Thursday, 6 July 2017

‘Come with me let’s die anywhere else’: Suburbia, Searching and Not Getting Out


Do you have a friend who is so completely cool you have no idea why they would even answer you facebook messages?!

This is how I feel about Claire.

And not only does this human disco ball acknowledge my disgusting existsence but I also get to work with her on cool projects!

Like this zine!



And like the documentary Sad Girl Cinema, which I **cannot wait** to show in full btw.

The essay I contributed for Claire's pop cultural pilgrimages zine (which you can bag here btw! Also pls check out the second issue of FYWL as that is genuinely one of my all time fave zines ever ok?? I was lucky enough to write for the first issue!) is one of my favourite essays I've written, as it genuinely just feels so much...a part of me? I do hope you like it:

‘Come with me let’s die anywhere else’: Suburbia, Searching and Not Getting Out

Content warning: rape, childhood sexual abuse including that of an infant


In 2004, there was a song that a bunch of people liked which I thought was ok. The song was by a band that I thought was ok. I also thought the band was Christian (coz their name had the word ‘prophet’ in) which made them ok. I saw them headline a festival and it was ok. Ok. Ok. Ok.

Eight years on, their lead singer, Ian Watkins was charged in court with conspiracy “to rape a one-year-old girl, of two incidents of conspiring to engage in sexual touching with two young children; possessing, making and distributing indecent images; and possessing “extreme” animal pornography.”[1] He pleaded guilty to “conspiring to rape a child, three counts of sexual assault involving children, seven involving taking, making or possessing indecent images of children and one of possessing an extreme pornographic image involving a sex act on an animal.”[2] Two female fans of his band, the Lostprophets, stood on trial alongside their idol, such was their devotion to Watkins they had “sexually abused their children at [his] behest and were prepared to make the children available to him for sex.”[3]

Described as a "committed, organised paedophile" and "potentially the most dangerous sex offender" ever seen by the Senior Investigating Officer of the case, the judge lamented the fact that the case had "plunged into new depths of depravity".[4] Watkins is incarcerated in HM Prison Long Lartin, a Category A men's prison in an English village, serving 29 years. He discussed his crimes over a recorded phone call in prison, to a female fan, describing them as "mega lolz". The expression "mega lolz" had previously been sold on Lost Prophets T-shirts. His band had even performed against a backdrop of the phrase when playing on the main stage of Reading festival in 2010. In a report on this incident the Guardian described Watkins as a “paedophile rock star”.[5]

All future tour dates were cancelled and the group disbanded. Two years on it was reported a new single had been released on Spotify but it was revealed to be a hoax, simply the original recording of Taylor Swift’s ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’.

But let’s go back to that single. Before I rebranded my apathy of a Download headliner (there were fireworks at the end! I was bored!) into a self-righteous psychic act. The ‘I’ve always known’ attitude to the celebrity rapist a worse and weirder incarnation of the ‘I liked them before they were cool’ outlook. Taken from the album ‘Start Something’, which has a record cover of comically Gothic script, a heavily edited black and white photograph of a young person in a studded belt and black hoodie stands in the middle of an empty road, sky scrapers stretching out behind them, their eye scribbled out in that corny Sex Pistols styles. A parody of 2004. With Good Charlotte and Hoobastank on a back-up.

Reviewing the album, the BBC described it as “tactically worded to the point of genius”, remarking that regardless of quality the Lostprophets work is “ludicrously bankable music, after all. A painstaking chemical compound of technical hardcore guitar and emo-ish vocal pleading.” In short, they concluded “Resistance is pretty much futile”.[6] Johnn Loftus develops this in his single review of Last Train Home, writing that:

"Last Train Home" was an absolute masterpiece of pop single mixing board surgery, flawlessly, brazenly binding the properties of three of California's most marketable acts into one monster of a post-grunge anthem, sung by a bunch of immaculately T-shirted dudes from Pontypridd. Beginning with an instrumental run through its unstoppable chorus, the song drifted into faraway echoes of piano as vocalist Ian Watkins emoted vaguely meaningful lyrics like "Love was once apart/But now it's disappeared". But pretty soon it was time for that chorus again. Lusty shouts of "We sing!" matched hard-cranking distortion, gave out for a brief interlude, and exploded once again in an absolute flurry of Linkubustankian triumph. The kids loved it, and by May 2004, "Last Train Home" had peaked at #1 on the Billboard's Modern Rock singles chart.[7]

Last Train Home was reflective of a particular brand of 00’s desperation where the endless circle of a chorus, a whirlpool of a shout, that presented a ride home to your suburban bedroom as an exit ticket to somewhere greater. Was every teenager in 2004 so desperate for escape that they took a rapist for their ticket out of here? And why in retrospect did I think it was okay that all my other girl friends in school were dating leather trench coat clad creeps in their twenties?

But there's still tomorrow
Forget the sorrow
And I can be on the last train home
Watch it pass the day
As it fades away
No more time to care
No more time, today
-Last Train Home, Lostprophets, 2004

The singles that sang most powerful were those that professed escape in one’s return, that presented the journey home, vomit stained and alone as a hand to hold us and a finger to guide us. All as Alex Turner sails backwards down a highway, his eyes on the club as the car heads home. The meters rising and the memories merging. He didn’t want to leave.

And so why are we in a taxi?
'Cause I didn't want to leave
I said "It's High Green Mate, via Hillsborough please!
Artic Monkeys, ‘’Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured, 2006

And another last train home rushes by for Jamie T, one of the leaders in the spoken word world of white, drunk (vaguely) working class young men, lost forever in the public transport system of the 00’s:

Drunk and being sick, I feel like shit
I gotta quit I hope I haven't missed the last train
Gonna be stuck in Hampton Wick,
With the boys across the platform
Shouting lightweight prick
I'm a featherweight champion, cheap to get pissed
Jamie T, Sticks n Stones, 2009

It’s easy to sing and hard to leave. The area I’m from is called Downend, isn’t that the best combination of words? Down-end! Dead end! From my childhood window I can watch the glowing lattices of the bus windows jumble down the highway. There is not so much to say about a suburb on the outskirts of Bristol, with its post-war builds and largely white and working to middle class population, but it’s my area of expertise as I’ve never managed to actually get out of it. Getting out is a myth, of the working class kid, of the first generation kid, I am a failure of both. Succeeding only in the accomplishment of being a free school meal kid with an Oxford education that rendered me back home with my family. You never left the suburbs but at least you didn’t end up back in Syria. Syria! A civil war that is not civil in any sense of the word.

Getting out is also a recovery myth. Escaping trauma. Healing, recovery, therapy, all subjects I fail fantastically at. And it is my 25th year in this place and the 10th Anniversary of ‘Skins’, a distinctly Downend drama of Bristol 00’s youth, lead character and eager extras alike, acting as an alumni of my comprehensive school education. House parties spent trying not to stare at E4 superstar celebrities. It was even prestigious to be an extra in Skins. I auditioned for a casting with a school friend. It was a weekend. We got the bus. I couldn’t act and we didn’t get it but we were there and that was enough. ‘Has every Bristol teen come out for this?’, rolls the eyes of a London television executive. But she didn’t understand. It felt like we were a part of something.

The people of Downend are eager to escape. Each year a new reality television contestant from my road, a new person to vote for on ITV or Channel Four, a new campaign poster in the fish and chip shop. Each year they come back. We never win and they go back to their childhood bedrooms and I go back to watching strangers, not neighbours, on the television.
 
Who can save us? And from what? I’m not entirely sure what we’re escaping from but I know it’s urgent. This country is frightening and though I am meant to ‘go back to where I came from’ the only place that will ever be is suburban Bristol. It really does feel like the end of the world.

“In the dark halls of the museum that is now what remains
of Auschwitz, I see a heap of children's shoes, or something
like that, something I have already seen elsewhere, under a
Christmas tree, for instance, dolls I believe. The abjection of
Nazi crime reaches its apex when death, which, in any case,
kills me, interferes with what, in my living universe, is supposed
to save me from death: childhood, science, among other
things.”
-Julia Kristeva, Approaching Abjection

2016 was universally understood as the Worst Year Ever for its unique blend of far-right triumphs and music legends passings. What cannot save me from death, but was promised to save me from death: pop music, glam rock stars, youth culture, movie stars, good manners, celebrity endorsements, a vague liberal sensibility that positions cultural consumption as a radical act, an ‘edgy’ sense of humour, revealed to be wholly unironic in its adoption by the far right, a cute sense of style. All proven meaningless in one year. All proven meaningless as the 45th  President sang along to 3 Doors Down.

The conversation around Bannon’s clothes reminds me a little bit of the meme about two photos of Drake, one in which he’s dressed to the nines, one where he’s in sweats, captioned, “Get you a man who can do both.” Maybe the American public is just confused because we’ve never encountered such an effective “man who can do both,” where both is “look ridiculous” and “push through hateful policy.” Shouldn’t the former prevent him from doing the latter? If someone’s maybe a Nazi, isn’t he supposed to at least dress well? Like all things Trump, this is unprecedented, and Americans are struggling for the appropriate reaction.[8]
- Heather Schwedel, Should We Care What Steve Bannon Wears in the Oval Office?

Steve Bannon is not dressed for a Rolling Stone shoot, he’s dressed for the apocalypse.[9]
And though we ‘need the psychos when the apocalypse hits’, as those around me have enthusiastically assured me when I question my worth as a disabled woman in a hostile world, I do worry about my place in all of this. I’ve never been branded amongst the well-mannered mentally ill but I do not think the political violence of the far-left is an option for someone already so traumatised as me. Clips of Bane, the Batman supervillain, have been shared in comparison with the 45th and there is one line I think of especially, ‘I was raised in the darkness, you merely adopted it’. So mall goth, so Lostprophets! But as a survivor who did not really survive, who could unironically say she was raised in the darkness, whose hyper vigilance has nearly broken the nose of my beloved, I do not see a punch as a great way to go for me. Though there is something striking about a Neo-Nazi’s description of his relationship with an internet forum’s cartoon frog interrupted by a smack on the nose (that contrast between the imaginary safe space of ideology and the reality of its opposition) it’s not a path I would personally go for.  All violence is poisoned for me because I am poisoned, with the violence of a political movement distinct from the violence of the abused. In short, I’m too feral to go anti-fa. Too crazy to be anyone’s comrade.

This is the violence of traumatised embodiment which means the only space I can destroy is my own. I’ve tried to cut myself out of this and consume my way out of this. And through my cut-up body I cultivate a loneliness that makes me corny. That makes me sit on the plastic green grass of a windowless museum and watch screenings of Woodstock like it means I was there. That makes me seek the morbid fandom of Paris, with its celebrity grave stones and a love for a place so heavy that is has the power to destroy it entirely:

When locks first began to appear more than five years ago, some “could be seen as rather pleasant, but as years passed they took on such proportions that they were no longer acceptable for the cultural heritage” of Paris, Mr. Julliard said.

Most of the locks look rather flimsy, bought for 5 or 10 euros ($5.50 to $11) along the quays on either side of the Seine, but with hundreds of thousands hanging on the bridge, they were too heavy for its elegant ironwork. There was a constant risk that batches of the locks or even a whole panel could have come crashing down on the boats passing beneath. For some time, the city has periodically replaced whole sections of the bridge, only to see them fill again with locks.[10]


I see it too, in the work Juno Calypso a feminist photographer who took herself on a one-woman honeymoon, photographing herself in the love spaces of the coupled, heart shaped tubs and mirrored ceiling, made up and alone. Her photographs speak of “the area in between desire and disappointment” where images are both “sad and sexy”.[11] The sad lap dance. The way Donald Trump has warped the words ‘so beautiful’ beyond meaning. (Coincidentally it seems that the children of Syria are in fact beautiful, if still utterly unwanted, but only when they are dead.)


Desire is a death space and fandom is a failure, but there is hope even in heaven. In Charlie Brooker’s ‘Black Mirror’ lies the party town of San Junipero. A gay girl afterlife of neon beaches and makeover montages. Heaven is a place on earth, if only in our head. Because pop fandom is a queer kind of dysphoria, all the day dreams, celebrity ships, the unrealised crushes, unreciprocated love, parties no one came to, weekends spent alone, bodies we could have been, living forever in paradise, finally finding their potential, finding their form. The impossible redemption is realised. There are pink signs and white sands and blue light and everyone is young and everything is fun. I want to live there, or maybe I always have or already do.

But until I can be a full time San Junipero resident I stay in the suburbs playing video games in the dark. ‘Night in the Woods’ is my favourite, an indie side scroller that follows a college drop out cartoon cat named Mae aimlessly wander through her suburban home town of Possum Falls. She shoplifts from Hot Topic, plays bad bass and disapoints her parents. There aren’t so many jobs, or mobile phone reception, and her mental health is getting bad again. There’s monsters in the woods, and they’re swallowing up the unwanted and the unproductive. And there’s this one song her band plays that I keep thinking about, that keeps playing in my head:

“I just want to diiiie anywhere else–If
Only I could diiiie anywhere else–So
Come with me, let’s diiiiie anywhere else
An-y-where… just not here”
-Die Anywhere Else, Night in the Woods






[1] John Hall, ‘Lostprophets singer Ian Watkins remanded in custody after appearing in court accused of conspiring to rape one-year-old girl’, The Independent, Wednesday 19 December 2012
[3] Steven Morris, ‘Lostprophets' Ian Watkins admits sex offences including attempted rape of baby’, The Guardian, Tuesday 26th November 2013
[4] Ed, ‘Ian Watkins could be 'most dangerous sex offender I have ever seen' – officer’, The Guardian, Wednesday 18th December 2013
Ed. ‘Lostprophets' Ian Watkins sentenced to 35 years over child sex offences’, BBC, 18th December 2013
[5] Ed., Convicted paedophile Ian Watkins told fan: 'It was mega lolz', The Guardian, Wednesday 18th December 2013
[6] Jack Smith, ‘Lostprophets Start Something Review’, BBC, 2004
[7] Johnny Loftus, Last Train Home: Song Review, All Music
[8] Heather Schwedel, ‘Should We Care What Steve Bannon Wears in the Oval Office?’, Slate, January 30th 2017

[9] “He’s not dressing for workplace success, to climb the ladder, to score points with the boss—he’s dressing for the apocalypse.”

-Heather Schwedel, ‘Should We Care What Steve Bannon Wears in the Oval Office?’, Slate, January 30th 2017


[10] Alissa J. Rubin, ‘Paris Bridge’s Love Locks Are Taken Down’, New York Times, June 1st 2015

[11] Quoted from Juno Calypso’s Arnolfini Talk ‘Performing for the Camera’, January 2017

Friday, 7 April 2017

Typography and Trauma: Conversations on Doll Hospital Journal, Writefest 2017

I was so lucky to skype with the folks at Writefest about all things Doll Hospital Journal. Here's a rough transcript of what we chatted about :)

What is Doll Hospital and why did you start it?

Doll Hospital is an art and literature journal on mental health (though it’s of course great if people beyond that frame of experience enjoy and appreciate our work too!) We consider both I suppose ‘traditional’ notions of ‘mental illness’, by which I mean individuals such as myself who might consider themselves as ‘mentally ill’ as well as broader questions of survival and self-love within a hostile world.

I’m not going to say we’re the final word on mental health or anything ridiculous like that. It’s easy for small press publications to set unachievable and arrogant goals, it’s a little bubble so it can be tempting to see yourself as fancier than you are. However, with any publishing project on marginalised narratives I think it’s better to see yourself as part of a wider conversation and constellation of publishing and creative projects.

I started Doll Hospital from a space of my own mental health struggles and of wanting to find a platform to explore themes of trauma and stigmatised mental illness beyond online magazines, where I found myself to self-censor, to rebrand myself as more appealing, more sane in order to appeal to both comment sections and a performative politics of respectability and also beyond me live tweeting my suicidal ideation at 3am on my Twitter.

How many people work on each issue?

On average we have around sixty contributors per issue, with each issue spanning around 150 to 170 pages. Behind the scenes, I manage and edit submissions, seeking editorial and proofing help from, on average around half a dozen editors and proofers. Though I may have an editor credential on my mast head I have complex learning difficulties, an element that is rarely considered within publishing. So while I think I have a pretty good eye for exploring and curating mental health narratives, I struggle so much with practical issues such as spelling, formatting and some other quite ‘basic’ tasks. I remember in issue one before we got proofing help I spelt the word ‘depression’ wrong in the contents, I was so embarrassed so I’m so grateful for that side of the Doll Hospital team!

Beyond editing I work chiefly alongside Maggie, our amazing graphic designer, this is definitely my favourite part of working on Doll Hospital! We work on unique spreads for each and every piece to do each story justice within a print medium and to provide a visual narrative to our readers. We do all kinds of fun stuff like scanning cute fabrics for backgrounds, sourcing interesting illustrations, handwriting titles and poems (though that’s Maggie’s speciality-my handwriting is rubbish!), choosing cover art and so on. Visually we are definitely inspired by the beauty and texture of the Rookie Yearbook series and I’m so grateful for the support of their editor Tavi Gevinson gave us when we were starting off.

What do you look for in submissions?

I don’t have any pre-set notions of what a ‘submission’ should be, I hate the idea that a work does not have ‘value’ because it does not match some pre-set aesthetic credentials set by an editorial team, which itself turns so called inclusive spaces into weird cliques.  There’s a worrying history of this within feminist publishing history, whether that’s Sassy magazine’s alternative cool girl mentality or the trauma anthology genre of the 1980s, where personal stories were rejected because a survivor’s story was not written ‘sophisticatedly’ enough (which is a issue that Kali Tal, an amazing trauma theorist and an inspiration of mine, interestingly critiques in her book World’s of Hurt). Really I want our contributors to guide this process not me, if they have a story they want to tell I just want to be here to help facilitate the process.

What challenges have you run into when either finding pieces to publish or publishing the journal itself?

Funding a print journal if you don’t have disposable income is super tough! We fund printing costs for our hard copy issues issues through hard copy pre-orders, whilst we sell digital copies of our journals on a pay as you wish basis, which helps us pay for things like postage so we can send free hard copies of our journals to our staff and contributors.  It’s a shoestring budget but I try to make it work. For instance, we launch digital copies of our issues before the print version goes out and once print versions have sold out, people can still access the digital copy.

We’re very lucky that we’ve never been short of amazing pieces to publish, we’ve had so many incredible submissions across all mediums, whilst my own interest in mental health and wider self-advocacy work for marginalised folks means I always have an endless list of people I’m keen to reach out to. In this sense I think submission wise the most frustrating part is lack of time and resources! We actually had to close our submissions for writing works as I just couldn’t keep up and that kind of sucked. I need a time machine and a pot of gold or something!

What role do you think literature and art plays in one’s mental health?

That’s a tricky one, and something I think all creative folk with mental health struggles circle around this endlessly. We are taught that literature and art gives our struggles ‘value’ which is a structure I would query, it feels like a scam, mental illness isn’t a coupon you can exchange for a prize winning novel or something! I think this artificial heritage of ‘the tortured genius’ can limit our creative freedom, it’s easy to find yourself comparing yourself to tragic characters in movies and feel like these totally ficticious individuals carry more weight, more credentials than our actual lives!

However, I don’t think it’s as simple to say that to engage with this history is to ‘romaticise’ it or even that to ‘romanticise’ something is always a bad thing, the people who adore this work are often mentally ill themselves, especially mentally ill young women, teenage girls. It’s meaning and role is reinterpreted and reinvented by the viewer to create a world that is a little bit more beautiful for those who are far too lonely to find the ‘real world’ to be enough. And yes I am partly talking about myself here! I’m a total pop culture geek! Even with corny things like the Suicide Squad movie I love watching them and thinking about them and what they mean to people.

There are a number of issues related to mental health that are included in the magazine. How do you decide which ones to include? In other words, do you try to include pieces that cover a whole slew of mental health issues, or do you aim to publish the best of what you receive, regardless of which issues are covered (or not covered) in each issue?

I don’t have a pre-set idea of what mental health (or broader oppression experiences) should and ‘will’ be included, our submitters guide that, I don’t start with certain pre-set ideas that seems weird to me, you can’t theme this stuff, you just give people the space and the platform to tell the stories they need to tell. The range happens naturally because everyone has different experiences, different intersecting oppressions, different struggles. You can’t force that to happen.

When it comes to submissions I actually have a ‘no rejection’ rule, I mean right now we can’t look at writing subs as we simply don’t have the space, but when submissions are open whoever reaches out to us is going to be in Doll Hospital. Maybe that’s not ‘practical’ or whatever but I don’t care. If someone wants to be in the journal then they’re in! If a piece is not quite developed or suitable for publication straight away then we’ll work with them until it is, even bringing in different artists for cross collaboration to support them in their storytelling. If the original piece submitted is not quite right then we will ask to see additional work. We live in a disposable culture where we judge someone by one email, one draft, it’s a case of taking time to collaborate and connect with each of our contributors. I know what it’s like to get rejection after rejection, how crushing it is, to enforce that kind of mentality in a journal which works within anti-ableism advocacy….well that would be messed up and nonsensical!

How do you think the magazine addresses issues of helping people to understand mental health versus sensationalizing it? And connected to that, do you feel like the magazine is aimed more for people who have a mental health issue or is it to educate/bring awareness to those who do not have a mental health issue?

Doll Hospital is created for those struggling with mental health and the psychological impacts of intersecting oppressions, it’s not so much an ‘awareness tools’ for able-minded people, for people who are not struggling, though if individuals outside of mental health and survival struggles, appreciate and our educated by the work in Doll Hospital that’s great.

The ‘awareness’ model of mental health often feels a little strange, like I am altogether aware I’m mentally ill (!) but how are we going to use this *awareness* to change the world around us to make it more liveable? Awareness without action is not sustainable support for those who need it most.

One of the most common models of this is these ‘talk about mental health day’ iniatives, I can’t help but find these sanctioned mental health awareness days a little frustrating, to me it feels like those who are struggling *are* talking, not just 1 day but all 365 days a year, it’s just that our needs are not necessarily being listened to, ask anyone in Britain who is struggling to access mental health care via the NHS, mentally ill individuals are reaching out, seeking to bring awareness to the struggles they face, but due to profound cuts to disability support these voices are not being recognised or can’t be addressed without the resources needed. Jade, a doll hospital contributor, actually wrote an amazing essay on this issue in Doll Hospital Issue Four.

But in regards to the question of sensationalising mental health, like I said before, I personally don’t think a mentally ill person looking to express their experiences needs to be shut down under the lines of sensationalisation, or romanticsation, that’s an able minded issue, that romanticsation of mental illness as like a tragic super power or whatever. Yes, those of us are isolated may gravitate towards certain aesthetic models of expression, certain pop cultural symbols, but that’s a question of making life a little more bearable. I think people who get mad at mentally ill teenage girls for being to into like…Winona Ryder or Courtney Love or… whatever need to get their priorities in order.

 What do you think about using humor when writing about serious subjects?

Humour is a subject I think about constantly in regards to mental health and trauma, I’m actually writing my entire PhD on it as it happens! I also wrote an entire essay for Doll Hospital on navigating trauma and cultivating survivordom through comedy characters like Bernard Black in Black Books, Mordecai in the Regular Show and Charlie Kelly in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Though I should say I’ve recently got pretty disillusioned with It’s Always Sunny I stopped watching after the first episode of the most recent season as it fell into that ‘say anything as long as it’s presented as a joke’ model, not only is this just lazy writing, I think this does the power of comedy a disservice! Because the whole point in humour is that it *does* have power to both enforce and subvert existing belief systems, to topple the powerful and belittle the already vulnerable, to dismiss something as ‘just a joke’ (which is so often the standard trademark of a school bully) fails to realise how powerful humour really is.

One of the reason I became drawn to humor was through the act of nervous laughter, I effectively got ‘told off’ in therapy as I nervously laughed when describing an traumatic event. I was told that I was not taking my childhood sexual abuse background seriously enough! Like what the fuck does that mean? What’s the correct way of dealing with such a difficult thing?

I love comedy and humour because I hate the politics of respectability that tells us there’s one ‘right’ way, one ‘respectable’ way to address such a deeply personal issue.  

How do you organize each issue?

Each issue has certain standard features, at least two or more interviews, a mental health themed playlist, a roundtable discussion that discusses a marginalised mental health experience, an editor’s letter and of course as much awesome art, comics, poetry and essays on mental health and survival experiences that we can fit in!

I always try and balance text with the visuals, not everyone likes to read, not everyone as a result of mental health can concentrate on a long form text piece, or a result of associated learning or developmental disabilities finds reading a lengthy essay a realistic feat, so for every essay we include I make sure we also have a range of comics, paintings and illustrations that tell a story too.
However, in terms of accessibility for improving our issues we’re working on translating our issues into screen reader form so Doll Hospital readers who are blind or visually impaired can enjoy the artwork too. This is a longer process than I would like though, I wish I’d translated it all already by now! I’d also be so interested in translating Doll Hospital into different languages however my translation skills are non-existent sadly!

What do you hope Doll Hospital will accomplish (or continues to accomplish) in the future?



Oh gosh, honestly when I started Doll Hospital in 2014, nearly three years ago, I had no expectations it was just a tweet asking if anyone wanted to make a mental health zine with me, I didn’t realise it was going to materialise in such beautiful and unexpected ways. Similarly I have no expectations with what and how Doll Hospital will develop or divulge in the future, I’m just happy to be here.

Follicle: Thoughts on Racialised Hair Pulling, Doll Hospital Issue 4 Essay


Doll Hospital Issue 4 is live! Yay! Read a preview, find out more here or grab the whole thing for pay as you wish!

I wrote two essay for this one! Here's the second:

FOLLICLE:  Thoughts on Racialized Hair Pulling
cw-trichotillomania, internalised racism, childhood sexual abuse, self-harm, anorexia, suicidal ideation

"For breakfast I ordered a poached egg on a piece of toast. When the dish arrived – and I tell you, it makes my stomach curdle just to write about it – there was a gleaming, curly, jet-black human hair, three inches long, lying diagonally across the yolk of my poached egg.
Whose hair was it that had lain embedded in the slimy yolk of my egg at breakfast? Undoubtedly it was the cook’s hair. And when, pray, had the cook last washed his head? He had probably never washed his head. Very well, then. He was almost certainly verminous. But that in itself would not cause a hair to fall out. What did cause the cook’s hair, then, to fall out on to my poached egg this morning as he transferred the egg from the pan to the plate. There is a reason for all things, and in this case the reason was obvious. The cook’s scalp was infested with purulent seborrhoeic impetigo. And the hair itself, the long black hair that I might so easily have swallowed had I been less alert, was therefore swarming with millions and millions of loving pathogenic cocci whose exact scientific name I have, happily, forgotten."
                -The Visitor, Roald Dahl
A ball of black hair down a silver shower drain in a white bath. Dark hair is disgust, nothing is nastier than pulling out a medium sized mammal from the shower drain, a space of cleanliness turned dirty by the passing presence of a racialized body. It is the embodiment of filth. It is pubic and obscene. It is coarsely crawling around on its snake-y belly with an afterlife of its own.
I starved myself, to de-sex, because I was molested and I was swarthy, because the two felt connected somehow, because I was molested, I was not blonde, and I was not a child, was never a child, could never be a child, no one would do that to a child so I was not a child. I starved myself to torch myself, my hair fell out, my hair fell out.
My thoughts are weeds each hair is a weed, I pull out the intrusive thoughts that pop out of my parting. All my thoughts are bad because I am bad. I am so bad and so ugly. I am out of control and so is my hair.
On the internet it says Arab girls are so ugly (read-so hairy) that they cover themselves not out of devotion but out of shame.
I started cutting when I started shaving.
Dark hair absorbs warmth, it heats my head, makes it glow like a halo. This is good as England is cold and cruel in both temperature and temperament.
When I was 15 I stood in front of the classroom projector and my dark curls projected on the whiteboard and the GHD girls laughed with their blue eyes and stable homes and said 'thank god that's not me'.
When I was 10 I was told I could not have a Jennifer Anniston hair cut because it did not work on 'ethnic hair', when I was 19 I was told I could not have a fringe because it did not work on 'ethnic' hair.
When I was 19 I stopped going to the hairdressers as no one wanted to cut my 'ethnic' hair. My black hair split from salon neglect. I pulled out the split ends, twisted off the breakages to keep it neat. I pulled high to the heaven until I pulled it out at the root. Pulling out my hair in public as a form of public apology for the space I occupy.
A failed apology though. Each hair I pull I am shedding more of myself though I am also sharing more of myself. Who wants to find long black hair on their seat. That's gross. That's dirty. I'm gross. I'm dirty.
I shave my back. I shave my hands. I shave my arms. I shave my face because there is too much to pluck.
'You can shave your back now Jason' says Regina George in Mean Girls! I am Jason! I am a monster!
I want to die but my hair is dead already. A dead thing, a foul thing.
My boyfriend finds a skull shaped box filled with my hair, he asks me what it means but it doesn't mean anything, I'm not that deep, I'm not deep at all. 

'She Devil': On the Demonization of Sexual Abuse Survivors, Doll Hospital Issue Four Essay


Doll Hospital Issue 4 is live! Yay! Read a preview, find out more here or grab the whole thing for pay as you wish!

I wrote two essay for this one! Here's the first:


'She Devil': On the Demonization of Sexual Abuse Survivors

cw-rape, childhood sexual abuse, internalised victim blaming, misogyny


Sexual violence survivordom is satanic worship and psychosis is magic demon power so either way I am going to Hell. No! I am not going to Hell. What a silly thing to say. I am Hell. You are going to me. When you die I'll carry you inside me. I will cradle you in my belly like the wooden crotch of a big oak tree in an Enid Blyton book where the little dormice live with their straw bonnets and scarves eating apple pie and talking magic.
I am not an Evil person, I am Evil itself. I am not Eve, I am the Apple. I am not Sméagol, turned monstrous in his addiction, I am the one Ring that made the poor fellow that way. The Instigator not the Embodier. She Devil.  It is much worse to be the whisper in the ear making the poor person do the bad thing than the innocent oaf that gets sucked along for the ride. Those piddly paedophiles with their magazine columns and their Hollywood movies are the victims I am not. Calling him a rapist really hurt his feelings and don't you know a court case will look bad on his CV? I am a bully. I am petty. I am increasingly realising that my function in life is to comfort the happy childhood-ed fangirls when their favourite rapist celebrity dies.
The survivor is the bad thing.  The original evil. The one that made him like this.
The She Devil on his shoulder.
It is all my fault.
The satanic survivor is amongst the living dead. Reanimator. A zombie in a pink cardigan who can write uncomfortable think pieces and might click maybe on your birthday party but won't actually ever turn up. She hasn't eaten one bit of breakfast but has reserved seats in the quiet carriage of the train station so that is something. The Satanic Survivor is a big success! She is wearing shoes and under eye concealer!
Being a survivor does not feel like surviving it feels like a living death. 'I AM AWAKE IN THE PLACE WHERE WOMEN DIE' shouts Jenny Holzer. But I do not wish to be awake, to be imbedded in this death space. My body is both war crime and war memorial. Surviving should equate to success, to escape, so why am I like this?
I am fascinated by Female Evil. The two-faced witch, whose crone-y crime is the aged ugliness she hides from the men who want to fuck her, her secret smelly face that shows only when alone and naked in bed. Snow White, The Shining, Game of Thrones, memes of girls with and without make up, a movie monster with as many incarnations as Michael Myers. Take her swimming on the first date, see if she has her devil face beneath the skin. Ugliness is evil, it is a betrayal. Beauty is evil too of course, though explanations differ on the what and why. Some say it makes people crazy, turns family men into neighbourhood child molesters. The child rape victim is not a child she is a Beautiful Nymphet, outside of innocence and outside of accountability.
The She Devil on the sex offender's shoulder strikes again.
It is all my fault, again.
And it is becoming increasingly clear that the female serial killer, the female evil, She Devil incarnate, is less Hannibal Lecter and more a countless list of working class women who have been sexually abused across infancy and adolescence, spit out from society and shut out from sympathy, only to be obviously and inevitably swallowed into abusive relationship of extraordinary damage.
These are women (some fictitious, Mallory Knox some altogether real, Aileen Wuornos) who are serial killer sex abuse survivors.
When I am told I am Evil for experiencing the worst things warm blooded murder is perhaps an outcome that would be convenient to ignore. The violence not of turning into your abuser but of becoming so scared that everyone is your abuser that you will punch out at anyone who presses too deep. When the crimes of our abusers are welcomed with a smile, whilst we are pushed out of heaven for being nasty little holes, it is understandable we want to rebrand ourselves as Saints and not She Devils. Those this and that outlines which press against the hipbones of overtly unwell women until they eventually draw blood. The hyper vigilance of post-traumatic stress disorder is a saucepan to smash the skulls of those around us.
Always on. Always Evil. Always tired. That curious mix of cruelty and creepiness that embodies the enduring fascination with childhood sexual abuse. The time lapse of the body. The endless rape. I Spit on Your Grave is a movie made in 1978 that has been playing on loop ever since its consummation. You think it’s about to end but it never does. They all keep coming back. The infinite gang rape swells across time, stretches over breakfast, lunch and dinner, before being clipped like a pigeon’s wing into a YouTube masturbatory montages and rewarded with a remake. This trauma never ends!
But they want that sweet, sweet She Devil, they need her. They need me. (Or me if I was not so greasy and so ugly and so ethnic). There’s a reason Harley Quinn is the Halloween costume of choice and not the Joker. They need the She Devil, to beat and to fuck, and on very special occasion even to be. Whether in a dress up show costume or a coveted movie role. A very special mask to pass around the dinner table.
I am a necessary evil, a warning, a dress up box, a ghost story. A She Devil.