Every Great Decision Creates Ripples

I know I’m a bit late to the party here, but as a dedicated Whovian I want to talk about Doctor Who – specifically, of course, the newly-cast Thirteenth Doctor, Jodie Whittaker. Before I start, let me draw your attention to some words uttered by the good Time Lord in one of his earlier incarnations, almost exactly three decades ago:

“Every great decision creates ripples, like a huge boulder dropped in a lake. The ripples merge, rebound off the banks in unforeseeable ways. The heavier the decision, the larger the waves, the more uncertain the consequences.” – the Seventh Doctor (Sylvester McCoy), Remembrance of the Daleks, 1988.

There is no question that the decision to cast the first female Doctor in 54 years was definitely great, in terms of both magnitude and brilliance. It was a pioneering move by a pioneering show that has never been quite like anything else on television, and I for one see it as something that heralds a bright new era for Doctor Who. Jodie is a fantastic actress, and from the moment she pulled back her hood and showed her face to the world I was immensely excited to see what she could bring to the role of the Doctor. We have new leadership in the form of incoming head writer Chris Chibnall, too, and I have no doubt that he will prove to be another mighty weapon in the show’s arsenal as its approaches its 55th year and eleventh revived series. Of course, there are those who – for reasons I simply cannot understand – are unable to accept the oft-repeated fact that Doctor Who thrives on change, and seem to be sure that a female Doctor will drive the programme to a swift end. Their ignorance and misogyny saddened me when I saw it on social media, and it proved to be a startling reminder of the darker side of the Internet, but let’s not focus on such people. They assume, without even giving Jodie a chance, that the consequential ripples from her appointment will be bad ones, whilst for me they can only be good.

The news reminded me why I fell in love with Doctor Who in the first place, and it once again encouraged me to embrace my inner geek. I don’t know what to expect in Jodie’s first series, and it’s that sense of unpredictability that I believe captivates Whovians all over the world. It’s often been said that you should never apply logic to the show, because nothing is ever truly impossible. The format is more open than that of any other programme I can think of, and so are the people around it, both in its production and its audience. An overwhelming majority of fans – 80%, to be precise – are looking forward to the Thirteenth Doctor’s debut, because they’re optimists and the show’s truest enthusiasts. They do not fear change, and certainly not the lead actor’s gender. I have always said that we have been blessed as viewers with twelve (thirteen, if you count the late Sir John Hurt) fantastic Doctors, and I am certain that Jodie will prove herself as yet another perfect choice for this iconic part. I wish her the very best of luck, and I know that throughout her tenure she will be able to count on the support of millions. As Noel Clarke said on Twitter after the news broke, I do not see a man or a woman. I only see the Doctor.

Mason

The Condition You Have Described Has Not Been Recognised

Mason asked a fair while ago if Will, Tamara and I could write a post each about our conditions, but naturally I had completely forgotten about it until Will wrote his own. Luckily I can use my condition as an excuse here, as memory issues (also known as “fibro fog”) are a big symptom. This leads me nicely on to explaining what on earth is wrong with me – specifically, Fibromyalgia.

For those of you who are unsure of what Fibro is, it’s described as a “long term illness” or “condition”. The biggest symptoms are widespread pain (sometimes chronic), fatigue, and muscle stiffness. It also causes memory loss (as mentioned previously), difficulty sleeping and concentrating, and headaches. Unfortunately, not much is known about Fibro. There has been little research done into it, and they have struggled to find a common cause. It has been suggested that it’s linked to abnormal levels of particular chemicals in the brain and the way that the central nervous system processes pain messages that are carried around the body. The main triggers appear to be mental trauma (e.g. losing a loved one or having an operation), childbirth, and inherited genes. Mine is likely to be a combination of the former and the latter, as my mother also suffers with it.

I was only diagnosed in January this year, after seeing several specialists, having a very minor op for a dislocated jaw and being misdiagnosed a couple of times. They informed me that my record showed symptoms from as far back as Year 7, when I was struggling with back pain, and then from Year 9 onwards, in the forms of recurring costochondritis, headaches, and fatigue. By far my biggest issue, as a lot of Fibromyalgia sufferers find, is the lack of support I receive. Not only is it an invisible illness, but there is rarely any awareness raised for it. I get a lot of “you shouldn’t complain so much”, “it’s all in your head”, and “you’re awfully young to have a condition like that”.

I sometimes feel almost claustrophobic about it all. I rarely talk about it to anyone anymore unless they explicitly ask because I’ve been made to feel like it’s a hassle listening to me. Luckily, I currently work in a pharmacy – so my boss has the pleasure of being the person I confide in. I can only hope that anyone reading this will know to make sure their loved ones are okay and supported, whether they are affected by a condition or not.

Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind.

The Sixpence Test

Yesterday marked Mum’s birthday (I’m far too chivalrous to reveal a lady’s age), and to celebrate it we went out for a meal. Yes, my main was fantastic, yes, the slice of chocolate fudge cake I had afterwards was very generous, and yes, I laughed a lot as well – but I’m going to cut to the chase here. The evening’s crowning glory lay not in the food, drink or company, but in the disabled toilet facilities, which stood head and shoulders above many others I’ve used recently. When the able-bodied amongst you are out and looking to spend a penny or more, you are probably able to take the environment in which you do so for granted and without a second thought. It is unlikely to prove impractical to you in any way, shape or form, and as such you can breeze in and out leaving only the commanding hum of the hand dryer – and no trail of devastation – behind you.

I and my fellow disabled loo patrons are not always so lucky. The history of the disabled toilet is littered with major blunders that make these cubicles, which can be designed with a foolish lack of foresight by people who will never have even the slightest reason to venture into them, completely inaccessible to people with handicaps of all shapes and sizes. Over the years I’ve visited disabled facilities so small that even the most compact wheelchair user could not close the door behind them, let alone have enough space to transfer safely between toilet and chair so they can do their business. Those who dare to provide rooms so inadequate are showing blatant ignorance towards the needs of the disabled, and their disrespect is therefore equally as clear and insulting. When I find myself with so little room to manoeuvre and do what is necessary, it becomes apparent that perhaps the only reason some business owners install disabled toilets at all is to tick a box and satisfy legislation. I can only assume that said people still have more reading to do on what equality means.

There are, of course, people who get everything right with regards to disabled provision. The toilet I used last night was clear evidence of this. You could definitely swing a cat or two in there, and upon entering my wheelchair was able to turn perfectly on the spot – or “on a sixpence”, as some like to say – without either end activating the hand dryer or scraping paint off the wall. I could park up and move between gel cushion and toilet seat with room to spare, and without having to worry about getting tangled up in the emergency cord and pulling it by accident. The whole process was a breeze, just as it should be, and this was thanks to a great deal of careful consideration from a proprietor who realised their duty to make every disabled customer’s experience a comfortable one. When it was suggested that I write a post about this, I was encouraged to name and shame those who show neglect and disregard for disabled comfort breaks. I cannot do this, as I fear it would be a hot-headed affair, but I can live in hope that they realise the error of their ways and do their bit to make our everyday lives that little bit simpler.

Mason

Unwritten

Will wrote about his dyspraxia recently because it was our shared intention that all four members of this project – Emily, Tamara, Will and myself – would write about our respective long-term conditions. In my case, that obviously meant banging on about cerebral palsy again, which I suspected you’d heard enough about for the time being, so if I was going to do this I’d have to think of another way of talking about it. And that seemed impossible. A lot has been covered, so what could I tell you that you probably haven’t read already?

Then I had a thought – namely that there’s always more to write about any given topic than you think there is. Take my life, for example. As I may have said before, I resisted starting a blog for years, and all because I doubted that I’d have more than ten posts’ worth of material. 108 posts (including this one) later, and I’d like to think that Third Time Enabled is still going strong. That must mean that either my life isn’t as dull as I thought it was, or I’ve just been consistently repeating myself for the last two years. I would imagine it’s probably the latter, on second thoughts! Seriously though – at the moment it might seem like I’ve exhausted every possibility when it comes to talking about any topic, but maybe it’ll transpire that there’s a new perspective on my disability that I haven’t found yet. Part of the beauty of life is that some of its best stories are yet to be written, and when I find them I’m glad I have the perfect space to bring them to life.

Mason

To Chester

Like most days, I was scrolling through my Twitter feed. Inside the trending box, it read ‘Chester Bennington’. For the few that don’t know, Chester Bennington is the lead singer for rock band Linkin Park. Whenever I see a celebrity’s name on that list, I get a bit nervous as to why so many people are talking about them. For Chester though, I didn’t get that same feeling. Maybe it’s due to his age or some other reason, but I thought, “Everything’s fine.” And then my Twitter feed refreshed, and the hashtags started.

And my breath caught for a second.

I just stared at the screen for about a minute, trying to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t believe that Chester was dead, and that he had killed himself. I mentioned earlier the amount of celebrity deaths we’ve endured, but this one hit me harder than any other. And it took me a while to figure out why. For a large portion of my life, music didn’t mean much to me. I listened to some stuff in the car that my parents listened to, but that was about it. But when I went to college, my friend Alex introduced me to Linkin Park. And from there, my music taste expanded to what it is today. Linkin Park helped me to find a huge part of my life,which I am indebted to Chester for. There have been other celebrity deaths that have shaken me, from actor Robin Williams to comic artist Steve Dillon, because both of their industries are something that I am deeply invested in. But Chester and Linkin Park threw me into rock music. If it weren’t for them or Alex, then a lot of what I’ve discovered about myself might still be hidden.

I’m sorry, Chester. I’m sorry that you felt like the only way to take away your unimaginable pain was to end your life. But know that there are millions of people who were affected by your work. Your voice was unreal, and sends shivers down my spine every time I listen to it. There are people who were brought away from the edge by your music. There are people whose lives were saved by your music. I don’t think there’s a higher accomplishment.

There’s a Wonder Years lyric which reads “I’m sure there ain’t a Heaven, but that don’t mean I don’t like to picture you there.” And at moments like these, they stick with me. I’m an Atheist, so I don’t believe in any religion. If I did, I think there would be a space for Chester in Valhalla.

Thank you.

Will

“And the Sun will set for you”. – “Shadow of the Day”, Linkin Park

My Disability and Me

A couple of months ago, Mason popped up on Facebook and asked: “how does your disability affect you?” This made me think, as I had never really thought about it.

I have mild Dyspraxia, a disorder which affects hand-eye co-ordination. This means that my balance, handwriting, drawing and other such activities have been skewed. I was first diagnosed when I was about 7, when my teacher realised that I was as clumsy as a one-legged horse on Strictly Come Dancing on ice.

When I pondered Mason’s question, I realised that my Dyspraxia had a bigger effect on me when I was growing up. My failure at sport and dodgy handwriting often led to bullying and name-calling. And I had them all, including “retard” and “spastic”. This and me feeling like I wasn’t good at anything led to a huge decline in confidence and self-esteem. Another thing that happened was that I would give up a lot. I know people who have Dyspraxia who have become good at sport, defying the odds to prove themselves. I tried to do that. I started tennis and even became good at it. But for the most part, I just stopped. I’m still just as bad at most sports as I ever was. For a while, I used my disability as an excuse to not get involved. The only thing I kept doing was writing. The use of a computer helped with that, as I often felt that I couldn’t write things down as quickly as I wanted. The way I described it was that my hands couldn’t keep up with my mind. I also found that being friends with people like Mason has made me learn to not make my disability define who I am. I have never once known Mason to complain about his wheelchair, he just gets on with it.

As I grew older, I’ve put less emphasis on my Dyspraxia. People stop caring as much about how physical you can be, and with the help of a computer I can write as much as I want. The one thing that I have started doing as I’ve grown older, and Mason’s question helped me do this, was wonder how much my Dyspraxia impacts me. When I do something clumsy, I think “was that me just being clumsy, or was it part of my disorder?Or, are they one and the same?” The great thing about university is the fact that difference isn’t really a huge problem. When I got my laptop out in middle school and college, I felt like it immediately created a difference between myself and the rest of the class. Now I feel like it’s not even thought about.

So in answer to Mason’s question, I suppose it’s “it doesn’t anymore.” Every child with a disability feels like an outsider. I’m not trying to draw sympathy to myself in this, my Dyspraxia is very mild. I suppose I have two messages with this. To those that don’t have disabilities, I say this: be considerate with your words and actions toward those that do. And to those that do have disabilities, just know that it doesn’t have to be your defining feature. You don’t have to be known as “the kid with *Insert disability here*”. Choose your own label.

Will

“There is no greater disability in society than the inability to see a person as more.” – Robert M. Hensel

Every Sentence is a Song

I’ve long said to myself that when I can write or find the right ones, I will post some interesting poems or quotes on this blog to provide a little bit of variety alongside the longer posts you normally get to read. At the moment, I can neither come up with nor locate anything worth uploading – but thankfully, something came to me by chance when I was least expecting it and I decided it was too good not to share. It was this blog, and where to go next with it, that I was pondering when I suddenly remembered a brilliant quote about sentence structure that a teacher had on their wall at school:

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals – sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”

This quote came from a man named Gary Provost, and whilst I’ll have to Google him to find out exactly who he is, his words intrigued me from the moment I first laid eyes on them. As I’ve written before, I’m a mildly capable keyboard player. I’ve been doing my best to improve for four years now, but it’s becoming increasing clear that no matter how much I play, I’ll never be as good a musician as I am a writer. It’s therefore reassuring to know that in Mr Provost’s eyes, we’re all musicians through our respective languages. We’re creating musical pieces of many different shapes and sizes in anything we write, be it a shopping list or an epic novel. And the very nature of language means that we’re often led to use shorter, medium-length and longer sentences in varying quantities, so every day we have an opportunity to be creative and expand our grasp of English in the process. Maybe we won’t even be aware we’re doing it, but think about two of life’s greatest gifts, language and music, combined as one. Isn’t that just something that beggars belief?

Mason