“What’s WIMS FM?” asks my boyfriend, as we drive along country roads towards Killaloe. “Walk in my Shoes, for Mental Health Awareness Week, Tara Flynn is DJing” I replied, thinking back. It’s been five years since WIMS FM inspired my first blog post on mental health. In 2014 I did not have a diagnosis, and spoke more generally about low mood. By 2017 I had received my first diagnosis of clinical depression, and had finally accessed therapy and medication.

6 months later I stopped taking my antidepressants, as I was feeling good.

7 months after that I was back on antidepressants, on double my original dosage (100 mg Sertraline). I tried to target the causal factors too, I quit my job, returned to education, and moved home to Cork.

14 months later, I lower my dosage, back to 50 mg of Sertraline. In time I might stop my medication altogether, or maybe I won’t. I talk about my antidepressants all the time. If I can contribute even a little to reducing the stigma of medication, I will. I chat easily about my anti-Ds, and the need to take them with food to prevent unholy belching for an hour. I talk about the kooky dreams that result from a missed tablet. I talk about all the gorgeous skills I learned in CBT. I write long reams of introspective waffle in my therapy journal. I pass on my therapist’s number to many many friends who have heard me discuss her in glowing terms.

I am privileged to have been able to quit the job which was contributing to my depression and anxiety, and to move home and live rent free during my Masters. Realigning my daily activities to my core values has had an immense impact on my mental well-being. I was deeply involved in the Repeal campaign, which contributed to my mental ill health, due to exhaustion and exposure to malevolent woman-hating bigots. Interestingly, following the successful denouement of the campaign, my health suffered further due to a lack of purpose. Completing the Masters in Women’s Studies had a massively protective effect on my mental health, as I was surrounded by beautiful feminists. My thesis focused on the experiences of Repealers, and their engagement with care activities. It was an enriching and cathartic process, and I feel a whole lot more balanced now when discussing Repeal.

Life is currently good. It might change again, mental health is unpredictable in the extreme. I’ve got some excellent people and tools in my well-being toolbox, for whenever I need them. I access them regularly.

There is no shame in depression. There is no shame in taking anti-depressants. There is no shame in changing your life to match your values. There is no shame in needing help. There is no shame in crying. There is no shame in mental illness. As Tara Flynn would say, FUCK SHAME.

I was lucky enough to attend A Day of Testimonies in Project Arts Centre, organised by the excellent Artists Repeal the 8th Campaign, on Saturday 26th August. This day long event comprised of screenings of films about abortions and/or the 8th Amendment; performances; a workshop with Union of Students Ireland’s Síona Cahill and Amnesty’s Sorcha Tunney, accompanied by the always wonderful Tara Flynn, on how to talk about Repeal; and a ticketed event which I will talk about now.

The evening event “A Day of Testimonies” featured famous theatre actors and writers reading the real stories of women who have been impacted by the 8th Amendment. There was accompanying music from Lisa O’Neill; a clarinet and harp duo, and a flautist, which helped to create the atmosphere; and hauntingly beautiful poetry from Paula Meehan. However, the stories were always going to be the main event, and they did not disappoint. I am still shook to the core by the story of Miss Y, told through the medium of Kitty Holland articles, and interviews with her legal counsel. The continued mismanagement, red tape, and chilling inhumanity towards a vulnerable youth were gut-wrenching. She was the victim of kidnapping, and repeated rape and torture in her home country, and came to Ireland to seek refuge. Instead she found herself pregnant, and refused abortion despite her suicide attempts. She managed to raise funds to travel to England, but was deported on arrival as she did not have correct papers. Her story makes me ashamed to be Irish. So much for the country of “céad míle fáilte”.

Marian Keyes told Amy’s story. Amy’s pregnancy was wanted and cherished, but unfortunately her baby was diagnosed with a Fatal Foetal Abnormality. She might survive the birth, but would be in pain. Amy had not wanted to terminate the pregnancy, but the thought of her baby being in pain for her last moments forced her to consider an alternative. Amy decided that a painless termination would be her final act of mothering for her sick baby. She traveled to England with her husband and completed this act of mothering, with love, far away from home and her trusted medical team.

We heard the story of a 16 year old who got pregnant, and was sent to a Mother and Baby home. She spent a week with her baby, before he was given up for adoption. The same woman got pregnant at age 19, and traveled with her boyfriend to England to get an abortion as they were not in a financial position to be parents. They had to borrow money from her sister to afford the trip and procedure.

I was saddened by each story, and maddened by the story of Lorraine. She was a young widow, who was raped by a friend who had dropped her home after a night out. She became pregnant from this horrific attack, and was despairing. She told her friend, who supported her and arranged a weekend trip for them to England to procure an abortion. So ended her nightmare experience.

We heard the story of Savita Halappanavar, a familiar story in Irish media. She contracted septicaemia, but doctors would not terminate until the foetal heartbeat stopped, or until there was a significant risk to Savita’s health. Savita had pre-eclampsia, and finally both she and her baby were lost. Savita and her husband requested a termination repeatedly, but they were told “It’s a Catholic country” despite the fact that they were not Catholics. This story highlighted the awful position doctors are put in by the 8th Amendment, waiting until a woman is “sick enough”, contravening totally the Hippocratic Oath.

There were many “normal” stories, of abortions for myriad reasons. The support of sisters, friends, and parents was extolled time and again, whether financial, emotional, health, or child-minding. 

The brutality of the government and the anti-choicers was apparent in the stories. There is a blatant disregard in Ireland for the mental health and autonomy of women and girls. These harrowing stories should be heard by all Irish people, especially those who oppose Repeal. There was much solidarity amongst a visibly upset audience afterwards, and we were galvanised to battle on, in memory of all of these people abused by the 8th Amendment.

It is TIME TO ACT. March for Choice 30th September, join us, march with us. It’s time. 

I’m pro-choice. I’m not an extremist, I simply believe in bodily autonomy for all. I’m an activist, and will be a willing and energetic canvasser whenever the referendum comes around. I’m a co-founder of Pro-Choice Wexford, and at a recent strategy meeting proposed having a bigger presence on Main Street during the weekend. Anti-choicers colonise the Bullring and Main Street every Saturday, and I thought an alternative presence might be interesting. We discussed the idea, and decided to conserve our energy for now, to avoid volunteer fatigue, which is so rampant during these emotional campaigns.

However, last Saturday, I was strolling through town with my sister and niece, and came across the Save the 8th crew. They were holding a professionally printed banner, which featured a picture of a child with Down Syndrome. My blood boiled. I strode over to politely tell them that I find their use of people with disabilities in their propaganda abhorrent. The women immediately got defensive, and said that they knew many families of “Down Syndrome children” who supported their campaign, and who had marched in their “March for Life”. I explained that I work with children with Down Syndrome, and think it is exploitative in the extreme. But, they replied “Down Syndrome children” are targeted by us nasty Repealers. I noted that they are children first, and that Down Syndrome is secondary to their humanity, so to please refer to them as people with Down Syndrome. “That’s beside the point” they howled. The women were getting flustered and went on the offensive at this stage, and decided to blind with me statistics. Lies, damn lies, and statistics, could be their new tag line. Did I know that 90% of “Down Syndrome babies” are aborted in Britain? That’s incorrect I responded, please quote me that research. Interestingly, their statistics are taken from outdated and misinterpreted studies, but these campaigners could not even quote this research. Their head honcho arrived over to see what the kerfuffle was, as their youngest member had lost her cool and was basically roaring random tag lines at me, enraged by my considered replies. Did I know, proclaimed head honcho, that 90% of “Down Syndrome babies” are aborted in Britain? “She said that’s incorrect” responded her shouty counterpart. AS FAR AS I KNOW IT’S TRUE responded head honcho. As far as she knows. As far as she knows I’m the Queen of Spain, but I don’t hear her roaring that on the streets. This blatant disregard for facts simply has to be challenged. Every sentence uttered by the pro-choice campaign is picked apart with a fine-tooth  comb, the nuance, content, and tone analysed and attacked by mainstream media outlets and various conservative commentators. But official Save the 8th campaigners, wearing their high-vis jackets, holding their expensive banners, are casually and calculatedly lying to the public. They don’t expect to be challenged, and go into immediate offensive mode, like trapped animals. “As far as I know 90% of ‘Down Syndrome babies’ are aborted in Britain, and all of the ‘Down Syndrome babies’ in Iceland”. Cold hard lies, told in gentle voices, by unthreatening campaigners, in knitted cardigans under their high-vis jackets. “Do you want to see ‘Down Syndrome children’ wiped out?”. PEOPLE WITH DOWN SYNDROME, I managed through gritted teeth. Shouty woman responded “Oh you care about what we call them, but you don’t care about people tearing their arms and legs off during abortions?” Oh my. The mask is off, the demon rears its ugly head. Head honcho panics and says “God bless you have a good day” and attempts to move between myself and the shouty, tone-deaf campaigner. I smile, and say “Yes, I care about language, I care about tone, I care about the impact your message has on passersby, I care about people with disabilities, I care about people who have had to make the toughest decisions for myriad reasons”.

This is the kernel of the campaign. Pro-choicers care, deeply, about the people at the heart of this discussion. It is this respect for the rights of others that leads us to fight for those who cannot. We are not extremists, we are not murderers, we do not pull foetuses limb from limb. We are normal folk, who mind our own business, and wish the best for our neighbours. We do not spout lies on the streets of Ireland. We are not going to force anyone to have an abortion, nor are we going to judge anyone who chooses to have an abortion. There is no shame. There is only unconditional support. I know which side I’d rather be on. I’m going to be on the right side of history. I hope you’ll join me. As far as I know, you’re sound, so you surely will.

I am a feminist. I believe in equal rights for all genders. I believe that nobody should be discriminated against based on their genitalia or lack thereof. For years I have been frustrated by Irish society, which is so inherently sexist. Ireland has always vaunted women; the “Irish mammy” is a cliché which we propagate regularly. A frightening amount of men claim to be “Mammy’s boys” on their Tinder bios, which they feel will awaken our own inner mammies, allowing them to transition smoothly from being babied by their mothers to being mollycoddled by their girlfriends. The modern Irish man appears to be a fictitious beast, with a few shining exceptions: Bressie with his ability to speak out about mental health and wellness; the Happy Pear boys, Stephen and David Flynn, with their passion for healthy cooking and yoga; my pals Tom and Mike, who are well-read, well-dressed, and well able to look after themselves.

Ireland has been held up as a beacon of friendliness and neighbourliness for many years. It is a place where you can leave your door open, where you can walk home alone at night, without fear of assault. Last year, Ireland proved itself to be more progressive than I could possibly have hoped, when we voted for the legalisation of equal marriage. I drank Prosecco with my sister while watching the count, and celebrated for the full weekend. How lucky we were, to live in this little green country with a big heart!

There is one area where our country is utterly heartless, and that is in its treatment of expectant mothers, dealing with crisis pregnancies. The numbers are well-documented, 12 women a day travelling to Britain for abortions. Just this week #twowomentravel was trending on Twitter, as two brave souls live-tweeted their trip to England to procure an abortion. The writing was not sensationalist, merely despondent. These two women could have been any of us. They were not looking for 15 minutes of fame. They simply shared one of their most harrowing journeys with the nation, the world, and Enda Kenny. They tagged Enda Kenny, our elected leader, in all of their tweets. He did not have the courage or graciousness to respond to one tweet. Simon Harris, Minister for Health, acknowledged the issue, but half-heartedly alluded to the Citizen’s Assembly, rather than calling for a referendum to repeal the 8^th Amendment.

The Repeal Project, Repeal 8, Free Safe Legal, and a number of other organisations have been rallying together over the last few months, and have organised a March for Choice on 24^th September in Dublin. This is an opportunity for all those interested in equal rights to show the government, and the world, how serious we are about this cause. It has been a very visual campaign thus far; the REPEAL jumpers have been an internet sensation. The stark white letters against a black backdrop are immediately recognisable, and are so empowering. I read an account of a woman who had recently had an abortion, who said how supported and lifted she feels when she passes someone in a REPEAL jumper. That such a small gesture can be interpreted like this highlights how little support Irish women actually receive on the subject of abortions.

I always try to have an open mind, and to entertain opinions which are vastly different to my own. As Aristotle put it “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it”. I struggled somewhat with this during the Marriage Referendum, as I find it so foreign that people would want to actively stop two loving people being together and happy. While it was slightly facetious, I had to agree with the people saying “If you don’t like gay marriage, don’t get gay married”. The same tenet applies to the abortion debate: If you don’t like abortion, don’t get an abortion. That people are so comfortable playing God with other people’s lives is terrifying and fascinating all at once. The comments section on any online article, which reveals the murky underbelly of society, is rife with middle-aged men extolling the virtues of carrying pregnancies to term. This group seems an unlikely bunch to be availing of abortion anytime soon, yet they feel absolutely entitled to shout about the indecency of the procedure. More frustratingly still, there are a lot of women who hide behind the veneer of religion and piety, and make these women out to be flagrant hussies, who drop their knickers at will, with nary a thought for the consequences. Their lack of compassion is chilling. They condescendingly list contraception, and emergency contraception, as if accidents never happened, and people are knowingly becoming pregnant just to cause a stir and get an abortion. I’m certain nobody chooses that path. Who would willingly travel to England for a costly surgical procedure, with little or no after-care, and the possibility of facing criminal charges in Ireland? Nobody I know.

Interestingly, society seems to treat abortion differently, depending on the reason for it.

1. The foetus is not viable, or has a fatal foetal abnormality: Understandable and very sad, but maybe the mother should be stoic and carry the baby to term, and then be a grieving mother and receive boundless sympathy.
2. Childbirth may kill the mother: Understandable and also sad, but it’s a toss-up as to whose life is more worthy of saving.
3. The foetus was conceived by rape/incest: Understandable, but it’s not the baby’s fault is it? I am enraged by this viewpoint, as if it is the mother’s fault, silly girl getting raped.
4. The mother is suicidal: Oh don’t be silly, she can get medication or counselling, it’s not the baby’s fault.
5. The woman does not want to have a baby: SHAME! SLUT! REPENT! Abortion on demand will be the death of all of our Christian beliefs.

The term “Abortion on demand” is an emotive one, used repeatedly by the anti-choice brigade. It suggests drive-thru abortion clinics, which you swing by on a Sunday before going for the cure. It brings to mind queues of “demanding” women, having repeat surgical procedures rather than buying the pill or condoms. It is a calculated term, suggesting that people will have abortions willy-nilly, as they are so easily available.

The anti-choice brigade is wily in their wording. They refer to themselves as pro-life. They obviously refer to the life of the foetus, not the life of the mother. They should actually be referred to as pro-pregnancy, pro-birth, and pro-existence. Once the baby is born they have no interest in what happens. The baby has not been murdered, God’s will has been done, and they are justified. They do not stick around to see the baby, unwanted and unloved, perhaps in abject poverty, perhaps born to a mentally unwell mother who cannot provide the love and stability a baby needs. They do not care if the baby is living in squalor, with a migrant mother who cannot get a job as she cannot speak the language. They do not care if the baby is living with a mother who drinks herself into a stupor every night to numb the memories of the sexual abuse she suffered that resulted in this baby. They do not care, as the baby is living, and they are pro-life.

We, as a country, are failing women; women who are at their most vulnerable, pregnant women who do not know who to turn to, for fear of judgement or pity. These women should be cherished, cared for, and supported. They should not have to book flights to a foreign country, to access healthcare which should be freely available in their local hospital. As many people have said, if men could get pregnant, abortion would be available in every clinic. Women are not second class citizens. Women are equal humans, deserving of equitable healthcare and respect. Women should be afforded the most basic human right: Bodily autonomy. We trust women in one of the most challenging roles, becoming a mother. We should trust women to choose whether or not this path is for them. We should trust women. Women are equal. Trust women.

I have spoken at length elsewhere about my battle with low mood and anxiety (https://dottymurf.wordpress.com/2014/10/09/mental-health-awareness-week-2014/ ). One tool that I have embraced this year has been a gratitude journal. This simple technique has revolutionised my bedtime routine and mindset. I own a multitude of pretty journals that I have dipped in and out of over the years. My trustiest shiny pink diary had a little key, and consisted mostly of lists. Angel Delight, playing tennis against the wall, and jogging up and down the lane featured strongly in my pre-teen lists. It developed as a teenager into a slightly more adult affair: lists of who I had kissed; where I had kissed; nationalities/counties of people I had kissed- vital statistical information for sleepovers. I have sometimes found these journals to become a chore, and I would feel anxious if I missed a few days of vital lists.
I am an avid reader, and love all sorts of novels. Marian Keyes has always been a personal favourite author of mine. Her books walk a fine line between humour, warmth, and serious issues (often related to mental health). Her book “The Brightest Star in the Sky” was the first in which I read a mention of “Gratitude Journals”. In the book, the protagonist writes down three things she is grateful for each evening, and also documents the “random acts of kindness” that she carries out during the day. This idea percolated for a while, and earlier this year, when entering my characteristic February low mood I decided to try this gratitude journal myself. I have yet to attend counselling when in a low mood, as the thought of it makes me more anxious and sends me into a downward spiral. I rely on exercise, healthy eating, and a good support network of family and friends when feeling low. I have always been a fan of a motivational quote, and the simplicity of the gratitude journal appealed to my low energy state of mind. I had a weekly planner that I had purchased in Penney’s, and decided to kill two birds with the one stone. I wrote down a vague plan of the week’s activities, and then added in the details of each day when in bed that night.
I decided not to set any strict rules for myself on the amount of items I had to feel grateful for. I read somewhere that if you were particularly hard-up for things to write down, you should include basic amenities (running water, electricity etc.). I have yet to reach this level, so all in all I can be grateful for a full life. Day by day I noticed longer entries, more details of all the wonderful events and people in my life. I keep all of my weekly entries on my dresser, and some days will flick to a random week and read all of the fun things that I did that week. A lot of my entries focus on being fed by kindly pals, as sharing meals is one of my favourite things to do. I also include two or three quotes/mantras that I try to focus on for the week in question. These are sometimes profound, but more often are simple reminders e.g. Spread smiles; Add value; Sprinkle kindness.
In the past few months, I have cultivated a positive attitude, and am currently beyond content with my lovely life. The more positive I am, the better my life and experiences tend to be. I seem to attract kindred spirits, and I love to share good vibes with these new friends. I stumbled across a quote that encapsulates this nicely: “Sometimes you get lucky and find a soul that grooves with yours”. I have beautiful pals, who will indulge me when I demand attention for my headstands, crabs, and handstands. They will join me in dance breaks when I can’t quite contain my truth-filled hips. As Nietzsche put it “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music”. This vibrates very closely with a line my father used when describing me: “that youngest one, she’s busy dancing to the voices in her head”. I’m grateful for good music, friends to dance with, and a healthy body which allows me to throw great shapes. I’m grateful for summer, festivals, and cherry blossom trees. I’m grateful. I’m happy. I’m well.

Hello Giggles, a wonderful woman-friendly entertainment website, founded by Zooey Deschanel amongst others, ran a story about a demonstration in American colleges during the week. The demonstration involved people carrying mattresses and pillows around with them for the day. It was in support of increased sexual safety for all in university campuses, where sexual assault is rife, and widely swept under the carpet. They chose the mattress as a symbol, as it is usually a private safe place, for sleep and consensual fun. However, for those raped or attacked, it can become a prison, which they must return to night after night, the scene of the crime.

American universities have begun to address this widespread abuse, and states have brought in explicit consent laws. This has negated the “he/she didn’t say no” excuse, and requires actual verbal assent. Thus, if a person is drunk, asleep, or scared, they can not be legally attacked.

This is a wonderful step in the right direction. American statistics on the Planned Parenthood website suggest that a huge percentage of 25yo American girls have been sexually assaulted. This is shocking in a supposedly educated, developed country. Another damning indictment of American society can be found on the heartbreaking Twitter hashtag #fasttailedgirls. This reveals a multitude of stories of sexual assault of young black girls. R Kelly epitomises the predator common to these girls, and was allegedly responsible for the grooming and sexual assault of many girls. He married Aaliyah when she was 14 for God’s sake! That Lady Gaga performed recently with this predator is disappointing considering her usual message of female empowerment.

This problem is obviously not confined to America. A report was recently published in Manchester highlighting outrageous levels of sexual assault and rape of both girls and boys, and more worryingly still the level of resignation evident amongst teenagers. They have been ridiculed by police officers, and apparently a prosecutor threw out a case because the victim was wearing a crop top. My blood boils as I write this. I am incandescent with rage that in 2014 men are still peddling the “she was asking for it in that outfit” line. Worse still that it is a member of the justice system. As a crop top aficionado, I can certainly say that I have never “asked” to be verbally or sexually harassed. It happens, but victim-blaming is a disgusting response to disgusting actions.

Verbal harassment is a common part of everyday life for many girls and ladies. A recent viral video highlighted this, when a lady walked around NYC, and videoed the catcalling she inspired. This reminded me of a particularly nasty man in Kenya who told me to “tie up your zip” when I was wearing a pair of shorts. The Mungiki, a Kenyan mafia, regularly strip women who wear pants. My favourite story involved a gang of men in court for this offence, who happened to meet the judge, their victim, who gave them all jail sentences. Are we really saying that in 2014, girls wearing crop tops need to be taught a lesson?

I have not read Irish statistics on sexual assault, but I presume they are comparable to Britain and America. I personally have twice woken up at house parties with creeps attempting some sort of sexual shenanigans. This was dismissed by some girls I knew, saying “ah he was only chancing his arm”. No actually, he was attempting to sexually assault a sleeping woman. Again my blood boils. I am a force to be reckoned with, and sorted both pigs out with a swift diatribe and threat of police action, or worse, telling my brother. But what of quiet girls who might go along with them? Obviously some girls do, to say that perverts keep trying. This saddens me greatly.

Let’s stand together against this casual everyday sexism. There are many role models, e.g. Lena Dunham, who support this cause. Don’t let the creeps win out. Please.

On being a keyboard warrior:
 
I recently completed a quiz on that most insightful and rigorous site, Buzzfeed. It was to elucidate which powerful woman from the past you resemble. I did not know whom my result was, but from the description she was a pretty amazing activist, and suffragette from days gone by. I shared the quiz, entitling it “Activist”. One friend responded simply “Apt”.

I have always been easily outraged by infringements of basic human rights. I would be incandescent with rage during history, or religion, or CSPE, when learning about the treatment of women, children, people in different areas or ages. I believe strongly in human equality of every sort. If forced to get a tattoo, I would get “love is love” emblazoned on my upper thigh/groin area. I can’t see this happening anytime soon, but if I am to be inked it will be on my terms.

I have written quite a few strongly-worded letters in my day. I have fought for employment rights of people in my own class. I have defended animal exporters against militant animal-rights protesters who value the life of animals over the livelihoods of Irish farmers and workers, the sole industry which kept Ireland’s economy alive during recent bad times. These letters were sometimes published, sometimes torn up, but I felt some vindication in at least having taken some minor action to ease the chattering monkeys in my mind.

Fast-forward to 2014 and it is easier than ever to make protests publicly about anything that irks you. The power of the internet cannot be overstated in this regard. Petitions are available to sign at the click of the button. Stock emails can be sent to public representatives by clicking OK. If you are not feeling aggrieved about anything in particular you can simply visit a click-bait site such as Upworthy to find an honourable cause.

I am being glib about this, but I am one of the worst public offenders. Every day I post maybe 5 different items on Facebook, falling in different categories:
1. Cute animal videos
2. Ed Sheeran/ Hozier songs
3. Pleas for support for various Irish musicians (Barry Tierney and Hank Wedel are my current stars, based on their newly released singles)
4. Worthy links from the Global Citizen page or the like
5. Mental health awareness links
6. Inspirational quotes
7. Funny feminist links or pictures from the Lass Bible
8. Healthy living tips or articles
9. Videos from my latest intimate gigs or singsongs
10. Pithy check-ins with cool snapshots of my surroundings 
11. Sports related cheering 
12. Wittily named albums of me HAVING FUN
13. SLT jokes or articles
14. Shameless celeb photos
While these posts entertain, delight, or bore (if you are an honest sibling), they all have some inherent value. They share humour, knowledge, advice, interests. But the posts for which I most strongly advocate are section 4, the worthy links. I am an unabashed keyboard warrior. I support varied causes: marriage equality; ending poverty; gender equality; increased access to services in the community; preserving the environment, the list goes on.

While I may not actually be doing anything tangible, raising awareness and public interest is something small towards a larger goal. I might not be in a position to release a gay man from prison in Morocco, but I can certainly shout about it and hope that someone with the requisite skill set hears about it and can do something about it. I read this story yesterday, about a 70 year old English man who had been imprisoned while visiting Morocco. He was in the company of a local man at a bus-stop, when they were arrested. His phone was searched, and photos of the two men were found, which led police to believe that the men were in a gay relationship. They were imprisoned without trial, in shocking conditions, sleeping on the cement floor. I was heartbroken thinking of this man, afraid on a cold floor, with actual criminals as cell-mates. The man had only come out a few years previously, so has adult children. The son had written posts on Facebook about the situation, and his heartache was clear. I felt helpless, but shared the story on my page, and retweeted every tweet I saw related to the situation.

Today, great news! The gentleman was released and flown home to England, where he was reunited with his family. I almost cried, and actually cheered with relief. And in some small way, I felt victorious! I, and thousands of others had championed this man’s cause, and he had won!!! What a victory for human rights, and human decency! He and his son thanked everyone who had shown interest and kindness to them. Alas the other gentleman, a Moroccan man is still in prison, but hopefully public pressure will continue to be exerted. These archaic laws must be overturned, and equality enforced. But today was a magnificent battle won in a sprawling war. 

A glorious day to be a keyboard warrior.

Tinder, one of the break out hits of 2013 in the App world, and for good reason. I downloaded the app the Monday of the Jazz Weekend, and have been royally entertained ever since. While most of my single female friends have rejected the app (No way, it’s for free sex/it’s so creepy/but people will KNOW you’re on it), the men in my life are much more accepting. One by one they have downloaded, edited, created search criteria (mile radius/age range/gender) and thrown themselves into liking, noping, and matching, as if their dating lives depend on it. It’s less scary than dating websites, which come complete with prohibitive personality tests, and prescribed parameters such as relationship/no commitment which create a frenzy of anxious clucking “Will I look desperate?” “Will I look like a slut?” “What if I see that people looked at my profile and didn’t contact me?”. Tinder is straightforward, and relatively anonymous. No one will know if you “nope” them, and one can only contact you if you have both “liked” each other, and have become a “match”. There is a level playing field from day one, nobody has had to make the first move. If a match turns out to be a creep, there is a very convenient “block” button. Good harmless fun, a virtual game of “yay or nay”, so beloved of lunching students with window seats. 

But I digress. I have noted a few key errors in male profiles, which are repeated time and time again. Whether these errors are the result of carelessness, or are in fact carefully planned obfuscatory tools, I do not know. Either way, I think a clear profile is likely to result in more “likes” and “matches”, and less frustrated Tindresses (TM, proud of that flash of brilliance).

1. Ditch the group photos.

There is a limit of 6 pictures per person on Tinder profiles. These should be chosen wisely, and with some thought. Too many men have not just one, but several group photos on their profile. This results in a time-consuming game of “Where’s Wally?”, trying to compare photos to see whom the common male denominator is. This frustrating trend usually results in me hitting “nope” before I work out which of the local hurling team I’m supposed to be admiring, both in his jersey, and in his blue shirt doing shots in Reardens. 

Another downfall of group photos is that I am almost invariably disappointed if I take the trouble to work out which man I am supposed to be considering. Irish men are renowned for hunting in packs, and have taken this approach online with them. Strangely, they seem to feel that posting pictures with their hot friends is a good way to woo the ladies. Fair enough a hotty catches the eye, but I feel cheated when I realise the guy whose left elbow just made it into the picture is actually “Michael, 26”. Michael could have two heads for all I know, which doesn’t excite me for a prospective date. Realistically if the point of the app is to meet new people, you may aswell be upfront about what you look like.

In the interest of fairness, my sister pointed out that men may not have as many individual photos as their female counterparts. Regardless, I feel that most people are capable of cropping photos to include themselves as the main event. 

2. Don’t put up pictures with your wife, girlfriend, ex.

This one confuses me, the only tactic I can think of is that the user is trying to prove that he is not completely repugnant to women. Regardless, it makes me nervous that the man is looking for an OTHER woman, so they are “noped” immediately.

3. I don’t want to see pictures of your children.

This may sound harsh, but I’m not on Tinder to become any kind of mother, step or otherwise. Again, I presume the man is showing his soft side, but I’m not looking for a sweet best friend, I’ve plenty of those.

4. No cringey blurbs. 

Cheesy chat-up lines rarely work in real life when someone has to reject you to your face, they won’t work on Tinder when you can “nope” someone anonymously.

5. If you match with someone, consider your opening gambit.

“Hey, how are you?”. 

Hello!

Hey baby.. (I would do a double-line through this if I could)

You’ve matched with someone you fancy, now’s your chance to wow her! Hello will never wow anyone (unless you’ve somehow woken up as Jerry Maguire, in which case you don’t need Tinder, you have Renee Zellweger). 

Look for clues in her profile, check shared interests and friends, song lyrics in her bio, interesting scenery that you recognize, funny costumes, a club that you’ve both been to, and lead with something that shows you are making an effort to note her interests.

6. Keep it clean.

Don’t ruin your first conversation by jumping straight into dirty talk. If things progress to that, happy days, but don’t lead with smut. If you’re dying to know are the lovely lady’s intentions honourable, phrase the question innocuously, “So why are you on Tinder?!”, or “Have you had any mad conversations on this?”. She will no doubt tell you about some creep who enquired after her topiary or turned out to have a wife, three kids, and three nipples (See points 1-3). You will be glad you took the softly softly approach.

So there it is, my six point tutorial for all you Tinder-heads. Ignore it at will, but don’t blame me if you remain matchless and blocked, creeping solo for evermore… 

After suggestions from two very dear friends, one date, and one absolute stranger on Twitter, I have gathered my skirts and my courage, and started a blog. While some of these suggestions were possibly to reduce the need for weekly three hour long peppermint tea sessions to keep up to speed with my semi-dramatic life, others genuinely felt that someone other than they might get a kick from my daft encounters and love of a good story. And so it begins…

I should start by saying I have no major aspersions to literary greatness, this is a vessel for my daily verbal doodles, and will be more legible than an ink-stained sinistral diary (one hopes).

I imagine I’ll feel the need to share awkward encounters, stunning gigs, decadent recipes, sporting battles, enthralling books, stirring speeches, and no doubt I’ll digress grandiloquently and frequently.

Here’s to 2014 being at least as smashing as 2013..

Dotty x