Eh? Wha? Mob? War? Seriously?
A tale of ‘trolling’
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Monthly Archives: December 2012
Revisiting tits and trolls
A rare post about twitter. Sorry twitter haters. A while ago I wrote a pithy little number called ‘Of tits and trolls’. Now, after getting the latest Moran storm tweeted into my timeline over the past 24 hours, I’m rethinking my support of the ‘block’ button. Basically Moran wrote a column about equality which started with a parody which was the only bit available to view online for non-subscribers of the Times. This caused offence. Moran has a bit of history of causing offence [sive].
Helen Lewis then wrote a laboriously detailed defence of Moran putting ‘everything’ in context. This has been retweeted off the planet. The trouble is, the context that Lewis draws on is sterile and stripped of the emotion, pain, devastation, weariness, tedium, injustice, discrimination, harm, exhaustion, etc, etc, etc, often experienced by the people who are so incensed by Moran’s careless journalism. For me, Lewis’s post reinforces some of the complacency and ignorance that tinges the writing of many journalists (not all of course) who have little or no understanding of what it is like to grow up outside of, or on the margins, of mainstream life.
Should Moran have some sort of insight or understanding of these experiences? I think she probably should given her position and reach. She’s in a position to make a difference. But there’s the block button. That protects Moran (and others) from having to engage with
difference. Well the block button and the concept of ‘troll’. The trouble is, blocking ‘trolls’ (i.e., people who disagree with you) will lead to twitter becoming a tedious, turgid space where you’re surrounded by similar others, with your views and values protected as kind of cosily superior and untouchable. Instead of blocking, ignoring offensive posts is probably as effective. And allows space for discussion and change.
Monitor, distract (and Chunky Stan)
Brief summary. LB’s become very anxious, constantly agitated and out of sorts over the past couple of months. He’s developed a fear or phobia of someone harming him. His teacher/school nurse have suggested he be referred to mental health services which we’ve resisted. First, because we feel the medicalisation of these dude kids is a bit too free and easy (and can be damaging), and second, because previous encounters with mental health services have been pretty pointless (along the lines of “Er, have you thought of using star charts?”)
Then the Christmas tree fell over. Probably because all the baubles had been put on the same branch during a bun fight deccy situation. ‘Mmm’.. I thought. ‘This don’t bode well’….
Christmas morning, LB lost it over a tiny thing and had a distressing episode (? breakdown? frenzy? malange? Slinky malinky?) Not sure what language there is to describe this sort of thing, other than crap, meaningless jargony social care/health type stuff). But horrible. For everyone. Especially so at Christmas. He stayed home, rather than going to his dad’s, and we swung into a ‘monitor and distract’ routine. For those of you who haven’t come across this (you lucky bastards), it goes like this;
- Constantly listen and look for any signs of mounting distress (in LB’s case, talk of being attacked, gesticulating and gurning).
- Act instantly to stop these (in LB’s case, through a firm ‘Stop it now’).
- Follow this up with a distraction (in LB’s case, an Eddie Stobart book, Mighty Boosh DVD, drawing cartoon figures).
- If necessary, follow this up with an uber distraction (in LB’s case, a very long, hot bath).
- Revert to A.
So 48 hours of monitoring and distraction was successful but relentless, wearing and, again, pretty shite over Christmas. We also weren’t confident of containing his distress anywhere other than home. I called the GP who suggested a type of prozac. And some emergency tranquillisers to use, if necessary, until the medication started to work.
That was yesterday morning. Last night (after step D) LB turned into a bit of a chill pill. We stayed up watching documentaries like Cop Squad with him. Enjoying the peace.
A mistake of course. Other family members also need monitoring. Like cheeky Chunky Stan.
Christmas Wrapping
LB’s presents this year. A success. We managed to get him a die cast cattle truck that he’s wanted for the best part of this year. Very, very cool. And Eddie Stobart; The Ultimate Guide to British Trucking Legends (by Martin Roach). A full colour, hard back guide to the legend that is Eddie S. Rock and roll presents that are kind of age appropriate (or at least no Playmobile for the second year in a row).
After wrapping them up, I couldn’t resist going to check with him what he wanted for Christmas. Just to enjoy hearing him say ‘Cattle truck Mum’ again. For the last time.
“A onesie Mum”, he said. Without missing a beat.
Happy Christmas!
Transition (a steady descent)?
Here’s a photo I love of LB at his last but one residential school trip in Devon. The one before last week when he had to be collected at a halfway point on the motorway, half way through the week. Because he was distressed, anxious and lashing out at a staff member.
I’m not sure if I’m posting this photo to hold onto his obvious enjoyment/happiness during the trip, facilitated by school staff who consistently push the boundaries with the kids, or whether I’m posting it as a record of transition (which I’m increasingly interpreting as a steady descent) into ‘adult services’. It’s probably a mangled combination of both.
I don’t understand how we allow (stop? prevent?) this descent. This change from a reasonably happy dude to someone who finds themselves at odds with life. The circumstances around LB’s current anxieties are, at the same time, specific, random and seemingly ‘irrational’. So difficult to understand and make sense of.
Lashing out at people, and demonstrating intense upset is hugely upsetting for everyone involved. It’s happened sporadically (but memorably) in the past, but it’s uncharacteristic for LB to be so consistently unhappy. He’s pretty much had a much loved role in our family. He’s happily bypassed years of bickering, fights, wanting to win, score, or just be heard. He’s always occupied his own space, peppered with youtube and Eddie Stobart (and, thankfully in the past, Keane). For the last couple of months, he’s been unreachable, different, anxious, unpredictable and unhappy. And fucking irritating.
I was kind of pleased the GP today resisted referring LB to mental health services. He said it was medicalising a problem that wasn’t medical. I agree with that. And appreciate his refreshing approach.
But how do we stop the descent. How we get the happy surfer dude back? And who will help. It shouldn’t be like this.
The British Gas Plumber
“Must admit, I’m not a great dog lover, me. And you get them…they kind of come up to me and sniff me knees. You know what I mean? They sniff me knees, but once one dog’s sniffed me knees, other dogs can smell that dog on my overalls and they all want to sniff me knees. I got a cat at home. That probably doesn’t help either, as the dogs can probably smell the cat too. So I tend to shoo em away, like. You know, shake me legs a bit. But one man got a bit uppity when I did that. He was like “My dog wouldn’t hurt anyone!”, but these days, you don’t really know that. A lot of dogs that shouldn’t hurt people do hurt them. So I try to keep away from them… Yeah.. Just the one sugar thank you.”
Baby Jesus in the walnut
“Come on everyone! Time to decorate the tree…!!”
“SHUT UP!!”
“Eh? LB come and decorate the tree NOW.”
“Mum. Can I go back on Youtube after Mum?”
“Yep…”
“I don’t think it’s straight. Is it straight?”
“It’s straight…”
“I think it’s leaning to one side. Look…”
“It’s straight...”
“Rosie could always go upstairs and get her protractor…”
“Mum you don’t know what a protractor is, do you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m going to look for the baby Jesus in the walnut. The one I made at nursery.”
“Watch that angel, the head fell off remember…”
“I’m going to put this one round here on this branch…”
“Grrrrr… I’d forgotten how much Tom talks…”
“And this one can go here…”
“Tom you don’t.need.to.narrate.your.life.”
“LB put the bubble wrap down and get some decs on the tree.”
“Yes Muvvar.”
“Hey! I found the walnut!!!…Oh wait. It’s awful.
“Hahaha!!!”
“I remember it being much better than that. I thought it had a proper face and everything. Look it’s just got two dots for eyes…Felt tip dots??”
“HAHAHAHA!!! It’s really rubbish!!!”
“DON’T PISS AROUND WITH THE TREE!!!”
“Hahahahahahahaha!!!”
“I’d forgotten how stressful decorating the tree is.”
“I still don’t think it’s straight.”
Pick n’ mix on the 280
Not a good day for LB related reasons. But caught the 280 home from work and had the following encounter with a geezer dude. Kind of cheering…
“I went to Smithers ya’know? Smithers?”
“Eh?”
“W.H.Smiths?”
“Ah, yeah.. W.H.Smiths…”
“Yeah. I picked up a newspaper, tucked it under my arm. £2.60 it was. £2.60. I thought I’m gonna walk out with this. Without paying like.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. But then I saw the man with sweets and I thought YES! I want some sweets! So I got some and thought well I’ll pay for the sweets but then walk out with the paper under my arm… You know, as if I’d already paid for it…? But then I thought Don’t.be.so.childish. Do you know what I mean??? So I paid for the paper too.”
“Cool.”
“Do you want a sweet? There’s jelly beans and all sorts…”
“Nah, I’m fine thanks…”
“Ahhhh. Fuck!! Dropped em! [….] I’m just gonna eat them anyway. Well these ones. Not that one. Look. It’s rolled in some squishy stuff. Yuk. Look at it.. I’ll eat these though. I love jelly beans.”
“Yeah, me too…”
“Funny. Jelly beans still taste good, but other sweets from when I was a kid. They just don’t taste so good now. They put other stuff in them I think. Not nice. When I was a kid, I’d eat some sweets then do twenty laps of the room. Like round and round and round! My mum used to say ‘You ain’t having any more sweets!’ Sent me hyper they did. But I like to get sweets now and again. And like scoff em all.”
“Ha! Me too…!”
“Yeah! Maybe I need that energy rush.. Every now and again. I dunno…”
“Maybe.. Nice to meet you, I’m getting off now…”
“Well a happy Christmas to you missus!! And don’t eat too much chocolate!”
Carers Assessment? No. Groundhog day
This weekend is officially a catch up weekend. Beyond boring but necessary. I started this afternoon with a mountain of paperwork and a canny system of ‘bin it’, ‘deal with it’, ‘park it’. The ‘deal with it’ pile had the carers assessment form on the top. Oh dear. Regular readers will know that this (mythical???) assessment has been dragging on for years. The form in front of me was different to the version I failed to fill in before (because it was beyond inadequate). I sat at the kitchen table, determined to fill it in.
So ‘caring’ is divided into ‘practical tasks’, ‘personal tasks’, ‘mobility’, ‘getting around’, ‘health’, ‘communication’ and ‘other issues’ (including mood swings, anxiety, aggression and so on). Each section includes a list of things to tick (‘communication’ has support with socialising, advocating, and interpreting) and a section for ‘carer’s views’. I ticked all the relevant boxes (most of em) but wasn’t sure where to start with my views. What does it mean?
“I’d hoped LB would be able to go out and about by himself but now, but suspect he ain’t gonna be able to do that for the forseeable future.”
“I find it pretty rubbish supervising an 18 year old boy in the bath.”
“It’s all pretty fucking shit really but it could be so much better if I knew that adult services wasn’t a big hole of crap-all.”
Anyway, I left the ‘carer’s views’ sections and got to the end of the form. Only to find this little beauty:
This form is the first part of a Carer’s Needs Assessment. Would you like a full carer’s assessment to be undertaken? Yes? No?
Now I don’t know who is coming up with this crap, and I don’t know what the intention is behind it. It’s obstructive, ill thought out, insensitive, meaningless and time consuming. I don’t know how many meetings I’ve attended thinking I’m ‘doing’ a carers assessment. Or having a carers assessment done to me.
When I started sorting through paperwork today, I was struck by how LB had his own folder of paperwork bursting at the seams. No one else in the family has a file really. Just general stuff. Why is there so much paperwork around certain children/adults when the outcome is less than acceptable? A ‘special needs industry’ exists in the UK with a wasteful, usually ineffectual and pointless focus. But embedded within that industry is a level of tyranny. That these are hoops that parents, carers and disabled people have to jump through. Regardless of outcome.
Over 15 years into this gig now, I’m going to say now, I seriously hate it.
Can we have transparency, honesty and realism about what is what? And what is likely to be what in the future?
Cousin Dave
“LB, why did you shove Henri at school today?”
“He stole my cousin’s toolbox.”
“Which cousin?”
“My cousin Dave.”
“You ain’t got a cousin Dave.”
“Oh.”
mydaftlife 