What’s Your Poison?/Comfort Blanket

I always know I’m near the bottom of my mental barrel when I redownload the Stephen Fry audiobook of Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone; this means I need familiarity and comfort. Something I know inside out where there’ll be no surprises – good or bad. I can escape (such a cliché – “escapism” ) to that world and imagine that I too have a witch’s ability to create my own cheering charm or, even better, to conjure my own Patronus (which is a calico cat according to Pottermore) to keep me company in all its soothing silvery, ethereal beauty. Oh, to live in a world where Protego Totalum were a genuine option to hide a depressive from the world – letting the world proceed as normal but with you shielded from it momentarily, and it shielded from you.

Yesterday, I ended up at the Caredoc for a migraine shot ,which to be honest was a waste of fifty euro as it didn’t really work. The Difene that the doctor gave me to take home didn’t help either. Or the SolpaExtra. Or the Rivotril. So I slept and stayed in darkness and wished that I wouldn’t need to get up to pee or that nobody would open my bedroom door. I’m pretty sure that I cleaned my teeth at some point… so there’s an achievement.

Today I managed ten minute yoga; a slow walk with one dog to the forest; a bath; make up; lunch; teaching two classes and a second trip to Tesco, this time with my King, which was much more secure than the first quick trip on my own after my walk to buy smoothie ingredients. Oh, and I made a smoothie. All the way around Tesco, despite my being a complete and utter dick all weekend – not just about Ireland winning the Grand Slam by beating England – my King’s home country – in the final showdown of the Six Nations, but a total; unmanegeable; ungrateful; stubborn; superior bitch all weekend – he hugged me and kissed me and offered for me to go sit in the car in case I was struggling as I tend to sometimes with crowds. He held my hand with his left as he manoeuvred the trolley with his right. He bought me treats and ingredients for him to cook dinners for the week and paid for it all because I’m broke. He showed the world that he thinks I’m worth snogging in the chickpea aisle of the supermarket even when I think I must be the worst thing that ever happened to him.

Right now, two dogs are play fighting beside me while Scandi daughter embroiders something pretty and watches The West Wing. There’ll be roast chicken; salad and crusty bread for dinner and even though I know I should go to choir, I’m at my emotional limit for today so I am hoping that our lovely director will understand.

I am trying to be as honest as I can possibly be lately with how I am struggling – not for attention; I’d much rather be left alone and never have to talk to anyone about it, but I’m hoping that anything I say in brutal honesty might encourage even one or two others to admit to someone they trust that they need some help too.

Tomorrow, despite the cost (fifty euro to see my GP and sixty five to see a trauma therapist), I’m making appointments to see them both because I will not let this get the better of me. This burning paralysis and fear of sleeping; of waking will pass – I know it will, if only I can push that damned boat of doom out to sea another time. I’ve done it before, I know this won’t be the last time I’ll have to launch it into the depths, weighed down by an anchor of love; resilience; writing; walking; talking; pharmaceuticals and of course; Harry Potter. 

Dotty 💋

What a F***ing Week

Thank fuck for anti-anxiety pills, that’s all I can say.

And yoga.

And a brisk walk.

And white soda bread and egg mayonnaise from Orla’s Kitchen. And cheesecake.

And the gym. And a bottle of Garnier Summer Body.

And red wine. And Solpa Extra. And Zadok the Priest.

And randomly bumping in to people in your hometown and having life affirming chats in the middle of the Main Street. And charity shops where you can treat yourself to a new dress for six euro.

And choir rehearsal which brings all that complexity of emotion to your larynx and throws it out into the air into a sound resonating joyously and uncomplicatedly. And to the wit of the women sitting beside you and around you in choir who make you feel human and present again.

Thanks to the friend who invites you to her beautiful pottery and ceramics studio for an impromptu crafting session of escapist bliss and peace.

And thanks to the daughter who knows that you just can’t muster up the energy to talk today and the fiancé who sends reassuring messages during the day and holds your hand as soon as he gets home. Thanks even to the dogs who might drive you up the walls  when you’re trying to teach but then lick your hands and face in the morning as if to neutralise the toxic salty sweat emitted through last night’s nightmares.

Thanks to the children who randomly tell you they are so glad you’re their friend and teacher because you’re funny and you make them feel happy.

Thanks to the cousin who reads your blog and is on the phone instantly.

Thanks to the daughter who books afternoon tea for the two of you.

Thanks to those who speak openly about mental health and don’t shy away from the subject or cover up how they are feeing and aren’t afraid to ask you about your true debilitations. Thanks to the doctor who listens and understands and never fobs you off.

Thank you for Friday.

And in advance, thank you Ireland for beating England and winning the Grand Slam (I’m tempting fate, aren’t I?).

And thank you for Tadgh Furlong whom I once saw in IKEA, I presume to single handedly carry ALL the flatpacks.

Dotty 🐄

Shall I be Mother?

The number above is for the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre helpline.

Landmark week in the Dotty household: my Scandi daughter turned 18; was accepted into her journalism college course; we celebrated International Women’s Day  with Bollinger and Mother’s Day was a feast of Victoriana.

All in all a good week, you would think, and yet here I am, taking refuge in my blog. The reading nook in our house – hidden away by drying laundry – consists of an upcycled pale grey rocking chair and cylindrical floor lamp emitting a soft golden glow warming the coral colour blanket and the delicately embroidered cushion. This is homely luxury unknown to so many and yet I could sleep and leave it all behind to float in nothingness.

If only sleep would bring nothingness, instead it brings anxiety surpassing the actual waking anxiety which has done all it can to try to break me and this running streak of productivity and positivity that I’ve enjoyed for the last prolonged period of what, a year, more? This is by far the lowest and most highly strung (such an oxymoron) I’ve been in a few years and apart from some triggers like the Ulster Rugby Rape Case which has bitten far too close to the bone of trauma festering  in the marrow of victims all over the UK and Ireland, I’m not sure just why it’s all hitting me now.  There is so much that I could write about the case; about the pervasive nature of sexual bravado and toxic masculinity drowning our young men in the medieval delusion of power over the bodies of those less physically powerful than theirs. It makes me sick to my core – my core that feels half corroded by the rust of abuse and societal acceptance of “boys will be boys”. There should be a grand reception of honour and gratitude for that young woman who has been brave enough to publicly accuse (and yes, I believe her – only between 2 and 6 per cent of cases result in an outcome of false accusation and that figure is inflated by the “no crime committed’ decision which is often inevitable due to a lack of corroborating evidence) two heroic sporting figures: big muscly fish in a small pond of testosterone and idolatry.

The other night, when watching Career of Evil , I had a properly grotesque meltdown with my beloved and everything I had not managed to articulate to him about my traumatic sexual past came rolling down my cheeks. As I’ve said before, there wasn’t just one experience for me: yes, there was one that was the most damaging, or at least I place it as being “the worst”, perhaps because it was the first and possibly the most shockingly forceful and surprising – you don’t expect that when you are 16 – but whether through vulnerability; self hatred or an inherent sense of unworthiness, I found myself in dangerous and unwanted situations three more times that I can remember. I don’t blame the men; I still blame myself. I led them on; I wasn’t vociferous enough in my objections; I thought it was what I was meant to do. I can’t blame them entirely because society raises boys to believe that it is their right; their duty to conquer and their entitlement to sex whatever way they want it, which its often what they have seen from their main, if not only source of sexual information – porn.

I am constantly nervous and sickened at writing my most personal feelings and darkest chapters in this blog; it’s not that anonymous anymore and I know many will disapprove; scoff; belittle; turn away from me; denigrate… but the truth is, as much I am struggling, there are millions of others; male/female/other; who are in worse places than me with nobody to love and support them. I have the strongest support system imaginable – one I usually feel that I do not deserved as I reciprocate so minisculey- but I have it and they see who and what I can be when the layers of grimey self hatred are finally stripped away to reveal the unspoiled me.

We have to tell our stories – as gruesome as they might be, as acidic as it might feel. Not telling them is what led to this culture of hidden torment; secrecy and shame in the first place.


Dotty 💋

February 15th – Triggers

One of the things which sometimes bewilders others about depression is the unwillingness to listen to music; watch sad movies or odd tv shows. I find I avoid fiction or modern non-fiction because any little trigger can be hiding in there, seemingly innocuous, and it can jump out from a chord; a scene or a page and set me back to one of the worst places I’ve visited in my mind. Historical tragedy; massacre; famine and oppression though – no problem.

For example, I can’t listen to Chasing Cars; anything by Stars; Missy Higgins; The Scientist or Linger: I can’t watch Atonement or The Piano (which has an upsetting Stockholm syndrome premise anyway, if I remember correctly), movies I enjoyed enormously at the time, particularly for their scores. I have had a fear of Black Mirror which existed long before  I saw just one episode that the King thought I’d enjoy and seeing as it was his birthday, I watched it. There are so many cultural experiences: music; film; novels; art exhibitions; plays; poetry that isn’t comic which terrify me because of the immediate sense of panic and uncomfortable heat stirred up to boiling by them. But even moreso, the residual simmering of doom; the sense of otherness and displacement brought on by a sad song; a tragic movie; a serious novel; a heartbroken poem; a shocking piece of art – like a nightmare; I can’t shake it, often for days.

I immerse myself in documentaries; historical biographies and the novels of Harry Potter are my recurrent refuge when I need to escape, and they’re not exactly all cheer and human goodness.

So am I just avoiding life? Or am I protecting myself? Am I living in a bubble of my own making or have I simply got to know my triggers well enough to intuitively cut them out?

Yet, I read the news. The recent case against two Ulster rugby players has been a huge source of anxiety for me and I fell into the trap of getting involved in online comments section on rugby forums – I was called an idiot twice in twelve hours for suggesting that most cases of rape are not false accusations. I think this has had much to do with my recent slip into a minor blue funk. I want to know what is happening in this world of tragedy and moreover, I wish I could do something tangible to help victims of rape; women and girls who are oppressed and undervalued and those for whom a different sort of education could prove the difference between a life loved and a life existed.

So, the question is: how do you avoid your triggers but still do something about them?

Answers on a postcard please…

Dot 🐄


February 11th – Thank Yoga

I recall an ex of mine telling me that when I was good, there was nobody like me. I was the best person to be around and I attracted people to me. The downside of that was that when I was down, I was impossible: he had to get away from me. While I understood, and empathised with him being in love with a girl who was lovable only thirty percent of the time; I also resented that he could walk away – I couldn’t. I was stuck inside my head one hundred per cent of the time with no escape. Even when I sleep, like last night, I am at risk of being more drained because of the nightmares than when I went to bed. Cold sweats and dark images; terror and paralysis, like bloody Macbeth.

I can totally understand why people with mental health issues turn to hardcore pharmaceuticals and often spiral into a demise of illegal street drugs. I’ve been taking Venlafaxine for three and a half years and it works in that I’m still alive; functioning and my fiancé and daughter can probably live with me for more than thirty percent of the time now. I can live in my own head for seventy percent of the time now so there exists some sort of numerical parallel. However, as my life has progressed towards what qualifies as my most successful years in terms of relationships; career and sociability since I was sixteen, the strain on my emotions becomes increasingly tense and I’m reminded that I have a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and PTSD – I forget that which makes sense because one of the features is being way too hard on yourself. I never think I have enough done in a day: my endless quest for productivity leads to almost complete burnout and then I end up sick, either physically with a cough I cannot shake off or a mental weariness so profound that I don’t have the will to get up to pee. No wonder my pelvic floor feels eighty years old. In short, I’m not sure the Venlafaxine is cutting it anymore. But at least, the migraines have subsided with the Sibellium .

One of the things that I am most looking forward to is the ground drying out in Spring and getting out to the garden to bring my plants back to life. The ground, like my mind, is sodden and heavy. It’s strange when you get to the age when gardening is a thing for you. I used to love baking but now the kitchen usually needs to be cleaned up before anyone can use it and I just don’t have the mental energy to do that, or the time, it seems. I do of course have the time, I could make the time, but it’s another of those things that just gets shunted to the side in the blur that is trying to get through the day and get everything done. Like reading. If I try to sit down to read, I fall asleep after five minutes, my eyes are so gritty from a day of keeping on top of everything. I am always tired, but tired in a way that my nerves are on edge and liable to fray at any moment. That’s why audiobooks are my saviour. I can keep moving while I listen and therefore not risk falling asleep for two hours and therefore, miss out on two hours of getting stuff done.

Which brings me to yoga. I didn’t get up till 2:45pm today. I went to bed at 11:15pm. I tried to get up around 11am but I could barely move. I could barely talk to anyone in the house. The burning paralysis was back. Then, I remembered my cousin sending me a link for a yoga teacher on YouTube and looked her up. I did the morning yoga routine (even though it was by now 3.30pm). It wasn’t easy and trying to follow the screen while manoeuvering into sun salutations was frustrating. Added to that the grotesque state of my almost size 14 body bubbling over at me in the mirror. My muscles and bones creaked and my fat got in the way but I did it and guess what, I felt better. I don’t; feel amazing now: I am sneezing and I could still go back to bed but I am washed and dressed in clean, comfy clothes and I’m going to watch the rugby on record.

I pity my fiance and my daughter, even the dogs, having to live in the same house as me on days like this. But they’re still here so maybe the good days are very good days,  and my ex was right about one thing.

Dot 🐄






Miasma of Gloom

I’ve been sick today with a cough and general miasma of gloom in my bones and my soul.

Despite being self-employed, I stayed in bed and slept for the majority of the day but when not asleep, berated myself for being lazy and in bed which hasn’t led to much of a rest day.

I can feel things slipping away from me: bills; housework; parenting; wife-ing; work; fitness… and I have to get back on top of it all or I will drown in a lake of mundanity.

The King (I have no idea what nickname to call the husband-to-be in this blog anymore as no pseudonym seems to do his handsomeness; wit; generosity or patience justice so, he’s the King for now) and I had a blissfully secluded few days away in Ashley Park House this past weekend so I should be refreshed and grateful but instead I am wallowing in a fog of my brain’s own making.

Tomorrow, I will be better. Tomorrow, I will face the day despite my coughing in its face and I will begin to rise to the top of that pile of daily life shite. And if I don’t, I will breathe and remember to ask for help: I will sit; I will drink tea and count my blessings, of which there are many.

Anyone else need a kick up the arse?



Witching Hour

I had a stressful day yesterday. Not stressful in any way serious or important: just everyday life, a hundred things to do and not enough time or mental energy to do it all stressful.

I could go through all the things that happened to make my day stressful but as previously mentioned, they’re not important.

What is important is that I’m now lying here, unable to sleep, convincing myself that I’m an alcoholic with a propensity to selfish overreaction and an attention deficit disorder.

Ah, insomnia.

Life, and all that jazz, again…

It’s been a year and half since my last post and I’ve just realised that that sounds a lot like the prologue into the enforced ritual of the Catholic confession.

Unlike confession however, I’m drinking red wine, although maybe that’s how the priest got through the interminable flow of teenage girls coming from the neighbouring convent school to “confess’ their sins of not going to bed when they were told; giving back cheek to their mothers; using bad language and not saying their nightly prayers on Tuesday  – those priests surely knew confession was a ‘get out of class’ ticket for us and that we would never tell them (old men who we barely recognised, let alone trusted!) what we had actually been up to? Confessional nostalgia aside, however, it’s weird and terrifying to be writing again because, these days I’m back in my home town and I have a career which makes me somewhat visible and the people who know that I’m the real Dotty Rocker, well, I’ll probably meet them in Tesco. Then again, I remind myself, confessing our weaknesses in private darkness didn’t really get us anywhere Catholic Ireland, now did it? So, in the interest of open and honest mental health debate, here I am, listening to the soundtrack from The Crown (it’s great for running); sitting in the reading nook that I hardly ever use because I’m “too busy”; ready to self-evaluate.

The last time I wrote I was seeing someone and I thought it would probably last a while, now, we’re engaged; the wedding is booked; we moved house twice in eight months; left our beloved Dublin: adopted two new dogs (we now have 4 dogs and very few unchewed shoes); had a few blazingly serious arguments; wondered why we’re so often too tired for sex and rediscovered how good the sex is when we finally have the energy; pulled one kid out of school because she was basically too far beyond mainstream education and we’re hippies at heart; put on a collective 5 stone and started running/pilates/gym again to try shift it; taught the other kid how to swim; have nice manners and understand the depth of our love for him; opened/relaunched and expanded two businesses; wondered most months how we’ll pay the bills and then marvelled at how they always get paid in the end; buried a darling family friend; tried for a baby for 14 months and have just now discovered that I’m not ovulating properly (if at all – I have to have more tests); had an early miscarriage; drank approximately 500 bottles of wine and 20 bottles of gin; I convinced myself that I was an alcoholic and then realised that actually, I’m not, thanks to the reassurance of My Girl and Future Hoosband; had a wonderful week in Paris; fallen out with my dad a couple of times; fallen out BIG TIME with My Girl’s dad (as has she); joyfully reconnected with My Girl’s dad’s dad and her aunts and uncles (which is glorious); started coaching little people rugby with My Girl; haven’t seen even nearly enough of my sort of ex-step daughter; joined two choirs; had to give up one due to work commitments; learned more Christmas carols in record time than I can care to count; I’ve been through 5 different migraine meds and have finally found one that has enabled me to be migraine free for 6 weeks; moved to just around the corner from my main mama, my Nana (who turned 96 and still likes to have her hair done fortnightly and make risqué jokes over her tea); had the best night of my life with my sistafromanothermista at Coldplay in Croke Park; watched Wonder Woman and fell in love with the mind of Patti Jenkins; stayed up all night and watched in horror as Donald J. Trump was elected President of a country that I used to love, respect and consider my second home and walked into a house party, delightfully unaware that the man who raped me when I was 16 was obnoxious and drunk in the living room. That’s quite the list, but I think the thing to remember is that when I saw him, being generally an embarrassment and a dick to his wife – I  kept it together; friendly; chatty; enthusiastic – supported by Hoosband TO BE and My Girl, he was the one who left the room: he vanished and nobody asked his whereabouts. I came home and fell apart; Hoosband and My Girl stripped me and showered me and showed me the greatest display of love and safety… and I won. He left the room, and he lost that battle.

And I intend to win the war.

I decided to write today because I had a bad day. The bad days usually just come now when I’m premenstrual and boy, am I a raging hormonal mess today. I could not get my energy levels up or my temper down this morning but with encouragement, I made it to the beach with Hoosband; My Girl and the 4 doggos and despite early stress induced screams and rants, calmed the fuck down and actually enjoyed it. Then a bath: a lie down; an all encompassing, ‘make everything better snuggle’ in the huge strong arms of Hoosband (think Rollo from Vikings but with a sexy Essex accent) , we took my darlin Nana for a drive around town to her old familiar stomping grounds and new developments that she remember only as fields. I am really trying to be a good granddaughter to repay some of what she has done for me, but again, I was “too busy” there for a while – trust me, you’re never to busy for life and love.

I guess I’ve realised today that depression never really goes away. Hormones; life; dips in serotonin – anything can trigger the demon again. At one point on the beach today, I thought, I can’t do another day; things will never change in my head and my head is a prison but here I am:writing and feeling the thrill of writing –  alive and calm and wondering when my sautéed potatoes and bacon will be ready.

And how are you? I’d love to know how some of my regular readers are doing.



Episode 2.1 – Let’s Start Over

It’s been a while. A long while. Everything is different yet some things, the shitty things, linger on.

Very recently, I attended a social event. I don’t attend many. We’ve moved house. Actually, we’ve moved county: from the bright lights and extortionate rents of a tiny South Dublin flat to a sprawling, converted cottage surrounded by fields. Whereas before, we woke up to horn beeping taxis and drunk revellers singing out of tune at three in the morning, now we hear only the howls of the hunt hounds in the distance and the odd cow mooing her displeasure when our newest puppy escapes into her pasture to roll around in cow shite. This is the kind of house that’s hard to leave. Every nook and cranny holds a new treasure; a new spot of soothing sunlight or a snippet of history carved into the walls. So, venturing out to a social event is a rare occurrence.

You can imagine then my, disgruntlement (aside: recurring linguistic discussion topic in our house: can one be “gruntled’?) when I arrived at said social event to find none of other than The Guy Who Did The Thing When I was 16 sitting there, having the bants.

That was a couple of weeks ago. And I’m still not right.

I haven’t quite had a total meltdown…yet. I’ve been close to walking away: walking out of the house with a Beyoncé like flip of the wrist, declaring “I’m done’. I haven’t. I’m here in the kitchen writing this which is something, even if I started it six days ago and couldn’t pluck the words out of my scalded pre-frontal cortex.

I think I spotted him as soon as I walked in. “Spotted” seems the wrong word as it suggests a quick movement; a glance. This didn’t feel quick. It felt like a slow, sticky mist descending upon me and glueing my jaw shut. I don’t know what I talked about. I knew there were faces in front of me expectant of words: not just words, but fully formed sentences to emerge, glistening with charm and wit, to come from my mouth. I managed to spill out something barely comprehensible to my lovely, strong, kind, nerdy, handsome fiancé: I can’t do this. He’s here, the guy. Here. He didn’t blink. He was calm.  He held my hand as I talked. He was steady. I was manic; liquid; ethereal. He says I did well. He says I didn’t embarrass myself. He says The Guy Who Did The Thing is a dick: drunk; loud; obnoxious; horrible to his significant other and generally dismissed by polite company.

The Ben and Jerry’s is out.

I held it together. He left. There was an unrelated situation that needed to be dealt with and I happened to be in a position to help deal with it. I coped. I even helped someone else. Then I came home and cried in the kitchen. I needed him cleaned off me. Scrubbed. He was all over me. Tentacles sucking normality out of my pores but yet, and this weirdly hurts the most, not looking at me; not acknowledging me; not seeing me.

The Ben and Jerry’s is gone.

That was several weeks ago and I’m still withdrawn; snappy; knotted in stress; unable to sleep at night yet lethargic and uninterested during the day. Teaching is my only solace and even during that, it  is difficult to maintain focus. I’m trying to be sociable and not let him win – after all, I won that night when he had to leave early – but I desperately want to be alone; silent; available for self care (whatever the fuck that is); to win for myself.


My eyes are closing. I have more to say; to write. I just don’t have the words yet.

Maybe I won’t leave it another year till I write again.

Dot 💚





Episode 142 – Why does this feel so personal?

Thoughts and Feelings on the 2016 US Election Results from Two Irish Women- The Day After Trump Won


I don’t know where to start other than I feel sick and that’s not because of the two glasses of red wine I’ve had at this unusually early hour for me. I, my daughter and many of the women I now are physically traumatised. It sounds ridiculous. I feel like I’m some sort of sensationalist wannabe by even admitting to my distress and grief, but the feeling is there and I can’t ignore it. Like the mourners who keened for Princess Diana in 1997, the mourners I scorned for their outpouring of what I assumed to be fake, attention seeking  emotion, I know get how something so public can feel so personal .

Why does it feel so bad? Why does it feel like we’ve been humiliated; rejected and punched in the stomach? It wasn’t me who lost an election, I haven’t been rejected by the American electoral system, twice. I don’t even know the woman who was. I’m not even American. I’m Irish and we’ve already had two women Presidents despite our abysmal record on women’s rights.

I have so many questions and very few answers, I guess everyone is in the same boat. I’ve just been  added to a WhatsApp “support” group for women (and men) who are finding themselves in a sort of existential limbo today. I have countless articles open and ready to read in an effort to substantiate my own visceral reactions through the cold, hards words of others. My own words, I’m aware, are rambling and raw.

Is it just because she’s a woman that it feels so crap? Is it because it’s the same woman, uniquely and unequivocally qualified to be the Commander-in-Chief that we are so despondent? What more can a woman do in order to avoid being ousted by a silver spooned, bullying, misogynistic 80s leftover for a job she has basically trained for her whole life? Must we be perfect to the point of complete absence of sin or human error and full to the angelic crown of purity like the Virgin Mary in order to finally split the glass ceiling? Maybe that’s what a halo is for, as it certainly doesn’t seem like a stiletto, let alone a low heeled tan court shoe, will impact on the barrier between woman and greatness.  Is it because our hopes were high and we were persuaded into blind faith by polls and the left leaning media that it’s the shock factor that we’re dealing with right now? Or was she the wrong woman for the job? Did we need someone more exciting for Americans to throw their enthusiasm behind? Was she just too tainted by her husband’s escapades; her founding role in a new potential political dynasty or by her past failures and mistakes? If she had been anybody else’s wife would this have happened? Then again would she even have got this far if not for the exposure that marrying William Jefferson Blythe Clinton would bring her. Did she need him to make it even this far? Hillary Rodham won the popular vote so I know that she wasn’t as hated by Americans as many liked to claim she was. What exactly was the problem? Why couldn’t she bring those last few states home?

I still don’t know why I feel so shit about all this exactly but I’m guessing it has something to do our family and friends in America; being a woman who has experienced assault and harassment; being a liberal; being a mother to a 16 year old girl; being a feminist; being a human who tries not to be a massive boil on the arse of humanity. I’m guessing all sorts of people from all demographic backgrounds are feeling dismayed, discouraged and distressed (basically, you’re feeling all the disses) and for now, that’s all I can clearly, and not very at that, get out in words rather than angry screams or exhausted sighs.

Scandi, 16

Dear America,
Congratulations, you’ve done it. You have elected Donald Trump for your President. (To all Clinton supporters, thank you very much for trying to oppose him). You’ll be happy now that you have this man who ‘understands America’. This ‘outsider’ has become an insider, this ‘truth speaker’. You must be delighted he ‘Trumped that Bitch’ as your delightful shirts say. I honestly hope you’re happy.
On your happy day I would like to ask you some questions, don’t worry, you don’t need to reply. Just think on it.
Hillary Clinton has run for president twice, why do you think that she has never succeeded? First in the race for the democratic nomination in 2008, then in 2016, against your main man Donald J. Trump. Now, don’t use her emails as an excuse, they didn’t even exist in 2008. Is is because to you, a woman should never have that much power? Is it because, a woman as president is a ludicrous thought? If your answer is yes to either of these questions, please try to think of your reasoning.
Do you agree that all Mexican people are rapists? Did you know that 57% of rapists are white? Would you want Donald Trump around your daughter, around your sister, around you? Do you think it’s ok to ‘grab a woman by the pussy’? Do you think that a rich, famous man can do anything he wants just because he is famous? Would you ‘grab a woman by the pussy’? If you are going to say that this is locker room talk, then what fucking locker rooms do you go to? A prison locker room for rapists?
Do you disagree that women who were raped, or victims of incest, should be denied abortions? Do you think it’s ok to gun down or bomb a Planned Parenthood centre because ‘They are murdering babies’. Did you know that 33% of women who have been raped contemplate suicide, and 13% follow through. Did you know the number of children conceived from rape ranges from 7,750—12,500 in the US every year?
You say Clinton should be in prison for sending her emails on a private server, for rumours of embezzlement in the Clinton foundation. Do you not think that a man, who said that he can just kiss a woman because he’s famous, that he ‘moved on’ a married woman ‘like a bitch’ and that he just grabs women ‘by the pussy’ is completely innocent, is a great man against Mexican rapists. Did you know that Trump has court cases pending against him for fraud? Did you know he had a rape case against him of a 13 year old girl? That just disappeared? Do you know that 11 women have accused him of sexual assault? Please tell me, how you think this is ok?
On the topic of ‘those darned immigrants’, tell me, you constantly say that latino immigrant are ‘taking your jobs’ but would you do they jobs that they are willing to do so they can send money home to their families? Would you build Taco Bells, would you collect garbage? Would you risk your life to cross a border to a country you thought would hold a better future for you and your family, to escape the crime, the danger, the poverty? They come to a country to escape and they are escaping into a country that holds them as criminals, wasters, not worthy. Tell me, where did this picture you have painted of immigrants from Central America come from, is it the simple fact that their skin is darker than yours?
Do you think it’s ok for police to shot a young black man, because he looked suspicious? Do you think that black communities should be monitored and patrolled by police just because the population is black? I’m sorry, I forgot it’s 1952. Do you not think that Black Lives Matter? You’re going to say all lives matter, yes, they do. But that’s not the point, black people are still persecuted in America purely for the colour of their skin. Do you realise how ridiculous that is? Have you heard the story of Robert Davis from New Orleans who was arrested and brutally beaten on suspicion of public intoxication? Would that have happened to a white man, or would he just have been told to go home and get a cup of coffee? What about Amadou Diallo, the Guinea immigrant who was shot and killed by police in New York as they “Thought he had a gun, looked suspicious, and may have been assisting in a crime.” The officers shot 41 times into his Bronx apartment. When he came out they shot him as he put his hand in his pocket and they thought he had a gun. It was his wallet. Did you know those officers were acquitted of second degree murder and other charges a year later?
Were you aware that Vice President Mike Pence still believes in conversion therapy?
Are you aware of the effect this will have on the LGBTQ+ community? What is wrong with not being straight? It’s against the bible? Did you know the bible is also against mixed fabrics and kid gloves? Check the label on your shirt if I were you, I can almost guarantee you’re sinning. As President Bartlett said in the West Wing, they bible also says it’s ok to sell your daughter, tell me, how much would I be worth?

America, Irish people have loved you for a long time. We held you in great esteem, we helped to build your country. Did you know that the architect who designed Donald Trumps future residence, The White House, was Irish. Did you know that your country used to have signs in windows of businesses saying “No Blacks or Irish need apply?”. We were not worthy of your time. Now, you’re suddenly all related to Paddy O Donnell from Tipperary? America, we think you’ve gotten a bit too big for your boots. If Paddy O’ Donnell saw how you were acting, he wouldn’t be proud.
You may think I have no right to an opinion of your country, but think of me as a concerned sister. I have spend most summers of my life in your country and God, did I love it. But the older I get, the more cracks I see in your facade, the facade of the American dream.

Think on it,
A 16 year old, white, straight, Irish girl.