And together we rise.

This was written after the Manchester Arena bombing of 22nd May 2017, and finessed and published after the London Bridge attacks of 4th June 2017. 

The piece was first conceived as a series of short monologues, all beginning with, "I'm scared. I fear for my family and for their future." Each would be written from the perspective of a different person living in the UK: a Leaver, Remainer, immigrant, and so on. But, upon thinking the idea through more, I realised I have neither the experience nor the right to write those truths. 

Instead, what was written - and what is shared here - was two monologues. The first in particular could potentially be true for anyone living in Britain, regardless of politics, religion, class. The piece seeks to first find our shared horrors, while the second seeks to create a mindset of creative hope rather than destructive fear. 

"Together, united, we'll never be defeated."

Click image to expand.

"I am scared. I fear for my family and for their future.
                        I fear for my kind
                                       my values
                                       my beliefs.
                        I fear the ascendency of those I can't understand.
                        I fear the decline of those I can.
                        I fear my apathy
                                  my inability to act, to prevent.
              I fear those who hate me.
                                         I fear my own hate.
                        I fear my lack of control.
                                         I fear my fellow country people
                                                   my press
                                                   my politicians.
I am scared. I fear for us."

"I am hopeful. I hope for my family and for their future.
                          I hope for my kind
                                           my values
                                           my beliefs.
                          I hope to understand those I can't.
                          I hope to question those I can.
                          I hope for my passion
                                           my ability to act, to prevent.
               I hope for those who hate me.
                                          I hope for my own hate.
                          I hope for my ability to impact.
                                          I hope for my fellow country people
                                                           my press
                                                           my politicians.
I am hopeful. I hope for us."

And the body says...

"I'm sorry."

"I can't even... What did you take me for? Did you think I was stupid?!"

"I didn't think you'd find out."

"And that makes it better?!"

A pause.

"Tell me. I want to know."

"Why? Why do this?"

"Because I need to know! When did it even start?"

"I... I can't remember."

"Fuck, a year ago? Because I remember a year ago..."

"No. Longer."

"Longer?!"

"Why are we doing this? What's the point?"

"Because you fucking owe it to me."

"Listen, I don't 'owe' you. Neither of us wanted-"

"Well we're fucking here now, aren't we. We can't just erase it like it never happened. I can't just erase it. This is it. This is part of my fucking story. You - are part - of my - fucking - story. What am I supposed to tell people?"

"It's just one of those things. It happens all the time."

"'It's just one of those things'?! What does that even... Do you have any... My family. My friends. Me."

An incoherent mumble, which sounds like a statistic.

"Don't give me numbers. I can't believe you're giving me fucking numbers. After all the shit you've pulled. All the little lies I've had to tell myself, when I knew, I fucking knew something wasn't right."

"I..."

"What?"

"I said I'm sorry. What else do you want?"

"The truth! Just for once, the fucking truth."

"The truth! The truth is that it's not even that bad! You're making this out to be worse than it is!"

"Don't lie to me! Again! Enough! God, that time when... And I convinced myself that it didn't mean anything. And all the other signs..."

"Look, this is easy. Now that it's out, in the open, it's easy. We can sort this."

"How? It's easy for you. You just carry on as you were. This is all on me. I'm the one who has to deal with it. I don't, I don't know that I can do this."

*****

"So now what?"

"We just keep talking."

"But we've been talking. How can we keep just talking?"

"Tell me again. Tell me again, everything."

"But..."

"No. You don't control this. You don't get to fucking control this. Tell me."

*****

"How've you been?"

"Okay. Better."

"That's good."

"I guess. It's..."

"It's what?"

"I still can't... square it."

"How can I help?'

"You can't."

*****

"I think I finally understand it."

An exasperated sigh.

"What. What do you 'finally understand'."

"I've been reading about it. About you."

"'About' me?"

"Yes. It is common. One in ten women have to deal with it, apparently."

"See! I told yo-"

"You fuck, that doesn't make it better. That doesn't somehow absolve you, make it okay. It's just good to know."

"Fine."

"You want to know what else I found out?"

"I... Argh, I don't even have to be having this conversation right now."

"Yes, you do. Because I don't think you realise what you are. I think you've been kidding yourself that it's fine. That it's normal. That what you do to women is... normal. And it isn't. And it's not - fucking - fair. It's not fair that you've forced me to deal with this. It's not fair that I now have to change everything, everything, that I'm the one that has to scramble around and attempt to rake and scrape up your detritus, to deal with it. So yes. Yes, you do fucking need to be having this conversation right now."

*****

Years later.

"I'm proud of you," the body says.

"I... Thank you."

"It's been tough for you, hasn't it?"

"It has. It has."

"You've done it though. All that reading, learning, changing your diet, your exercise, your mindset... It feels... I feel you understand me. That you respect me."

"But I don't feel... I still don't know that I can trust you. I still can't believe you failed me like that."

"Trust me? I can't- You know what? It's time. It's time you heard this. I am proud of you. I've watched as you've had to rewrite all you know about me, and about how we work together. And we're both so much better for it. I've felt myself slowly fix. I feel better than I've done in years; I know that you do too.

And yet. And yet. I don't think you realise what it's been like for me.

For years you abused me. You put me down. Dismissed me. Reviled me. Refused to try and understand me, and what I need. And that was even before I first started showing symptoms. You don't know what it was like. I knew you needed to get through this. That then wasn't the right time to share this."

"I, I had no idea. I didn't think..."

"'I didn't think'. Fuck, you wouldn't dream of treating anyone the way you treated me. The way you treated us. Because despite everything, despite these conversations, you do realise we're the same, now, don't you?

But when we first got that diagnosis, when we finally got a label that explained everything - our missed periods, our acne, those cysts on our ovaries, the fucking, the fucking weight gain - you ignored it. You went straight into denial.

Do you have any concept of what it's been like? To not be given compassion, to be blamed as a cause rather than a symptom? To feel and listen to you oscillate and struggle between disgust and acceptance about me?

And you know what? I don't regret it. I don't regret what I did. I had to take you - take us - to rock bottom for you to finally listen to me. Yes, I did 'betray' you. Us. But I don't regret it. You needed to start listening to me. 'The truth will out', as they say, regardless of whether or not you try to deny it."

"I don't know what to say."

A pause.

"I'm, I'm sorry," the self says.

"Don't apologise. You were right to be angry. You're still right to be angry. But we can fucking do this. We - can fucking - do this."

*****

Useful links for those with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome:

• My Google Doc of notes made while researching it
• PCOS diet support (great resource on managing PCOS through diet)
• Blog from Erika Volk (personal trainer with PCOS, and who specialises in exercise to help manage PCOS)
• The PCOS Workbook (on Amazon, £6.55 for the Kindle version)

If you know someone with PCOS, be patient with them, be understanding, be supportive without judgment, and be guided by them in how to talk about it. Symptoms vary so much along a spectrum, as do resilience and coping mechanisms.

And if you have PCOS, there are some great Facebook groups, in which women share their stories and help each other out. You can fucking do this.

Text me when you're home.

Content warning: street harassment; potential kidnap; potential stalking.

The street is brightly lit and busy.

Cars are getting from A to B. People are doing the same.

Restaurants, cafes, newsagents are still open.

It’s cold.

The bus may be a while yet.

Home is just 10 minutes away.

I start walking.

(I’m 17. My male friends insist on walking me home. I protest the need, but I’m grateful nonetheless.)

It’s novel; I can walk home, at night, at 1:30am, on my own, without worrying about my safety.

(I’m 13. An older man in a market tries talking to me, even though my father’s by my side.)

Couples walk past me, women walk past me, men walk past me, alone and in pairs. None of us interferes with the other.

(I’m 27. I’m walking with a female friend. Two men separate around us. “I’d shit on that,” we hear mumbled at us as they walk past.)

“Hello, lady.”

(I’m 30. A man is ignoring my patient explanations as to why his advances as I walk past are unwelcome.)

My body tenses. I drop my head, my gaze. I keep walking in my direction. He keeps walking in his direction.

I’m fight or flight.

Keep walking.

A man on the other side of the road, standing outside a pub, catches my eye. Can’t put my finger on what or why.

Keep watch of him on my periphery. Try not to make eye contact.

Just in case.

Keep walking.

(I’m 19. There’s a car driving slowly behind me. I’m the only person on the night-time street. I ask the local kebab guy to walk me home.)

The man moves.

The man crosses the road as I walk past.

The man is walking behind me.

Keep walking. Faster.

Turn to see if he’s still there.

He’s still there.

Reach the top of my road. Keep walking across while I glance down it, towards home. My road is quiet. Empty.

The man is still behind me.

Keep walking, past my road, to the McDonald’s nearby, still open, still busy. Maybe I’m being paranoid.

Go in, sit down.

The man comes in behind me.

The man sits down two tables away from me.

Queue for food.

Turn. Don’t see him. Move towards the exit. Relieved. I was being paranoid.

See him now. He’s standing. He moves in my direction.

Go back to queue for food.

See him walking towards me.

See him walking past me.

Head to the exit, and out.

Turn around.

He’s not followed me out.

Head back to my road.

Turn around.

He’s not behind me.

Reach the top of my road. It’s still quiet, still empty. Turn into it.

A car pulls into my road at the same time.

The car has slowed down.

The car has stopped by me.

(I’m my brother having to walk after a man who’s purposefully and suspiciously followed a woman down a dark and quiet street. My brother wants to make sure she’s okay. My brother’s presence seems to put off whatever the man is planning.)

The male driver has rolled down the passenger side window.

The male driver is talking to me.

I can’t focus on what he’s saying.

I ask him to keep driving.

He keeps talking to me.

I ask him to consider how I must feel.

He offers me a lift home.

I say no, of course I don’t want a lift home.

He keeps talking, and I say I think someone’s been following me and now he’s stopped and is inviting me into his car, and can he please just drive away and leave me alone, and he’s still talking and offering to get out the car to talk to me from the sidewalk, and now my voice is shaking and I’m just about keeping my shit together and I walk back to the safety of the high street but what if the McDonald’s man is there again and the man in the car is finally driving away and he’s leaving and I wait until he’s well past my house and I head back home and I get the key into the door and I make it up the stairs and I’m shaking and I’m home.

(I’m 31. I’m crying in my partner’s arms, explaining the crescendo of incidents on my walk home that night. He feels helpless and angry.)

***********************************

We shouldn’t have to be calculating: “Best case scenario, I’m being paranoid. Worst case scenario, I’m tomorrow’s local headline.”

And so. And so. Here are some things that would help me - and people like me - be on the street without having to wear the armour of a scowl, the tenseness of perpetual vigilance, and the fear of “what if”. These are just from me. Other women may have different suggestions. Listen to them.

• Don’t mutter at us as you walk by. Don’t say anything to us as you walk by.

• Don’t openly stare and keep your eyes locked on us, turning your head as you walk past. 

• Don’t touch, or grab, or pat us.

• Don’t say hello, or use any other greeting, unless you actually know us, or have something very specific you want to ask (such as where is the library). 

• Listen to what we’re saying. If we’re telling you to leave us alone, or explaining why we feel uncomfortable, walk - away. Don’t make up excuses, don’t ignore us, don’t do anything but be respectful of our wishes.

• If you’re walking behind us either at night or on a quiet road, and we speed up our pace or keep looking back behind us at you, your closeness to us may be making us nervous. Either slow well down to give us space, or cross the road. 

• If you see or hear us obviously being harassed by someone, and the person is not leaving us alone, do what you would do if you were witnessing a hate crime. Approach us, respectfully. Ask if we’re okay. Don’t expect our number in return.

I’m not saying that women are weak and need protecting, or that men can’t talk to women. I am saying that the onus shouldn’t be on women to change their behaviour to try and avoid harassment (and that their changed behaviour often doesn’t work, anyway).

Two days later, I’m still thinking about those three men on Saturday night. I guarantee they will have forgotten about me as soon they moved on. Years and months and weeks later, I can still describe countless incidents that have happened to me and my friends, ever since we’ve been old enough to say, “Text me when you’re home”. I guarantee the men that inflicted those incidents on us will have forgotten about us as soon as they moved on.

I’ve started trying to explain to men who harass me on the street how it makes me feel. None of them have listened.

And so it goes. But it doesn’t have to.

The simple philosophy of "I am Groot"

One of the most enduring facets from Marvel's 2014 Guardian's of the Galaxy was not Chris Pratt's Starlord, nor Zoe Saldana's Gamora. It wasn't even the the rebirth of the mixtape. It was the Ent-like Groot, with his self-assured mantra:

I - am - Groot

We went wild for him. For his heart, for his strength, his compassion, his predilection for Jackson 5. We all wanted our very own dancing baby Groot. He was perfectly crafted to bring us joy and relief.

But it was only this morning, while on a long, long bus ride, that the simple philosophy of Groot revealed itself to me. And my god is it powerful. 

Let's backtrack. 

Without revealing too much about my various neuroses (come on, we all have them), I've been going through what could be termed a personal "dip" the last month or so. The causes aren't all related to the physical, but this video from Dove will give you a good enough idea. 

We all have our inner demons or gremlins that we battle, yearly, monthly, daily, hourly. Some will most likely be with us our whole lives. Many of us try to get rid of them, or at best manage them. Some of us succumb to them more often than we'd care to admit. They're as much a part of who we are as our DNA. Some would argue that we have them to an extent precisely because of our DNA. But as Tim Lott recently wrote, unhappiness and our darker selves are as natural a state as happiness and our brighter selves. We shouldn't beat ourselves up too much for it. 

Enter Nir Eyal, stage left.

Nir writes about the intersection of psychology, technology and business. He has some fascinating insights into how technology can be designed to be "sticky", making use of small nudges to reinforce desired behaviours. His latest post, for example, dissects the secret psychology of Snapchat. Some of it makes for Orwell-esque reading, where all technology companies are out to ensnare our weak-willed selves within the webs of their apps. But beneath that, there's also the theory of what drives our behaviours, our habits. 

Over the weekend, I read one of Nir's posts entitled, Can't kick a bad habit? You're probably doing it wrong. The main message of the post is that we can change our behaviour by changing how we define ourselves. He gives the example of when he chose to become a vegetarian. Unlike me, Nir was a meat lover. And yet, by absorbing the value of "I don't eat meat" into his identity, not eating meat suddenly became very easy; it was simply a part of who he was, something that he didn't do.

Nir tells us that saying "I don't" is easier than saying "I can't". It's stronger, more definitive. It assumes "forever". 

I read the post, enjoyed it, contemplated its lessons for a while, but soon moved on to other things (... Diablo III, The Little Friend, Daredevil). I didn't think through how I could integrate it into my own life, to change some of the behaviours that I considered "bad habits". 

Until that bus ride this morning. It's amazing where you can allow your mind to wander while on a journey, and while nursing gym-induced jelly legs. 

A question for you: if you were to find yourself faced with the caterpillar from Alice's Wonderland, and asked "Who are you?", how would you respond?

These are examples of some of the things that I know to be a part of my identity; the things that combine to make up "I am Shimrit" (in no particular order):

• I am vegetarian (or in Nir's terms, I don't eat meat.)
• I am half-Israeli
• I am a bibliophile
• I am introverted
• I am an atheist
• I am self-employed
• I am 5'3"
• I am pierced and tattooed

There are also a long list of things that are negative that also form a part of my identity. Again without giving too much away, they include things like "I don't run", "I don't dance". 

One of the ways I'm trying to manage my inner gremlins is to become healthier and fitter. But those behaviours and activities don't sit naturally with this negative series of characteristics that define who I am. So as I'm trying to be healthier and fitter, the behaviours that I'm trying to adopt are in direct contradiction to who I see myself as. It makes it hard to motivate myself to actually do the activities that I know I should be, and to keep doing them.

That is, potentially, unless I follow Nir's sage advice, and change how I define myself. 

Here are a few of the "I ams" and behaviours that I aspire to:

• I am strong
• I am fit
• I am healthy
• I exercise at least four times a week
• I don't slouch

On the bus, I tried them on for size. As I repeated them to myself (...in my head), I started to feel them. I could feel the various elements that combine to make up who I am jostling around, making space for these new "I ams". I could also feel the inner gremlins receding from whence they came; there's no room for them alongside these new characteristics. 

And that is the simple beauty of Groot's philosophy. "I am Groot" stands for all that he is, it's his mantra, and we can all see the spectrum of different colours held within that single stream of light through his actions, through his tone: his compassion, his strength, his childlike-delight, his protective feelings towards his friends tinged with a rage when they're under threat. As another post I read a few weeks back said, you can be more than one thing, but that doesn't have to change the essence of who you are.

I'm still defining what "I am Shimrit" means. But pulling in those stronger, more positive definitions seem like a good start.

And so I ask you, dear reader: "Who are you?"

Books + Covers + Judging = Well-known phrase

I'm just going to go ahead and say it: I'm a sucker for good ("good" obviously being entirely subjective) design. Hold up. Not just good design. I'm a sucker for clever design. For design that has been thought-out with its intended audience firmly in mind. For design that is unabashedly there as a marketing ploy, whether it is an idea that's being sold, a message, a product, a service.

The best illustration of this that I can think of can be found in my book-buying behaviour.

I believe I'm on the verge of a bank-destroying book-buying binge.  Emails confirming the dispatch of goods bought are popping up in my inbox. Padded envelopes have started appearing on my frontdoor mat. And after the initial cheeky grin that accompanies the opening of the envelope, which is swiftly chased by surprise at the book that's now in my hands ("I do not remember ordering this. Someone's sending me books through the post in a passive-aggressive manner, surely? I've obviously picked up the world's nicest stalker!"), an inevitable sinking feeling hits as I remember the night three days before that found me entering my card details for this object. Do I really need this edition of Romeo and Juliet, which was bought purely because the design included laser-cut images of key scenes? What precisely am I going to do with a copy of 100 Ideas that Changed Graphic Design? On which Sunday afternoon am I actually going to sit down and read Magnificent Maps: Power, Propaganda, and Art? This isn't healthy, surely?

My bookcase has actually become unusable, with books haphazardly stacked in front of and on top of books. I'm not entirely sure of the contents of the case anymore, and any attempt to mine a particular vein will undoubtedly result in a collapse of horrific proportions. And I'm not ready to be crushed by a pile of books of which the majority have not even been read yet.

They're obviously organised using the standard Dewey Decimal Classification system.

There's a deeper issue at stake here, to do with buying physical books to simply own them, and the comfort of having your books around you as a projection of who you are, what your interests are, what you want your interests to be. I'm sure this is how Nick Hornby's protagonist Rob feels in High Fidelity, surrounded by his categorised vinyl records.

But the reason I'm mentioning this behaviour is that, because I can now recognise the beginnings of a binge, I have determined to avoid all book shops for the near future. I know that if I find myself making my way into one of these havens of temptation whilst in the grips of my fever, I will inevitably be making a furtive exit half an hour later, with a heavy bag accompanying me. In that bag will be books that I either already own but have now bought in a well-designed edition, and/or books that I have never heard of and had no intention of buying, bar from the fact I was drawn to them by their cover and then convinced by the blurb that they are books that I should own and read.

And this is the crux of it: I reckon you can judge a book by its cover (and here's an article from 2011 agreeing with me; hooray for validation). Those covers have been designed with a set audience in mind. There's a language of book covers, just as there's a language of film posters. In the colours chosen, the fonts, the imagery, the publishers are saying that the contents will appeal to a particular demographic. The dozens of copy-cats that emerged after the success of Fifty Shades of Grey all had a *very* familiar style to their jackets. Those adventure books, fantasy series, romantic stories, all of them use a very particular design vocabulary to communicate their genre in a blink of an eye to those that speak the language.

So, here's to the artists who so callously lure us in with their limited edition covers for books we already own. Here's to the publishers such as Foyles who provide heavily bounded books at a purse-busting price. And here's to those bibliophiles who will continue to binge buy their books, no matter the Kindle that is our more common travel companion.