’m not alone in, and I just wanted to show that there are options. And for anyone who doesn’t understand the issue I just want to show how difficult it can be and provide some insight into it.”

Aimee talks about her preparations for the appointment. She’s waiting for a taxi to arrive, which she booked to make sure she gets there in plenty of time, and to offset the anxiety and nervousness she knew she’d be feeling on the day.

“So a tip for people who might go through something like this [would be] consider your transport and think about anything that could come up before your appointment, and budget time so you’re not so stressed.”

Ironically, her taxi is late, so she’s worried she might not make her appointment in time. She rings ahead to let the hospital know she might be late.

The video continues with Aimee back home after the appointment. She describes how well it went, and how lovely all the staff were with her. The plan they agreed is for Aimee to try with sedation first, on the understanding that if that doesn’t work for her they will move straight away to a general anaesthetic.

“So I’ve got a plan I’m happy with. I’m glad that they listened to me, that I didn’t have to go into detail about my reasons, just sort of roughly explained [...] I felt very validated and supported for the appointment. So I like to think that other people could be treated that way as well. If you’re watching this [...] please think about your options and don’t be afraid to speak to professionals and to voice what you think would be helpful for you.”

Before she closes, Aimee talks about how there’s a lot of information and messaging on social media about how important cervical screenings are “and how people who don’t have theirs are sort of taking a risk and it’s not a wise decision.” She points out that no matter how well-meaning, this kind of messaging can come across as disrespectful and deaf to the needs of people such as her, for whom such procedures can be extremely traumatic. “That’s why it’s so important,” Aimee says, “to speak up and explain to someone and provide them with insight as to why someone might find a smear difficult.”

Aimee points out that it’s not only cervical screenings which can be difficult for her and other survivors of abuse, rape, and sexual assault. Other gynaecological procedures and examinations can be no less difficult. She closes by saying she intends to rest “and practice some self-soothing and some distraction with Netflix and stuff like that.”

My Key Takeaways

Everyone who watches Aimee’s video will get something different from it, depending on their level of understanding and personal experience. Here are a few of my key takeaways.

Plan ahead to reduce anxiety and stress as much as possible. This includes arranging transport, making sure you know where the appointment is to be held, and allowing plenty of time to get there.

Try not to stress if things go wrong on the day. “Don’t be afraid to ring if you are running late or if something comes up.”

Be clear about what you want from the appointment, but also be open to alternatives. Aimee wanted her scan to be done under general anaesthetic like last time, but agreed to try sedation first.

Plan for what you’ll do and how you might feel after the appointment, acknowledging that it’s a major thing you just did. Include options for self-care if you can.

Aimee didn’t mention this, but I’d suggesting having one or two trusted friends or family members on hand in case you find you need someone to talk to, or to offer support.

The biggest takeaway for me is what a huge difference it makes when someone’s experience and needs are treated with care and respect. Aimee was listened to and wasn’t put under pressure to explain or justify herself or her needs.

I’m immensely proud of my friend for making this video and for sharing so openly about such a sensitive and difficult topic. I’m sure it will be of help to many.

Aimee, thank you!

About Aimee Wilson

You can find Aimee Wilson at her blog I’m NOT Disordered, on Instagram, and on Twitter/X.

Photos by Aimee Wilson.

Saturday, 3 May 2025

Our Top Posts of the Month (April 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

Our most visited pages were:

Photo of Kingston Park by Martin Baker.

Wednesday, 30 April 2025

An Open Letter to My "Lazy" Friend

Dear friend.

I thought to write to you after the chat we had the other day. Remember? The one where you asked me, “Am I lazy?”

I’ll start by saying you’re not alone in asking that question. Many people tell me they feel lazy because they’re not doing as much as they think they should. Mostly that’s because they’re living with depression, or anxiety, or fatigue, or pain, or chronic lack of sleep, or brain fog, or some other condition that makes it tough to navigate the everyday things of life. The things that would otherwise be within their compass. I think maybe you’d agree. I think maybe you’d recognise yourself in that description.

I’ve no comparable experience, so it’s arguable how much I truly understand. I see it, nevertheless. I see what it takes for you to marshal the energy to do things that others — that I — might call easy or obvious. When you can’t, when there’s no spoons left, when making that meal or taking that shower or sending that e-mail or doing that chore is literally beyond you, that’s not being lazy.

Acknowledging that doesn’t make life easier for you, I know. It doesn’t take away your right to feel disappointed in yourself, or angry, or sad, or anything else you might feel about being in this situation. You get to label it any way you wish, including lazy if that makes sense to you. Believe me, though, when I tell you I don’t know a single person I’d call lazy. Including you.

I searched for some positive quotations about laziness to share with you. It wasn’t easy! So many of them were negative, injunctions to combat laziness in all its forms. To stop procrastinating. Get going. Do something! Anne Frank declared that “Laziness may appear attractive, but work gives satisfaction.” It’s hard to argue with Anne Frank! I get it. I do. To achieve success of almost any kind requires some degree of effort and action. But success for its own sake isn’t everything, and there are many different kinds of achievement. Pause and rest are also important. Benjamin Franklin said “There will be sleeping enough in the grave.” That’s as maybe, Ben, but I don’t want to wait until I’m dead to get some rest!

Much of the negativity around laziness comes from comparing ourselves with other people. People don’t like seeing others who seem to be doing less than they are. This is ironic, because those most likely to be labelled lazy — people who are unable to find work, or ill, or homeless, or on benefits, or living close to the breadline — are working their asses off just to get through the next day, the next week. What others label laziness is mostly a daily struggle against the odds, with limited resources and the kind of stoic determination many of the advantaged — myself included — would be hard pressed to muster.

Of course, there are some positive connotations. “A lazy summer afternoon” conjures cosy images. Relaxing on the beach, perhaps, or on a lounger in the garden. Reading a book or dozing, sipping tea or something a little stronger. Restfulness. Ease. This is echoed in the phrase dog days. It means a period of stagnation or inactivity, but also “the period between early July and early September when the hot sultry weather of summer usually occurs in the northern hemisphere.”

A meme I saw the other day captures this perfectly. “I don’t understand people who do things on weekends. You just did things all week. What’s next, more things? That’s how they get you.” This kind of laziness respects our need to recouperate. To recharge our batteries. I have a friend who uses the word in that way, and it’s refreshing. My situation is very different to theirs, but it reminds me that I need rest sometimes too. I’m not very good at being lazy!

I’ll share something which made me smile. Another word for laziness is sloth, which is one of the seven deadly sins in Catholic Christianity. I’m atheist but in that context it means something like an habitual disinclination to exertion. That’s a deadly sin? Wow, right? I found a delightful counter to this by Bollywood actress Kajol Devgan: “I’d love sloth. I wish sloth would come home and visit me once in a while. I don’t consider laziness a sin at all.” What’s funny is that sloths are amongst the cutest, least offensive, most adorable creatures on the planet! I smile paraphrasing Devgan as saying “I’d love a sloth. I wish a sloth would come home and visit me once in a while!” Now that’s something I could get on board with.

I don’t know if this helps at all with your feelings of laziness, and your frustration at not always being able to achieve all you’d like or hope to. Perhaps it’s given you a fresh perspective or two. I’d love to hear your thoughts, next time we meet. Until then, I wish you peace and ease, dog days — and maybe a sloth or two!

Your friend,

Marty

Photo by Sébastien L. at Unsplash.

Wednesday, 23 April 2025

When the Chips Are Down: A Tale of Frustration, Sailboats, and Sharing

“Po-ta-toes,” said Sam. “The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly. But you won’t find any, so you needn’t look.”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Two Towers” (The Lord of the Rings)

Thursday April 17, 2025 was a big day for me. I took myself on an adventure. It wasn’t a big adventure. Just a day out at the coast. But it was the first time I’d taken myself out for the day in almost a year. Last time it was a trip into the city to see an exhibition of paintings by the renowned English landscape painter J. M. W. Turner. There was no aim or goal this time beyond a sense of curiosity. How would it feel to be out of my usual environment after so long? I’d chosen a day when the weather promised to be dry and bright, but beyond that I had only the loosest of plans. I’d catch the Metro train to Tynemouth, walk to the sea front, then head north. Maybe I’d walk on the beach. Maybe I’d paddle. There were any number of cafes, coffee shops, and pubs I might stop at for something to eat or drink.

The one thing I did want to do was buy chips and sit eating them by the sea. There were a couple of options. The fish and chip van that often parked just along from Tynemouth Aquarium. The fish and chip shop at Cullercoats. Either of those would be perfect. There was a fish and chip shop in Tynemouth too, but that wasn’t as close to the sea front. Whatever else happened, whatever I saw or did, a tray of chips — even better, a chip stottie — would make the perfect memory of my day out.

Tynemouth Metro station was deserted when I arrived. I took a few moments to photograph the stunning architecture. The broad central steps leading to the footbridge to the opposite platform. The sweeping ironwork of the roof, renovated in recent years. I made my way from the station towards the sea front. The main street of Tynemouth was as pretty as I remembered it, lined with pubs, bars, and gift shops. A display of rubber ducks in one shop window. I took photos as I went along and shared a few in chat with Fran for when she woke. It was a little after nine thirty. Too early to stop for food yet. I’d had breakfast before I set out and had a flask of coffee with me. The thought of chips later spurred me on. A walk first, to give me an appetite.

I stood for a while before the looming mass of Tynemouth castle. Beyond the railings the moat fell twenty or thirty feet, then rose again in a steep grassy slope to the gatehouse beyond. I thought of my unpublished novella Playing at Darkness which is set within the walls of the castle over the course of one day and night. A key scene plays out in and around the moat. If I half closed my eyes I could almost — almost — see the drama unfold in front of me. There’s a lot of me invested in that place, emotionally and creatively.

I turned away and began my walk north along the promenade. King Edward’s Bay opened below me to my right. Memories of time spent on that little beach over the years, alone and with friends. I shook my head to centre myself in the present. Pausing on one of the many benches I opened my diary and began to write, holding the pages flat against the breeze.

10:05 am. Tynemouth. A bench overlooking the sea.
Well, I finally committed to my little adventure! It’s a quiet day, not many folk about at all. I guess the question I’m posing by doing something different is “what difference does it make?” Why did I come here instead of spending another morning writing at Costa? Is this better? The same? Or is the question itself meaningless? There’s no scale against which to measure any of it. Do this. Do that. The universe doesn’t care — or even notice — what I choose to do or how I choose to spend my time.

I closed my diary and put it away. I continued my stroll north, stopping to take such photographs as caught my eye. The castle and priory. The sweep of the shore. Shelters silhouetted against the skyline. A small wooden rowboat, anonymous save for the number 12 painted on her stern, converted into a quirky planter for tulips. It was another echo of my novella, which recounted a different rowboat marrooned high above the tide. The overlap of reality and fiction. Then and now. Real and imagined.

The old rowing boat is nothing special. For sixty years she worked the mouth of the great river, plying the dangerous waters around Black Middens until the old trade waned. Now she is the last of her kind. Five winters weathered her boards on the steeply banked pebbles of Prior’s Haven. Then men took her, painted her gaudy in blue and white and named her anew. Now the “Northumbrian Water” rests high above the water line, berthed forever in the turfed earth beside the Gibraltar Rock.

Ahead of me in the distance I could see the wide white bulk of the Tynemouth Castle Inn. It would be pleasant to sit outside there with a pint. I’d done that once or twice before. It was still early, though, and I wanted to eat before I thought of beer. Maybe on the way back after I’d had my chips. Beyond the hotel, the aquarium. More memories, old and less old, general and specific. The most recent was some six years ago. January 2019. Sheltering in the doorway from the rain as I waited for a friend. A few hundred yards beyond the aquarium carpark was where the chip van plied its trade. I could see a large van pulled up there, but as I got closer I saw it was selling ice creams and drinks only. A minor disappointment, but I consoled myself with the thought that the chip shop still lay ahead. That would be better anyway.

It’s no more than half a mile between the aquarium and Cullercoats bay but I took my time. I sat for a moment on another of the benches that line the promenade. How am I feeling?I asked myself. Right now. What am I feeling? It’s only a year or so since I learned about alexithymia. It’s a term for the difficulty many people — me included — have in identifying and communicating their emotions. I’ve written elsewhere about alexithymia and how it affects me. In a very real sense, it was impossible for me to describe how I felt as I sat on that bench in the sunshine. I was feeling something but I couldn’t label it. Even distinguishing my feelings as “good” or “bad” was a challenge. There was a sense of satisfaction, that I’d taken myself out for the day. But uneasiness too, because I wasn’t sure that it was meaningful to have done so. I had no real aim, beyond that tray of chips.

As I continued my walk, the broad sweep of Cullercoats bay came into view. I could pick out the lifeboat station, the slipway, and the steep slope that led down to the beach from the road. Across the road, the row of buildings that included a cafe, a couple of bars, the community centre I visited last year with my friend Aimee to attend a mental health event, and the chip shop. Maybe I’d take my tray of chips down to the beach. Or just sit looking out across the sea as I’d done many times in the past.

The chip shop was closed.

It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock so I wandered a little further to photograph the bay from the opposite direction. Eleven ten came and passed. Eleven fifteeen. There was no sign of light or movement from inside the shop and no indication of its opening hours that I could see. It might open at midday but that felt too long to wait around. I wasn’t sure what to do. The cafe was open but looked busy. There was another cafe around the corner and a coffee shop a few minutes walk away. I didn’t want a sit-down meal, though, and I still had coffee in my flask. Nothing I could think of was what I wanted.

I had a flashback to 2020 when hospitality began reopening after months of lockdown. I took myself into Newcastle city centre with the sole intention of revisiting my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero at St Mary’s Place opposite the Civic Centre. I arrived to find a note in the window explaining they couldn’t muster enough staff to open. There were other coffee shops in Newcastle. There were at least two more Caffè Nero stores, any of which might well have been open. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I caught the next train home. I recalled how other people had reacted to my story. “If you’d held yourself open to opportunities instead of getting all huffy you might have had a great time, just a different time.” That was true, of course. But I hadn’t been huffy. Not really. Disappointed, yes. But by heading home I wasn’t giving up on my day. I was honouring my folorn hopes and aspirations.

It didn’t look like I was going to get any chips. It was a disappointment, for sure. More than I’d have imagined. Maybe I’d tied my hopes too tightly to the idea that at some point I’d be sitting on a bench with a tray of chips. Maybe a chip butty. With salt and vinegar and a dash of brown sauce. I could practically taste it. I took a few more photos of the bay and began walking back the way I’d come. I couldn’t think of anything else — or better — to do. What did “better” mean, anyway?

Passing the park my attention was caught by a flash of movement. White sails on the boating lake. There’d been none earlier. I recalled there was a model boat club that met at the park. I hesitated, wondering if there was any point in crossing the road to take a look. Without consciously deciding to, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park as maybe a dozen radio-controlled yachts raced back and forth across the water. For the first time in my day I felt fully engaged with what was happening around me. I watched the yachts for a while, recording a short video to share with Fran later. It was getting close to the time for our call. It was pleasant sitting there, but a bit breezy for a video conversation.

I found a shelter a few hundred yards along the promenade and settled in out of the breeze. While I waited, I recalled other times I’d been disappointed by events that failed to meet my hopes and expectations. One evening walk during covid came to mind, when a succession of small grievances left me feeling cold, wet, and grumpy. I smiled at myself, remembering it only too well. Other potato-related disappointments came to mind. The takeout meal that arrived without the chips that had been ordered. Another takeout, at my friend Aimee’s this time, when the chips had been so disgusting I couldn’t eat them at all. I smiled again. Potato-related disappointments indeed!

Fran messaged to say she was free for a call and in a moment I was no longer on my own with my thoughts. She told me she was proud of me for taking myself out on my little adventure. Rather than ask how I felt, she invited me to share what I’d been doing, knowing that’s much easier for me to describe. I recounted my day in brief, from my arrival in Tynemouth. I did share one emotion. The one I had no difficulty labeling. My disappointment at the lack of chips!

I told Fran about the boats on the lake and sent her the video I’d recorded. We discovered we each had childhood stories of owning a model yacht. As I described mine to her I could see it clearly. The solid wooden hull, the metal keel, the buff coloured sails, the rigging with its nylon fittings. The small flag I’d added, cut from a scrap of red fabric. Memories swirled around us as we shared our respective stories, like the sailboats on the lake.

After talking a while, we moved on. As we walked, I shared with her the sights and sounds of the coast. It reminded me of other times I’ve walked with friends beside the sea. We watched a huge container vessel as it made its way towards the mouth of the river. I showed her King Edward’s Bay and we stopped for a few minutes by the castle and moat. Fran recalled that I’ve taken her there on calls in the past. Prior’s Haven, and along the pier to the little lighthouse. It warmed me that she remembered.

Marshalls Fish Shop was open, but by now I’d settled into the idea of not having that particular expectation met, and we kept walking. We stopped by the stern bronze statue of Queen Victoria to say hello, but she declined to smile. We got back to the station and crossed the foot bridge to the opposite platform. Our train arrived within minutes. Fran stayed with me on the call most of my way home. We parted easily, both grateful for having shared my adventure.

Once home, I went through the many photos and videos I’d taken, posting the best to social media to share with my friends and followers. I may not have had my chips, but I’d had a good time and I was glad I’d taken myself out. Later in the day, I checked online. The chip shop in Cullercoats opens at 11:30 am. If I’d thought to check while I was there, or stayed another twenty minutes or so, I could have had my chips after all! It was fine, though. There was no more — and no less — meaning in my chip-free day than there would have been if my hopes had been realised.

When the chips are down what matters, what makes things meaningful, is less the things themselves — what you do or where you go or what you eat looking out over the sea — and more the opportunity to share them with a friend.

Photo by Martin Baker, Grand Parade, Tynemouth, September 2018.

Wednesday, 16 April 2025

Call Me Another Thrower: Making a Difference In the World One Starfish at a Time

“I understand,” I said, “call me another thrower.”
— Loren Eiseley

I’ve always loved letter writing. My friend Maya and I have written to each other almost every week for years. I look forward to reading her letters, but no less welcome are the envelopes she decorates. They’re works of art in their own right. One recent envelope (pictured) reminded me of a shoreline. As I wrote to her:

Thank you for your letter and the truly lovely envelope with all its rich colour and texture. I’m seeing it as a shoreline with waves, white water and foam — and tiny starfish!

I thought for a moment, then continued.

It reminds me of a story called “The Tale of the Starfish.” Do you know it? It’s about a little girl saving starfish by returning them to the sea. More generally, it’s about making a difference no matter how small. I’m a big believer in that.

The story I recalled is a reworking of “The Star Thrower” by Loren C. Eiseley, first published in 1969. Various versions exist, of which this is perhaps the best known. The story ends with the young girl confronted by an adult’s logic.

She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!”
The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied,
“Well, I made a difference for that one!”

The original story of “The Star Thrower” is longer and considerably darker. The thrower is a man, not a young girl. The contrary voice of logic is that of the narrator. His jaded approach to life is challenged by the thrower rescuing the stranded creatures from being taken by collectors “hurrying along with bundles of gathered starfish that will be slowly cooked and dissolved in the outdoor kettles provide by the resort hotels for the cleaning of specimens.” It is not a cosy story.

The underlying message is the same, however. There are times when the problems and challenges that surround us feel too many or too huge to attempt. What difference can we possibly make? The antidote to overwhelm is to focus in close and small. No matter how powerless or helpless we may feel, there is something we can do to make a difference. We may not be able to save every starfish but we can save this one. And this one. And maybe that one.

I smile as I write this, thinking of recent examples from my own life. A few weeks ago, a workplace friend messaged to check on me after seeing something I’d posted on social media. Her simple “Hope you’re okay” meant a lot. (Thanks, Sophie.)

Then there was the conversation I had at my local coffee shop. As I’d arrived, a woman was leaving with her daughter, who proceeded to drop the drink she’d just been bought. Her mother could have been angry. She might have yelled or stormed off. But she didn’t make a fuss. She told her daughter it wasn’t a problem and went back inside to replace the drink. I let her ahead of me in the queue and we spend the next five minutes or so in conversation. We talked about what had just happened. About how life is tough enough without having extra pressure piled on us when something goes wrong or we do something silly. About how life’s too short to cry over a spilled oat latte. We got to the head of the queue and in a further act of kindness, the staff refused to take payment for the replacement drink. We said farewell and parted. Her daughter got a fresh drink, but I received something every bit as valuable. The reminder that small kindnesses matter in this world.

Three further examples presented themselves while I was writing this. My friend Aimee tagged me and several other friends in a social media post.

This, for my people ♥
As you get older, you really just
Want to be surrounded by good
People. People that are
Good for you, good to you,
And good for your soul.

I couldn’t trace the quote’s author, but as someone considerably older than Aimee or the other friends she tagged I agree with its wisdom. It’s the people who show up for us, who care, who do the small things knowing they’re often the big things, that make the most difference in our lives. (Thank you, Aimee.)

Then there was the They Can Talk comic strip I saw online in which two birds are watching a woman filling bird feeders in her garden. “Every morning she fills all of these feeders,” the first bird says. “Who is she?” the other asks. “To us?” comes the reply, “She’s everything.”

And the Threads post by Laurie Biethan in which she shared her experience in line at the grocery store. A woman ahead of her was short of the money to cover her basket of groceries. Laurie made up the difference. As she said, “Best $16.07 I’ve spent in a long time.”

In their different ways, these are all examples of people doing small things that make a big difference. A check in with a friend. A thank you. A replacement coffee. A conversation. A few dollars. Starfish throwers, every one. The narrator of “The Star Thrower” returns to the shore to find the man whose mission, whose very existence, has challenged his outlook on life.

I arose with a solitary mission, to find the star thrower beneath his rainbow. I found him on a projecting point of land in the sweet rain-swept morning. Silently, I sought and picked up a still-living star, spinning it far out into the wave. I spoke once briefly. “I understand,” I said, “call me another thrower.”

He understands it’s not really about starfish at all. It’s much bigger than that.

I never looked back again. The task we assumed was too immense for gazing. I flung and flung again while all about us roared the insatiable waters of death, the burning sun, for it was men as well as starfish that we sought to save, a thrower who loved not man, but life.

If you’d like to read “The Star Thrower” by Loren Eiseley in full, check out this version (PDF) edited by James Cook.

Envelope artwork by Maya Hayward.

Wednesday, 9 April 2025

Of Diaries and Dreams: The Hundred Stories

I rarely share my creative writing here on Gum on My Shoe. Our blog is primarily focused on mental health and supportive friendships. On occasion, however, Fran and I give ourselves permission to explore other topics. This is one of those occasions. Writing has always been an important part of my life. I’ve kept a daily diary for over fifty years. During that time I’ve written poetry, articles, short stories, a novella, two books, and a great many blog posts. I’ve not written creative fiction for a while, but in We Are All Made of Stories I shared something of my past experiences in that genre.

I recently came across a short story of mine while looking for something else. “The Hundred Stories” was originally published in September 2001 in Reunion, the quarterly journal of Middle-earth Reunion (MeR). Founded in 1996 as a local group of the Tolkien Society, MeR parted company with the Tolkien Society in 2001. The final issue of Reunion was published in December 2005.

“The Hundred Stories” touches on a project I was working on during those years. The Tresco manuscript and the Lore of Life, Leaf & Stone purported to explore the true origins of JRR Tolkien’s Middle-earth writings. It interwove Tolkien’s life and work with British history and folklore, including accounts of the brothers of Lindisfarne (Holy Island) who carried the body of St Cuthbert around the north of England to escape attack by the Danes.

[Cuthbert] was buried at Lindisfarne, but his body was removed in 875 to protect it from Viking raids; after many moves in northeastern England, it was finally deposited (999?) in Durham Cathedral.
— Britannica

“The Hundred Stories” isn’t my finest or favourite work, but I like it. There are parallels with my own life, most obviously Emily’s diary writing. Hundred’s account of the book that was lost and then found parallels my coming across the story itself after so many years. The time overlap as Emily and Hundred meet feels familiar to me, as though these things happen all the time if only we’re open to recognise them. Their experiences on the shore echo times I’ve spent walking on the beach with friends.

I hope you will enjoy this little story as much as I’ve enjoyed revisiting it.

The Hundred Stories

He appeared in a vision to one of them named Hundred, and commanded them to make search for the book.
— Simeon of Durham

Emily woke suddenly from a dream of flames and screaming. She opened her eyes and for one dreadful moment everything remained the colour of fire and blood. Then she turned her head and recognised the early sunlight through the red curtains of the caravan. She sat up and reached her diary down from beside the narrow bed.

Friday. It’s only half past six but I need to write. Mum’s still asleep. I’ve had another of The Dreams. Each time it’s different but always there are the flames against the sky. If I close my eyes now I can still see them, and hear the men shouting. And hoof-beats. There was something else this time too — a beach somewhere. Two people walking, looking for something. I can’t remember.

What does it all mean? Mum says dreams are just your brain making pictures but these are more than that. They’re important, I know they are. Powerful, too, like the stories Dad used to tell me, about Vikings and dragons. The dreams don’t frighten me anymore but I wish I knew what they meant. The beach bit wasn’t horrible anyway, it was like when Dad and I used to walk on the shore when we lived at Silverdale.

I really hate the city! I guess I’d grown used to it after two years but this holiday has brought it all back. I know we had to go and live with Gran when Daddy died but its horrible being so far from the sea. There’s nothing to do in the evenings, except read — I do a lot of that! I love Daddy’s books about history. It’s like he’s still there reading to me like he used to. Oh dear. My favourite is the one about the monks on that island. Before the Vikings came to take their gold they escaped with everything they could carry. I traced their journey in Mum’s atlas once.

Emily closed her diary. She sighed. For the past week she had felt happier than she could remember. Walking by the sea again had helped ease the pain of her father’s death, that had never gone away. Now, though, she had had another of her strange dreams — and this was the last day of the holiday.

Emily drew back the curtain and gazed out. Across the caravan park that lay at the edge of the little Cumbrian village of Allonby on the south side of the Solway Firth.

Carefully, so as not to waken her mother, Emily found the battered road atlas and opened it across the bed. The page was already marked and she soon found the broad sweep of Allonby Bay. South along the coast stood Workington at the mouth of the Derwent river. Halfway to Workington, just above Maryport, the map bore the legend “Roman Fort” in small red letters. Emily measured the distance with her finger and compared it with the scale at the bottom of the page.

“Hmm — Maryport’s only about four miles from here, maybe we could go there today. Oh —”

Her attention was caught by the chain of circles she had once drawn on the map to mark the journey of the monks all those centuries ago. From Lindisfarne on the east coast — almost into Scotland — south to Hadrian’s Wall ... then east.

“Haydon Bridge. Bardon Mill. Down into the mountains ... Back north again past Derwent Water. Then where?”

The stories hadn’t been very clear about that. Emily thought she could remember something about the monks trying to sail to Ireland. Ireland ...

Another image from the dream rose out of forgetfulness. A ship, tossing in a storm: a book, covered in gold. Then the two figures again. Searching. Something clicked into place inside her head. She recognised the location. She had walked there only two days ago.

“It was here they sailed from. It must have been!”

Emily dressed quickly and quietly. She took her diary and the atlas, and a bar of chocolate from the tiny larder. With a note for her mother — “Gone for milk” — she stepped down from the caravan and began the quarter-mile walk into the village.

Past the little shop; buckets and spades, ice-creams, postcards and fishing nets still asleep behind the painted wooden shutters. Past the restless ponies, stabled on the promenade beside the playground where climbing frames and swings stood like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Or dragons.

She crossed the narrow belt of dunes, down onto the beach itself. Emily stood still for a moment, gazing out across the Solway in the direction of Ireland. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure again the fleeting images from her dream, but nothing came. “Maybe next time they’ll be clearer,” she thought. “Only by then I’ll be back home and it will be too late.” She began walking aimlessly along the shore. She did not notice the boy until she had almost passed him.

“Oh. Hello.”

“What do you seek here?” he said, looking not at her but out across the water.

“Nothing,” Emily replied, startled. Then, more honestly, “I don’t know.” How old was he? Fifteen, sixteen maybe. But his clothes ... Sat above her at the top of the beach, he seemed to blend into the dunes, as if Emily could see grass and sand through him. He turned to face her at last.

“Your name.” It wasn’t a question, the way he said it.

“Emily.” She waved an arm in the direction of the caravan park. “We’re on holiday. Do you live here?”

The boy ignored her question. His gaze flashed over her, settling on her diary and the atlas she was carrying.

“You like books, then? Stories?”

“Yes, but —”

“I could tell you a story. Maybe”

“What kind of story?” Emily asked.

“Old. True.”

Without waiting for an answer he stood and began to walk east, up the Firth, in the direction Emily had been heading when they met. Should she follow?

“There’s something about him,” she thought. “A memory, almost ... And he’s so sad.” She had to run to catch up with him. As she drew alongside the boy began speaking again, as if reciting a tale often told.

“Hundred, my name is — because my mother came from Scilly, the Islands of the Sun, and that is their number. But I was born near Warwick, in the kingdom of Mercia.”

Beneath Emily’s feet the pebbles slipped and turned, amongst them the curious black stones that you could draw with like charcoal. The man at the shop had told her they were from the burnt-out wrecks of ships lost in the Firth long ago. The kingdom of Mercia? That sounded old. Lost. Long ago.

“In those days the Viking first came from across the sea. My father fell defending our village, and my mother fled, with those that could escape the terror that fell upon us. But I was taken, a boy nine summers old, and with some women and others of my age I was held in thrall for many years. Long I yearned only to avenge the slaughter of my people.”

Emily felt a thrill run through her as he spoke. He was talking about the Vikings as though it had happened to him. It couldn’t have — he’d said it was a story — yet that name, Hundred, tugged at her memory.

“... As the years passed I learned much of their ways, and my hatred cooled. One gave to me a token of jet, carved and pierced to wear. His own son’s it had been, who was slain, and he gave it as weregild: blood-price for my father’s life.”

Emily wanted to speak. To tell him she knew what it was to lose a father. But she was scared in case she broke the magic.

“North we were taken where the country lay mostly under their law, and those that held us took lands to themselves. Yet bold they remained and would dare many miles for rumour of gold. Then word came to them of a holy house in the North.”

Despite herself, Emily gasped. “Lindisfarne.”

For the first time he looked into her eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Lindisfarne. In haste they went, and I with them. From the shore I watched them ride, terrible and wild, along the narrow causeway to the island. And in the night I saw the buildings burn. Then they returned, galloping to race the tide.”

Hoofbeats. Fire and screaming.

“Much was looted and all the monks slain, save one only, Witmaer by name. His life they spared and he was brought in bondage across a horse. Friends we became and on a night of little moon we escaped together. We travelled first westward and then south. Wherever we passed Witmaer asked of his brothers, for the bishop had been forewarned of the attack and with a party had fled before them.”

“Yes,” Emily said, suddenly excited. “I know this story. They took books and gold and — things.”

“That is so. You say you know this story but not all was written. They took with them also the body of their Sainted Cuthbert and relics of past bishops of their isle, and things else of great beauty and worth. Many things.” For a moment the boy was silent.

“At last we came upon the brothers close to the ford of Eden above Salkeld. They seemed a weary and a ragged bunch, yet great was their joy to see Witmaer who they had thought lost. For two years I lived amongst them upon the road. Never for long did we rest in one place, yet the further we travelled the greater our dangers grew. Then Eardulph the bishop declared to lead us across the waves to Ireland, where we might be safe and the treasures with us. So we passed north again into the mountains and came at last to the coast where a boat was found to carry us across.”

“Where on the coast?” asked Emily. It had to be here at Allonby, it had to.

“Ellenborough — the old Roman landings.” He pointed east. “Three, maybe four miles.”

“But my dream! It was here, I saw it!”

The boy answered quietly. “You saw the boat sail from here?”

“Well, no, but this is the beach in my dream, and —”

“Listen. We had passed no distance from the shore when a mighty storm arose, such that all feared greatly for our lives. Waves covered the boat and many things were swept away. Eardulph set to turn about if it could be done in so wild a storm but as the boat was turned the winds fell, and we came back easily to land.”

He paused and glanced at Emily but this time she did not speak. It had occurred to her that the gently shelving beaches of the bay were not the most suitable place to bring a boat to shore. Or to launch one.

“For three days we remained by Ellenborough, and all the brothers wept for the treasures that had perished in the sea. Greatest amongst these was a gospel book in its case of gold. Yet above books and gold I counted my crude token of jet — and that too had been lost to the waves. Then on the third night I dreamed where the great book might be found. In the morning I told Witmaer of my dream and together we walked three miles or more along the shore.”

Once again Emily’s vision returned to her, this time more clearly than before. Two figures walking along this very stretch of beach. Fifty yards beyond where she now stood, a narrow tongue of stone stretched out from the dunes to the sea. In her mind’s eye she saw the figures stop there and kneel in the sand.

“That’s what I dreamed!” she gasped.

“Yes.” The boy pointed to the stones just at their feet. “And there the book lay, still in its wrappings of oiled cloth. Great was the bishop’s joy that it was found, and much they praised me, though truly it was not done by my own craft or skill.”

Emily stared at him. “No. No — it was over there, by that rock! In my dream,” she added, surprised at her own certainty.

Now it was the boy’s turn to look unsure, as though a familiar sequence of events had just taken an unprecedented turn. He glanced around as if taking bearings from the shape of the shoreline. “The book was here,” he said at last. “There is no mistake. Show me.”

They walked the short distance to the outcrop of rock. Beneath their feet the pebbles slipped and turned; amongst them the curious black stones that drew like charcoal. One stone, larger than most, caught Emily’s eye. It was flat and round, pierced as if intended to be worn. And black. Black as jet. She picked it up. It felt smooth and warm in her hand.

“It’s your stone!” What had he called it? Weregild: blood-price. For his father.

“My father was killed too,” she said. She held the stone out to the boy.

“I think it is yours now, Emily.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Jet is special — one of the elf-stones. They have many virtues. Healing is one.”

“This is what my dreams were about, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps now we will have different dreams.”

He smiled at her and for the first time his face looked free from pain and remembering. Emily realised she was smiling too.

“We had best return,” he said and the two friends turned to begin the walk back along the beach.

“Hundred,” Emily said, the elf-stone clasped tightly in her hand. “Do you know any more stories?”

Photo of Allonby by Andrew Hall at Unsplash.

Saturday, 5 April 2025

Our Top Posts of the Month (March 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

Our most visited pages were:

Photo by Pedro Lastra at Unsplash.

Wednesday, 2 April 2025

Squawk 7700: Loving Kindness and the Friendship Radar

As soon as you stop thinking about them, they’ll send you a text message or call you. Because they know you stopped thinking about them. It’s like a radar.
— Lauren Conrad

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. We were discussing our plans for the day and I mentioned I wanted to catch up with a few friends I’d not been in touch with for a while. In this context, “a while” means anything from a day or so to several weeks. I found myself mentally scanning my circle of friends as an air traffic controller might scan their radar screen. The analogy might seem an odd one, but I have a keen interest in aviation.

The air traffic controller’s screen shows where each aircraft is in relation to the airport, terrain, and other aircraft. As well as distance and bearing, it displays the aircraft’s altitude, speed, call sign, and squawk code. More on squawk codes later. Everything is updated in real time with each sweep of the radar. The controller is able to talk to each aircraft in their sector, directing their flight and responding to situations as they unfold. I can only begin to imagine the skills and training it takes to work as an air traffic controller, but it serves as a useful analogy for how I think of my friends.

My model of friendship is a dynamic collection of friends, not a static list ranging from most to least important. At any point in time some people will be closer in to me, some further out. Some will be moving towards me, others heading away. Some might leave the screen altogether, for a time or for always. But if you’re my friend you’re in there somewhere. I described how I came by this dynamic model of friendship in Dissolving the Circle, and discussed different kinds of supportive networks in What Kind of Support Network Do You Have? An excerpt from the latter is relevant here:

If I drew my network out on paper there’d be a dot in the middle representing me, with lines radiating out to each of my supportive friends, like the spokes of a wheel. [...] This kind of network is more likely if your friends live far apart, as mine do, although that’s not necessarily the case. A few of my “spokesfriends” have met, in person or online, but none of them know each other well or socialise.

These models don’t cover all aspects of friendship but I find them helpful. The radar analogy is a useful addition. Like an air traffic controller, I scan my collection of friends to see how everyone is doing, and to make sure no one gets left out or forgotten about. Just as the pilot is ultimately responsible for the safety of their aircraft, my friends get to do what they want and go where they wish. It’s not my job to police their lives. On the other hand, it is part of my role as a caring friend to be aware of what’s happening, to flag potential dangers or concerns, and to support my friends as best I can. That’s true whether they’re coming in to land, departing for distant destinations and adventures, or merely passing through my airspace. As Fran and I like to say in relation to mental health, vigilance is a team sport.

I have friends I’m in touch with every day. Others I might expect to hear from every few days days. One longstanding friend and I connect once a week. That’s part of what I’m thinking about when I scan the screen. Who have I not replied to? Who might appreciate a message or call from me? Who hasn’t been in touch for a while? In aviation, an extended or unplanned break in communication with air traffic control is knows as a PLOC (prolonged loss of communications) or NORDO, short for “no radio.” If an aircraft is out of touch or doesn’t respond when called, emergency procedures may be invoked. In the worst case, an aircraft might disappear from radar altogether.

It’s important to remember that my friends have every right to “go silent” or “off radar” at any point and for any reason. I described one strategy for navigating such times in Supportive Disengagement: How to Be There for Your Friend When They Need Space.

What do I mean by [Supportive Disengagement]? Essentially, it means stepping back from the usual give-and-take dynamic you share with your friend, but being there if and when you’re invited in. It means providing encouragement and support when asked but otherwise getting out of your friend’s way so they can navigate whatever’s happening in their lives the best way they can.

They don’t owe me an explanation, although it helps if you can talk things through in advance. One friend told me there might be times when she’d need space, and we discussed how we’d handle things if and when that happened.

Using my air traffic control analogy, supportive disengagement implies they’re leaving my airspace. Maybe they’ve been handed off to another controller who can provide the help and guidance I’m unable to provide at this point in their journey. Or maybe they’re heading out over the ocean and will be out of radar and radio coverage for a time. Fran and I experienced this for real in 2013. We were out of touch for a week as she crossed the Atlantic by cruise ship, en route for Europe.

So far I’ve talked about me as the air traffic controller in this scenario, keeping an eye on things. What about the pilots of the aircraft? I’ve always told my friends I’m happy to receive a call or message at any time. I might not always be able to respond immediately but I’ll get back to them as soon as I can. I’ve never arranged special code words with friends, but they’re a good idea. For example, begin your message with “URGENT” or “HELP” if you need me to respond immediately. I’d see that in the notification on my phone, even without opening the full message.

In the aviation world, the equivalent are squawk codes. These are unique four-digit numbers in the range 0000 to 7777. They’re used by air traffic control to identify aircraft when they’re flying. Some codes are randomly generated, while others are used to alert controllers to specific situations. These include the emergency codes 7500, 7600, and 7700.

The first of these is the code 7500, which signals “unlawful interference,” more commonly referred to as hijacking. This is a situation where squawking is particularly useful, as it allows the pilots to contact ATC discreetly.
The second emergency squawk code is 7600, showing ATC that the aircraft has lost verbal communication. This could mean that it can still hear ATC and yet not respond, in which case the ATC will direct the pilot to speak with them through the Ident button. This is a small button on the transponder which causes the aircraft to flash on the controller’s screen and therefore can be used as a means of talking through non-verbal communication.
The last emergency code that can be squawked is 7700, which can be used for general emergency. An aircraft may even be directly asked to squawk 7700 after speaking to ATC verbally so that they can recognise them and give them priority over others.

Note that “squawking 7700 gives the pilot the responsibility to do essentially anything to ensure the safety of those onboard, regardless of the rules.” This is very relevant to friendship. If you tell me this is an emergency or you’re in crisis, I’m not going to argue with you or ask lots of questions. Whether we’re on the best of terms or have been having issues, I’m going to do anything and everything I can to help you through whatever’s going on. We can sort other things out later if we need to. If that sounds unrealistic, I can only say that I’ve been in that situation with friends before, and that’s exactly how we handled things. It doesn’t matter if we were chatting yesterday, if we’ve been arguing for the past week or haven’t been in touch for six months. If you need me, I’m here.

If you’re still struggling with my air traffic control analogy, Fran likened my scanning of the radar screen to the loving kindness meditation. There are different versions out there, but Fran and I favour this one by Kathleen Grace-Bishop. The meditation begins by inviting us to send the following message to ourself.

May I be well.
May I be happy.
May I be peaceful.
May I be loved.

Then to someone we know and care about.

May you be well.
May you be happy.
May you be peaceful.
May you be loved.

Then to someone in our life we don’t know well or have no particular feelings for. A shop assistant or someone we pass regularly in the street but don’t know personally. Then to someone in our life we’re having difficulties with. The meditation closes by bringing our thoughts and blessings to everyone, ourself included. Some versions explicitly invite us to send our blessings out in increasing circles from ourself in the middle, to our family, friends, people in our locale, our country, and finally out to include everyone in the world. The challenge is to bless each and every person, at whatever level, in the same way. The person we love, the person we don’t know, the person we are struggling with, the stranger.

The relevance to my radar analogy is clear. Although I’ve focused on scanning the screen for my friends, the air traffic controller is attentive to any and all aircraft on their screen, no matter their airline, nationality, point of departure, or destination. It reminds me not to limit my vigilance to those I’ve chosen to label as friends. If you’re on my radar, I care.

Squawk 7700, and I’m there.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors at Pixaby

Saturday, 29 March 2025

Free Books for World Bipolar Day

To mark World Bipolar Day 2025 Fran and I are offering our books for FREE on Kindle for five days between Saturday March 29 and Wednesday April 2, inclusive.

In High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder we share what we’ve learned about growing a supportive, mutually rewarding friendship between a “well one” and an “ill one.” With no-nonsense advice from the caring friend’s point of view, original approaches and practical tips, illustrated with real-life conversations and examples. Buy it here.

Friendship is a beautiful part of life and an important component of long-term wellness. No One Is Too Far Away: Notes from a Transatlantic Friendship is a collection of articles from our blog which shows that mental illness needn’t be a barrier to meaningful connection; indeed it can be the glue that holds people together. Buy it here.

Once the free offer is over the prices will go back to normal.

World Bipolar Day is celebrated each year on March 30, the birthday of Vincent Van Gogh, who is thought to have lived with a bipolar condition.

The vision of World Bipolar Day is to bring world awareness to bipolar conditions and to eliminate social stigma. Through international collaboration, the goal of World Bipolar Day is to bring the world population information about bipolar conditions that will educate and improve sensitivity towards the condition.

For more information check out the following websites.

Wednesday, 26 March 2025

Every Day of Every Month: An Open Letter to My Best Friend for World Bipolar Day

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the almost fourteen years we’ve been friends, it’s that living with bipolar disorder isn’t a one day at the end of March thing. It’s an every day of every month thing.

Dear Fran.

It’s World Bipolar Day in a few days, and I wanted to do something to mark the occasion. This letter is my gift to you. For World Bipolar Day, yes. But really for each and every day. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the almost fourteen years we’ve been friends, it’s that living with bipolar disorder isn’t a one day at the end of March thing. It’s an every day of every month thing.

That’s something not everyone realises. There are reasons for that. You have better days and worse days, and are more likely to engage with other people on your better days. You choose not to share everything with everyone all the time. It’s also true that the impacts of illness on your life are not equally obvious to others. As well as bipolar you live with chronic fatigue syndrome and fibromyalgia. We hang out together every day, but I’m generally unaware how badly the pain and fatigue are affecting you unless you specifically mention it. The same can be true of bipolar when the symptoms are less than extreme. The fact that you present well on a given day doesn’t mean you’re not dealing with the realities of illness beneath the surface.

Your life is lived on a precipice, balancing your energy and mood and pain on the one hand, and on the other hand your meds and therapies and all the other work you do to stay as well as possible. Do you remember a while ago when I commented on how you well you were doing?

“You’re living your best life,” I said.

“Thanks to my meds,” you replied. “And thanks to sixty-four years of working my ass off to get here.”

You were right on both counts. The meds are important but they’re not enough on their own. I learned that in the first six months or so of our friendship. When we met you were in wild mania. That was a ride, for us both. It took me a while to recognise how unsafe it was for you. You saw it first. You and your psychiatrist. He was a good match for you, even when you didn’t like what he told you! Together, you agreed a change in medication. Your mania receded, overshooting into the deepest of depressions. You saw it coming. You warned me and your other friends. You knew how hard it would be, and gave us permission to leave before it got too bad. Most of us stayed. I stayed. That winter was both less awful and far worse than you predicted. But we saw it out. Sat it out. One day, sometimes one hour, at a time.

In the epilogue of our book you said “[Marty] did not reach down a hand to pull me up from my dark hole. He came down and sat with me while I began rethreading, bit my bit, what could be mended.” That means a lot to me because often that’s all I know how to do. Yes I help with practical things — we work well together! — but often the only gift I can offer you is my presence. Anaïs Nin expressed it well. “I weep,” she said, “because you cannot save people. You can only love them. You can’t transform them, you can only console them.”

You say you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. I take that seriously. But I know also that I can’t keep you here on my own. I can only lend my support, my energy, my heart, to help you keep yourself as well as possible. As safe as possible. You have a great support team, meds that work for you, and strategies and techniques you’ve learned over decades of illness. I’m proud to be part of that team — Team Frannie — but like everything else of value, that’s not by accident. I found an old note from 2017 where you said “You are in close, but only because you fought for it.” Yes I did, and always will. You let me in, and I’m not going anywhere.

Thankfully, it’s been years since you were in prolonged episodes of mania or depression. There have been occasions when you’ve veered off the central path, as it were, but you’ve brought things back to centre. The ability to recover the middle ground is a sign that you’re better able to manage your illnesses. It isn’t easy and it doesn’t happen by luck or chance alone. To paraphrase a line generally attributed to Thomas Jefferson, the price of stability is eternal vigilance.

Those not on the inside, as it were, see someone living life, engaging in the world, seemingly unaffected by illness. It’s a sad indictment of these times that someone who’s lived with debilitating and life-threatening illness all their life can have their diagnoses dismissed, simply because they don’t present as ill enough to be believed. Belief is the first and most fundamental gift we can offer anyone courageous enough to share their reality with us. That’s as true of illness as it is of trauma, abuse, or anything else. I believe you, Fran. It never occurred to me not to.

Our friendship doesn’t depend on how well or badly things are going for you. We’ve navigated some pretty dire times in the past fourteen years, and shared times of delight, success, and joy. It’s all equally valued and valuable. And our friendship isn’t all one way. You’re there for me every bit as much as I’m there for you! I may not have a mental health diagnosis but I have my dark times, my doubts, my insecurities, as much as anyone else. At such times, you remind me who I am and what I have to offer. As you told me once when I was doubting myself, “You wrote a book. A whole fucking book. Don’t you give yourself credit for that?” On another occasion, you reassured me, “You’re just fucked up, like the rest of us.” That’s a reminder I cherish!

On World Bipolar Day and every other day, I’m happy and proud to be your friend, Fran. To have you in my life and to be in yours. There are no guarrantees. As you wrote fifteen years ago in Lessons of the Night, illness doesn’t go away. “I still have chronic fatigue syndrome. I still have fibromyalgia. I still have bipolar. I manage them. They don’t manage me. They are part of the package instead of who I am.” That essay is an extraordinary testament to your spirit and the realities of living with illness. It deserves to be read by everyone wanting to understand. It helped me to understand.

I hope you never again experience the wild mania and crippling depression you knew when we were first friends, but if that ever happens, I will be here. In the immortal words:

“You’re stuck with me now, Fran.”
“Like gum on my shoe.”

Your best friend,

Marty

World Bipolar Day

World Bipolar Day is celebrated each year on 30 March, the birthday of Vincent Van Gogh, who was diagnosed with bipolar after he died. The vision of World Bipolar Day is to encourage understanding about what bipolar is — and isn’t — and to banish stigma from the face of the planet.

Photo by sq lim at Unsplash.

Saturday, 22 March 2025

The Old Man and the Ducks

Walking in the park,
I saw an old man sitting on a bench.
He looked sad.
So I wrote him a poem about the ducks.
It’s for your wife, I said.
He looked at me. At the poem.
Thank you, he said.
She loved the ducks.
He was crying as I walked away.

Photo by Guilherme Garcia at Unsplash.

Wednesday, 19 March 2025

Are You Okay Talking About This? Trust and Boundaries in Caring Friendships

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. On her blog I’m NOT Disordered Aimee draws on her extensive personal experience. We were discussing some of those experiences when she stopped and told me she had something important to say before she continued. She said sharing what she’s been through in the past — and in some cases still goes through — is incredibly valuable and helpful to her. But she wanted to check that I was okay hearing the details. I told her I was fine, and reassured her I’d let her know if that ever changed. Afterwards, it struck me what an important exchange that had been. It said a great deal about our friendship.

Difficult Topics

That kind of trust isn’t unique to me and Aimee. It’s relevant to a wide range of relationships and situations. It’s particularly valuable where conversations touch on “difficult” topics such as mental illness, trauma, rape, addiction, abuse, self-harm, overdose, loss, death, bereavement, or suicidality.

I put “difficult” in quotes deliberately. These subjects are too often considered taboo. We avoid talking about them at all if we can. Where that’s not possible, we discuss them as briefly as possible, keen to move on to safer topics. Holiday plans. The weather. The mundane happinesses and problems we all experience at one time or another. Life isn’t always mundane, however. Being able to share and discuss the difficult, messy, awkward, and painful aspects of our lives can be profoundly validating. It can also deepen and reinforce our connections with those we love and care about.

It’s worth pointing out that everyone is different. What might not be problematic for one person to hear or talk about may be triggering for someone else.

Am I Really Okay?

I was being honest when I told Aimee I didn’t have any issues with what she was sharing with me. That’s also true of me and Fran, and other friends. If they feel safe sharing with me, I want to hear. That’s the case no matter what they want to tell me, or whether those experiences are historic or current.

It’s worth exploring how I can be okay hearing about what are sometimes very serious, traumatic, even life-threatening experiences and situations. The following is excerpted from High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder.

In the early days of our friendship Fran was manic, wild, and unpredictable. Many people — including some who had known her a long time — were fearful and worried about her behaviour. I was unsure whether my ability to remain calm in her presence was healthy, or a sign that I was ill-equipped to support her effectively. The following is from my diary.
I never know how Fran is doing, not really. She can seem so fragile, so close to the edge, so hurt and hurting . . . and then the next moment we are laughing, or mad at each other. I’m learning not to be scared, not to worry, but instead to care. So many people are scared for her. They can’t deal with her, can’t cope at all. Perhaps I should be like that. Am I a danger to Fran because I am so calm? Perhaps I am being naive. Or perhaps it makes me precisely who she needs.
That final sentence was the turning point in my understanding. Positive, supportive and vigilant care is far healthier for Fran than any amount of fear-based worrying.

This message is captured in our mantra don’t worry about me, care about me. It’s a principle that has informed and guided my caring relationship with Fran and other friends over the years. As valuable as the reminder is, it doesn’t explain how I can be okay with friends sharing the “messy” details of their lives with me. There are two key aspects to this: my lack of equivalent experience and my sense of curiosity.

Lived Experience

I have little or no first-hand experience of mental illness, trauma, or the other “difficult” topics I mentioned earlier. This can be an obstacle to communication. Some people feel safer and more comfortable discussing things with people with similar lived experience. They don’t have to spend time setting the scene, explaining or justifying themselves, because the other person gets it.

There are other reasons someone might turn elsewhere when they’re in need of someone to talk to. I’ve discussed some of these in It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To? I used to feel sad if I wasn’t my friends’ go-to person, but I get it now. What matters is whether my friends have someone or somewhere to turn when they need help, support, or guidance. It doesn’t always have to be me.

Paradoxically, my lack of equivalent experience can be helpful. I’m less likely to assume I know what’s going on for my friend or imagine that what worked for me is relevant to their situation. I’m also less likely to be triggered by the details of what my friend has gone through or is going through at the time.

Curiosity

On more than one occasion I’ve told Aimee and Fran that it’s very educational being their friend. That might sound as though I’m trivialising their experiences, but I’m genuinely interested to learn about their lives and what they’ve gone through. Being curious helps me appreciate their situation and makes me more able to support them effectively. I’ve written about this previously in How to Educate Yourself about Your Friend’s Mental Health Condition.

You might wonder why you’d want to take the time and trouble to learn about your friend’s health condition. What’s in it for you? Fran never asked or expected me to educate myself about her situation, but our friendship has benefited enormously in many ways. Yours can too. [...] Most important of all, you will demonstrate your commitment to your friendship. Your friend is far more than their illness and symptoms, but by taking time to learn what you can, you’re acknowledging the impact they have in your friend’s life.

An important aspect of curiosity is asking the right questions. That’s certainly true of me and Aimee. She once wrote in an open letter to me on her blog, “I love that you ask me questions when I’m struggling because it’s much more helpful than you just sitting there and nodding along, pretending to understand.”

What if I’m Not Okay?

I told Aimee I’d let her know if I was ever not okay with her talking about her experiences. There’s nothing I’d refuse in principle to discuss, but it’s conceivable something might happen that I’d have difficulty with. I once asked her to check in with me before sending me photos or content that could be problematic. Her “Do you want to see?” means a lot. It reminds us both that there are — or could be — boundaries. It hasn’t happened so far but I’d feel able to say “No thank you” or “Not right now” if the situation arose.

The same is true with other friends. “There’s no TMI [too much information] between us!” feels great in a friendship, but there are times when I’ve hit that boundary. That’s not a problem. Quite the opposite. Being aware of your respective boundaries is valuable in any relationship. There have been times when a friend has asked me not to talk about a particular topic because they’ve found it triggering, or because they’ve not had the capacity to handle it there and then. On at least one occasion they told me later they could discuss it now if I still needed to.

Aimee’s Perspective

I invited Aimee to contribute her thoughts on this important topic.

As a survivor of rape and sexual abuse, I’m incredibly aware and cautious of the fact that sharing my story and talking to others about my trauma can be upsetting to a lot of people. I also recognise that it can trigger other survivors to think more about their own memories and to perhaps experience very upsetting and potentially de-stabilising flashbacks of their experiences.
In all honesty, I find these factors difficult because sometimes I find myself feeling a bit jealous and resentful in thinking; “I wish I didn’t know about any of this too!” It’s also challenging because I had an incredibly naive childhood, which meant that the rape and abuse were both shocking and unbelievable. I didn’t have much knowledge about just how wrong it was. It was therefore difficult to realise it was something that I actually needed to report to the Police. The fact that the naivety had such a negative impact has influenced my opinion of how detailed I should be disclosing the rape and abuse in my blog posts and other public content I create and the work that I do.
— Aimee Wilson

I’m grateful to Aimee for her contribution. Check out her blog I’m NOT Disordered.

Over to You

In this post I’ve discussed the importance of honesty and trust when discussing potentially difficult topics with friends. I’ve touched on some of the reasons people might not want to share, and described how I’m able to hear friends share their experiences without finding it triggering or distressing. Finally, I’ve mentioned the importance of respecting each other’s boundaries.

Do you have people you can discuss personal or difficult experiences with? Is it easier for you to share if they’ve had relevant or equivalent experience? What makes you feel safe — or unsafe — with people? Do you find it hard listening to friends or loved ones talk about what they’re going through? How do you deal with that?

Fran and I would love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

Photo by Roberto Nickson at Unsplash

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