Cassandra Voices

Author: Sarah Hamilton

  • International Women’s Day: WomenXBorders

    This year marks the 109th International Women’s Day. The now universally recognized date first bore fruit after a 1908 march, where 15,000 women in New York City demanded shorter working hours, better pay and the right to vote. Clara Zetkin, a German Marxist theorist, activist – and all-round badass – pioneered the idea at an International Conference of Working Women in Copenhagen: representing the power of female voices coming together.[1]

    For this year’s occasion, I attended the Irish Writer’s Centre’s WomenXBorders event, promising motivational talks, and a platform for female writers to engage in a day-long readathon, where they would have the opportunity to showcase and read their own work from a platformed mic stand on top of the room.

    The organisers’ mission was to ‘foster connections between women and encourage professional growth for writers across north and south.’ Also involved was Women Aloud NI, with many members travelling from all over the country.

    The talk that most attracted me was: ‘Publishing with a Mission: the Story of Virago and later Champions of Women’s Voices.’ Emma Warnock, publisher at No Alibis Press, was interviewing Sarah Savitt, publisher of the female powerhouse that is Virago.

    I arrived early and was brought upstairs with a fresh cup of coffee (my fourth of the day) and notebook tucked under one arm. The all-day readathon participants were taking a short break, with hungry writers and readers now picking at sandwiches and supportively hugging one another. The sun was smiling in through the centre’s big Georgian windows , heating the crowded room. A scattering of jackets, glasses and pens with marked paper were dotted among the chairs, as the crowd had by now settled into their day-long residency.

    Women Aloud NI

    During the short interval, I nabbed a member of Women Aloud NI, a volunteer-run organization that brings women from different backgrounds together through the power of sharing words. A refreshing mixture of ethnicities and cultures was evident.

    One lady I was speaking to was a Frenchie based in Antrim, one of the one-hundred-and-sixty-eight-strong memberships from all over the world, who are living in Northern Ireland. Members expressed a strong feeling of unity and mutual support, with everything from being published on the website’s blog, to receiving feedback on works-in-progress, to day-long events.

    Ballymoney-based author Jane Talbot is the project manager and event coordinator of the organization. She said that Women Aloud NI is about “uniting each voice and creating a community. We’re adding to the cultural life of this country, but how many readers know about all the women writers in Northern Ireland?”[2] Another member reminded me “It’s in the name. We want female voices to be heard – loudly!”

    After that the final part of the readathon commenced. Writers and poets performed with passion, depth and unapologetic wit, absorbing the attention of the entire room before a timer would politely ring, keeping them within three minute slots.

    Afterwards, people shuffled away from their seats once again, and I snatched an early place for the closing talk of the day with Sarah Savitt.

    Virago Publishing

    According to the event page, the talk would be framed around two crucial questions: first, was around the social, political and financial climate that impelled Dame Carmen Callil to set up Virago Publishing, the first mass-market dedicated publisher for 52% of the population – women in 1973; and, secondly, with statistics showing that male writers remain over-represented whether print publishing continues to have a gender issue.

    Sarah tackled the story of the publishing house first. She defined Virago as feminist history makers within the literary landscape.

    Australian born founder Carmen Callil was an active force in the feminist movement. The second wave of feminism was in full force, with the Equal Pay Act having been passed in 1970. The same year witnessed Kate Millet’s Sexual Politics, published by Doubleday and Co; while the first Women’s Studies department opened its doors in San Diego State University, followed shortly by a Women’s Studies program at Cornell.

    There followed the publication of Sisterhood Is Powerful: An Anthology of Writings From the Women’s Liberation Movement, which gathered many prominent feminists’ essays into a seminal volume. By 1973, there was a palpable need for greater representation of female voices.

    The plan was to create an openly capitalist enterprise aimed at a broad audience. As Sarah put it: “from the margins but never marginalized. Carmen ran a tight shift – even the tea towels were washed at a specific time each day. It was important for the house to be taken seriously and more so, for the writing to appeal to the masses.”

    She continued: “The primal focus was not simply to publish radically feminist work. Instead, it was about generating a wide audience for female writers who were tackling subjects and genres of every kind – from fantasy to forgotten about classics to erotica. The focal point of committing to publishing women was the radical act in itself. Even better, publishing work that would appeal to masses meant greater profit and importantly, making competitive money for the authors.”

    Sarah fondly recalled how, after the first year in business, people were asking the house: “do you have enough books to publish next year?” Yes, they did. There were plenty of female voices waiting to be read.

    Until 1978 Virago focused mainly on non-fiction works. As the house grew, so too did its range. Publishing overlooked classics was, and still is important, especially those that had gone out of print.

    The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton are recent examples revived by the imprint.

    Looking back on its early days, Sarah shared how the current boss of Virago, Lennie Goodings considers the rapid success of the company as unsurprising since,  “women wanted to see themselves on a page.”

    As the political landscape changed, the publishing world adapted. Now, the imprint only accepts submissions from agents. Crucially, it changed from its own publishing house to an imprint, having been bought by Little, Brown in 1995. But the core beliefs and mission statement endure.

    The Struggle Continues

    Notwithstanding a long record of success, commercial doubts linger around work by female authors. Sarah said that even Michelle Obama’s autobiography becoming a New York Times bestseller, and which bookshops struggled to satisfy demand for, met the doubts of industry executives as to its mass appeal.

    Similarly, their publication of A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing by Eimear McBride had been turned down sixty times before it arrived at their door, after which it enjoyed great success.

    Addressing the second question of the day – whether an imprint that exclusively published female authors remains a necessity –  Sarah refers to a damning statistic. Currently in the UK, every CEO of every publishing house is a white male.

    Publishing houses worldwide still submit more books by male writers for literary prizes, and book reviews in major publications disproportionately highlight books by men. Moreover, male authors are still paid more than female peers.

    In 2017, Narrow The Gap published a report demonstrating that women writers make 89 cents to the dollar men earn doing the same job.[3] Annually, that makes up a difference of $6,552. Yet The Bookseller published a report showing women dominated the literary bestseller list for 2017, with Margaret Atwood, Sarah Perry, Elena Ferrante, Helen Dunmore, Arundhati Roy, Ali Smith, Zadie Smith, Naomi Alderman and Maggie O’Farrell all in the top ten. Indeed, the only male author on its list was Haruki Murakami.[4]

    Wake Up Irish Poetry

    In response some female authors are calling for a response in a way similar to the #MeToo phenomenon. In Ireland ‘Wake Up Irish Poetry’[5] is an open letter addressed to the Department of Culture, Heritage and the Gaeltacht and the Arts Council calling for acceptable standards of ethics and governance in the Irish arts sector.

    In response to the talk, the room was alight with passion, with Women Aloud NI attendees responding that Northern writing was especially male-dominated. They also referred to an insulting campaign by PSNI to ‘encourage female officers to nominate male officers to help them in their careers.’

    Encouragingly, Words Ireland are in conversation with the Arts Council at the moment to work on a code of conduct policy. Separate to that, the Irish Writer’s Centre are also working internally on a code of conduct policy and customer charter, both of which are in draft stage.

    Sarah Savitt of Virago at the Dublin Writer’s Centre. Image: George Hooker

    Advice

    Meeting with Sarah, after what must have been an exhausting day representing the imprint, she exuded the same energy and enthusiasm. I asked what she would love to see come through her letterbox in 2020, and in the years to come.

    She said she believes writers tend to have a sixth sense about these things, but that it felt imperative for her to put out work from underrepresented groups. So she is interested in writing from those living with, and writing about disabilities, and from perspectives informed by maternal mental health, the female body, stem cell technology, and menopause.

    Significantly, she stated that if more of those unrepresented voices are heard, it gives greater freedom to those few currently writing from that perspective, who may currently feel an obligation to represent that position.

    Finally, self-servingly, I asked for her advice on how a so-far unpublished female novelist should go about submitting a book for publication. Her answer was wise and thoughtful:

    Don’t get too carried away, wasting time on followers and trying to build up clout. You need to know the ecosystem. Spend your time instead learning about how to get an agent, which publishers would suit you, reading work related to them. Follow the submission guidelines that are listed on an agent/publisher’s page. It gives you a better running. Most importantly, keep writing. After all this time, it still really is about the words.

    It was a hopeful closing to an important day. Tellingly, my own editor informed me that a disproportionate number of submissions coming through to him are from males. So let’s do our part; write our story, no matter how radical or not-so-radical it seems, keep submitting, and keep writing.

    [1] Untitled, ‘International Women’s Day 2020: History, strikes and celebrations’ BBC, March 3rd, 2020, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-51666668

    [2] www.culturenorthernireland.org https://www.culturenorthernireland.org/features/literature/women-aloud-ni

    [3] Narrow the Gap, ‘Women writers and authors make 89 cents to the dollar men earn doing the same job.’ https://narrowthegap.co/gap/writers-and-authors

    [4] Untitled, ‘Publishing’s gender gap is still selling women short’, https://www.ft.com/content/d7d83f6e-bb56-11e8-94b2-17176fbf93f5

    [5] http://www.wakeupirishpoetry.ie/

  • Caroline Flack and the Painful Lessons of Grief

    Whenever a celebrity dies of natural causes people respond in unified mourning. If a celebrity dies tragically however – from an overdose or by their own hand – people react with volleys of blame-calling.

    It is a natural reaction for us to want to cast blame somewhere. We point the finger at nameless, faceless entities manifesting greater evil than we would ever be capable of – whether trolls, social media or the tabloids. We assure ourselves these remote actors are the true killers.

    The hardest thing I have ever had to learn – one I am still struggling to get my head around – is that with suicide, we never fully know.

    The Denial Stage

    Grief comes in waves. These waves become less consistent, less engulfing over the years. But when I feel one breaking, after the passing of an anniversary, bumping into an old mutual friend, or after a dream where I’ve seen his face and kissed him back to life, I often revert to the denial stage.

    I shut my eyes, imagine travelling through time to precisely the right moment as an ethereal angel from the future, where I summarise a breath-taking, lifesaving speech that will change everything.

    Wait! I’ve carved a way out for you after all these years. I have the cure. You don’t have to die. You’re free!

    Then we eat ham and cheese toasties. I make fun of the jar of mayonnaise he insists on keeping by his bedside locker. We watch Beverly Hills 90210 – with the original cast obviously – smoke a joint, laugh about his previous intentions. Everything is light. I’ve wiped away the darkness.

    This is the sort of wistful longing that awaits Caroline Flack’s family and friends as they attempt to heal from such a heart-wrenching event. They have a lifetime of such longing in store – an ache that is felt like an infected tooth which, if untreated, will be left to rot. It is nothing like the collective mourning and sense of injustice we feel for her.

    Having said all that, I don’t think we should belittle the grief that can be felt for celebrities we’ve never met.

    Celebrities can become a part of our daily lives. Flack fans will think of the times they saw her glistening locks and beaming smile as they sat at home watching Love Island or The Extra Factor. They’ll remember the satisfaction and sense of girl power when she held Amber Gill’s hand[i] after Michael Griffiths confessed to coupling up with another lover in Casa Amor, and blaming it on Amber for being chaaaldish.

    Even think back to 2014, when her career skyrocketed after deservedly winning Strictly Come Dancing.

    Searching for Answers

    Through my own search for answers I learned how Caroline was put on anti-depressants, right after this success, in order to cope with the pressure.

    Living as we do, in a two-dimensional world of the virtual and the real, we paste together a narrative of who a celebrity really is when they are alone. We generate this picture from social media identities and assorted news stories, all laying claim to differing truths or alternative versions of the same story. And if that celebrity acts in a way we do not expect, we feel it is our right to cast judgement. After all, we think, it is they who exposed themselves to the unforgiving limelight.

    The difficulty with rushing to judgment on celebrities trapped in this secondary world is that no one has been trained in how to conduct themselves online. Societal boundaries and rules do not exist in the same way.

    Considering the internet only emerged less than thirty years ago this is hardly surprising. We are expressing ourselves through the intermediary of a screen and often take on a pseudonym.

    Temptation is also rife here. We can now find instantaneous answers to almost anything we want to know. And once that hunger has been sated, does the truth even matter?

    Brain Studies

    Brain studies show that we are predisposed to put more emphasis on negative than positive thoughts. A study designed by four psychologists from Case Western University and the Free University of Amsterdam, entitled ‘Bad Is Stronger Than Good’, explores how ‘throughout our evolutionary history, organisms better attuned to adverse outcomes would have been more likely to survive threats, which increases the probability of these genes being passed on.’[ii]

    In other words, our brains are not designed for happiness. They are hardwired for survival. While the world around us has developed far beyond the hunter-gatherer stage, our brains are still looking out for the next challenging situation.

    We literally have to fight for our positive thoughts to overcome negative ones. Now, imagine a public figure confronting a media storm. Think of the hundreds, or even thousands of comments, stories or headlines, and then the very real consequences of losing your job, partner and house as a result of these damaging misconceptions.

    Consider how much brain power is required to reverse that swarm of negativity. Even those armed with the greatest resilience would struggle. And Caroline was not someone who was in a place of strength. In October of last year, before the public outcry, Caroline admitted to being in a weird place, saying ‘when I actually reached out to someone, they said I was draining.’[iii]

    Darkest Hour

    I have experienced pain at the death of a celebrity passing before.

    I remember when Mac Miller overdosed in September 2018, I spent two days in bed. My mum found me cradling my cat, whimpering in the sitting room. I had to explain bashfully that everything was fine, except that a famous rapper, who of course I did not know personally, had died at the age of twenty-six.

    But there was something so haunting about the news of Caroline that prompts me to write. A heavy, stomach-filled-with-cement, stabbing feeling. I can feel it now as I type. It was a painful realisation of: ‘I get it. I get why she felt as if she had no way out.’ I can see how so many paths of hope were blocked for her.

    In some of my hardest times, I remember likening mental anguish to the feeling of drowning and looking around while the rest of the world is breathing easily.

    If I had a press pack or a bodycam documenting times I’ve been at my lowest, at my darkest, at my most embarrassing or – for want of a better word – ‘craziest’, a bystander might not see any difference between that behaviour and how we imagine Caroline to have acted on that night in December. Perhaps my admission is a way of acknowledging how ill-equipped any of us are to act as judge and jury.

    Search for the Light

    The weight of suicide is a heavy one to bear. The pain of the victim does not dissolve after they are gone. It is left with the survivors to carry forever.

    The statement Caroline was forbidden to post, which has since been released by her family has arrived much too late. We had already found her guilty.

    It is difficult to find hope in tragedy, but even now we must search for the light, if only to guide those trapped in the darkness.

    Russel Brand, a pure and eloquent voice for celebrity eulogies, gave me bittersweet hope. In part, it reads as such:

    We have the power to hurt one another and the power to heal one another, perhaps that’s the only power we have. We can never see the positive impact of our actions, the times when our kindness and compassion may have saved a life, but we can see what happens in its absence.

    There is freedom in asserting our own power. It is a responsibility that should be taken seriously. However, it is important to understand that no amount of love or affection can stop someone from ending their life.

    Ultimately, we have no control over anyone’s decisions to do so. But what we do have control over is ourselves. We control what we think, how we react to things, how we treat other people, what we read, watch or write. This is the true power of human existence.

    For the survivors, there are pages and pages of words left unsaid to the person they have lost. I’ve been writing my own for years. And I’m tired of carrying this. I’m tired of the pain. I’m tired of watching bright, talented and special people die.

    So, for those who can see no way out: know that you are worth your weight in gold. Know that the people who love you would move mountains just to keep you here. Know that I would sacrifice every star in the sky to transcend time and bring back who I lost.

    Search for the light. Even if it is the tiniest little glint. I promise you it is there.

    [i] Tilly Pearce, ‘Caroline Flack’s reaction to Love Island’s recoupling clash between Amber Gill and Michael Griffiths is priceless’ Metro, July 3rd, 2019, https://metro.co.uk/2019/07/03/caroline-flacks-reaction-love-islands-recoupling-clash-amber-gill-michael-griffiths-priceless-10111688/

    [ii] Roy F. Baumeister, Ellen  Bratslavsky, Catrin  Finkenauer, ‘Bad is Stronger than Good’, Review  of  General  Psychology2001.  Vol.  5. No. 4.  323-37 https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1037/1089-2680.5.4.323

    [iii] Tilly Pearce, ‘Caroline Flack’s reaction to Love Island’s recoupling clash between Amber Gill and Michael Griffiths is priceless’ Metro, July 3rd, 2019, https://metro.co.uk/2019/07/03/caroline-flacks-reaction-love-islands-recoupling-clash-amber-gill-michael-griffiths-priceless-10111688/

  • What Separates us from Monsters? Dylan Tighe’s Redubbing of Pasolini’s Saló

    Before even taking my seat, three times I was warned of the ‘gory content’ in Dylan Tighe’s redubbed rendition of ‘Salò’, or ‘120 Days of Sodom.’ Then announcements made at the start, noting our nearest fire exits, and the two-hour-and-ten minute performance length (sans interval), warned us again that we could leave at any time.

    Those familiar with Pasolini’s final film will understand that this performance is not for the faint hearted. Having run since last Thursday, it has received a critical Irish Times review claiming it abuses the relationship between spectator and performer by traumatising its audience.[i]

    But abuse, as we so brutally learn, is not something that can be left behind at the theatre door. Abuse is not a choice. And a choice we had – we were reminded of it four times. ‘120 Days of Sodom’ is not a new discovery, nor are the stories echoed from the Magdalene Laundries and Christian Brother schools. So, please be advised: if you think that you can’t handle it, then you probably can’t.

    Tighe has no interest in merely entertaining. He seems to have anticipated backlash, telling the Irish Examiner: ‘I was thinking about what it means to be outraged by a representation when there is not as much outrage, culturally, about the facts.’[ii] This is the general theme explored, and it is likely to provoke outrage. I even received a note from my editor afterwards saying: ‘I understand if you had to leave before it was finished.’

    On stage, chairs, small screens, bottled water and microphones are set up for the determined and brave cast. Centre stage, an Irish flag is placed on top of a filing drawer. The flag is later dropped on and discarded to access the files. Later, a European Union flag will be draped, notably when the death reports of young refugees are read out in a clinical and matter-of-fact tone.

    The film is given a new setting, Sligo – later there’s a nod to W.B. Yeats’s notorious line: ‘Base-born products of base beds’ – and our performers give us sound effects of whimpering, aggressive rape and sniggering, while a scattered script draws together a story based on the brutal scenes unfolding onscreen. Context is built from the verbatim accounts of clinical abuse stories. Parallels are easily and purposefully drawn.

    Perhaps the most shocking incident in the film is when a female adolescent is forced to eat the faeces of her abuser. More shocking is the link between that and an exact report of a priest admitting to demanding that a young boy lick faeces off his shoe. ‘I didn’t mean for him to actually do it,’ he says.

    Similar accounts are read throughout, oftentimes in upbeat and haughty tones. Tighe has scripted it so that many of the accounts are dubbed over an older, well-dressed courtesan in the film, assumed to signify a nun.

    I also questioned: what makes the older women exempt from abuse? Is it merely that they are past the age of abuse, or is it something deeper? Have they already endured something similar? One scene where an older lady is flouncing around in a manic way, and then flashes the crowd of male abusers, signifies the latter.

    I found myself waiting in anticipation for the accounts to be read out, for meaning to be given to the disturbing images and events onscreen. Although exercised intelligently, it could have made more sense to stick with one dominant theme: the sexual and physical abuse inflicted on thousands of children by members of the Catholic clergy.

    The list of deceased refugee adolescents was, nonetheless, more than moving, like many of the recollections. I cried silently in my seat. And, while I understand this was Tighe’s point – that this is not history, this is present day – it felt too ambitious. Hadn’t we suffered through enough already?

    I considered leaving around as many times as I was told that it would be OK if I had to do so. But I stayed. Perhaps because of a feeling that this was necessary. To bear witness to the brutality, to face it without a shield, to remove the mask on the truth.

    The play began with an introduction from Tighe himself, addressing the audience in Italian with subtitles onscreen. But one cannot simultaneously look at his facial expressions and read from the subtitles. A choice needs to be made. Similarly, towards the end, as the adolescent characters are shown being abused horrifically, smoke is released onstage, eventually covering the screen, leaving us back in a position of safety.

    This subtle occlusion served as a representation of our daily reality. By ‘our’ I really mean those of us who may not have suffered first-hand these harrowing crimes, but who have listened to many accounts. As a telephone counsellor volunteering in the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre, I can say I have listened. I have acknowledged. I have heard stories such as those depicted on onstage. I also appreciated finding the Crisis telephone number listed on a laminated sign in the cubicles after the performance ended.

    Yet there was something different to this type of listening, something even more foul-tasting, which is a knowledge that these crimes have not been accounted for. These crimes have been covered up and excused. So much so that it falls to Tighe, and others, to recreate the trauma in order for us to face up to it.

    Understandably, this production is not for everyone. But the fact that such a production is being staged in the Abbey – the theatre of Yeats, Synge and Lady Gregory – is significant. An uncomfortable, unpleasant necessity – acting in a way like the Playboy of the Western World questioned other sides of the Irish character. This is why I did not leave.

    The performance explores consumption and an inability to satisfy that consumptive greed which seems to accompany positions of power. It led me to question our own present, overwhelming need to consume. The adolescents could easily stand in for how we exploit the Earth’s resources, how we abuse and ignore the plight of wildlife, farm animals – all in the name of perceived necessities that we assume to be needs.

    I don’t believe that it is Tighe’s intention to put blame on his audience. Rather, this production demands we ask ourselves ‘what separates us from monsters?’

    Feature Image: Luca Truffarelli 

    [ngg src=”galleries” ids=”2″ display=”basic_imagebrowser”][i] Ciara L. Murphy, ‘Pasolini’s Salò Redubbed review: Aims for greatness but falls significantly short’, September 30th, 2019, Irish Times, https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/stage/pasolini-s-sal%C3%B2-redubbed-review-aims-for-greatness-but-falls-significantly-short-1.4034991

    [ii] Alan O’Riordain, ‘Classic 120 Days of Sodom redubbed for Irish context’, September 22nd, 2019, Irish Examiner, https://www.irishexaminer.com/breakingnews/lifestyle/culture/classic-120-days-of-sodom-redubbed-for-irish-context-952326.html

  • Mental Disharmony and the Instagram Mask

    A dim, rainy afternoon in August. This summer was not meant to be warm. We didn’t get a chance to shake our wintered souls. We lived in a sort of trapped heat, a fishbowl that had the skin of an overcast sky, blocking any escape for humidity. Sweating in the rain underneath a puffa jacket and thin t-shirt became commonplace.

    I’d like to relieve myself from the thought that my entire mood can be dictated by the weather. Perhaps I need the special lightbulbs for people who have Seasonal Affective Disorder. Four personalities, that’s not too many.

    It’s especially difficult in Ireland to live in the aftermath of what were ‘ground-breaking!’ temperatures the previous year. This was the grieving period. I talked about it to a man who takes the shuttle bus with me to work. The one who makes a point of giving parking instructions to the driver. On this day, he got on late and squeezed into the back next to me.

    ‘See, we had a scorcher last year. It’s only ever one in four.’

    ‘But it’s getting hotter everywhere in the world.’

    ‘Not at all. Climate change? I’d like to see us getting one of them heatwaves.’

    Everyone was talking about it. I eavesdropped in lifts, coffee queues, phone calls. Mournful confessions of changing weekend plans, tensed shoulders that held bags of beach towels and sun lotion, capri shorts that had been soaked on the way to the office. The weather is not small talk for us. It is of genuine concern.

    Even still, I like the soul of a wet summer. It gave me time to consider my reality and not get high off heated daydreams. For the most part, the past three months felt like an infected sleep. As I began to nod off, something would interrupt R.E.M – my cat climbing in from the window with a drunken stumble, the yawn of a midnight aeroplane, the scrapings of the mice that live underneath the floorboards, smelling the return of the cat.

    ‘I thought I’d feel happier in a couple’

    Each day, I would wake with a heavy, unrested head and eyes that couldn’t hide from the hospital yellow of corporate lighting. Living in the city, cushioned by the recent shoot up of tech companies, meant that I was never in perfect, solitary darkness. Except for inside my mind, which is not exactly the same thing as getting blackout blinds.

    Depressive moods are painfully boring for all involved. The after-dinner crying and mood swings did not attract sympathy. They were a burden. I was a burden. I don’t know who came up with the vapid phrase ‘It’s OK not to be OK,’ but it’s been circling social media like a growing tumour. It is definitely not OK not to be OK. And Instagram bloggers writing ‘You can DM me anytime!’ underneath a copy-and-paste list of helpline phone numbers will not make it any more OK.

    What’s the in-between phase? The ‘I haven’t been diagnosed and I don’t support self-diagnosis but there are depressive signs and panic attacks that erupt from some type of unnamed trauma.’ That’s where I was. It’s less dark than the darkest place. But at times, it felt pretty close. There was no fixed reason for the crying. And going through it all while someone was watching meant I had to keep making up reasons.

    ‘I’ve switched birth control, my hormones are adjusting.’

    ‘Work has been hectic. It’s sucking all the energy away for the things I want to do.’

    ‘I’m not sure if living in Dublin is best for me, what with the rent crisis, and how they treat the homeless. It’s hard to see that. Are we supposed to just step over them? Is that what this government wants?’

    I thought I’d feel happier in a couple, as a pair. There has always been two of me. One therapist mused that my feelings of incompleteness comes from my twin sister exiting the womb first.

    ‘She left you behind.’

    It’s an interesting theory. I think it was simpler than that, this time around. I wasn’t protecting my vocation. Everybody has one. Some have many. Mine is currently tied up in a book. Is it possible, I wonder, for me to become mentally sick by not maintaining a writing schedule? It can be scary to think of how much it means. How much it fills. It might be the only thing I am sure about. And I’m not even that sure.

    A billion monthly active users

    The same therapist asked what it would feel like if I changed my Instagram page from selfies to updates on the novel. Pictures of quaint cafés and abandoned cups of coffee, vlogs of chapter progress, inspirational quotes. Well, that would be all well and good if courting still existed in real life. But nowadays, the only way for people to know that you are single is through your social media profile. My friends thought I should announce my updated status like it was a news report.

    ‘It needs to be a little cryptic. Poke fun at yourself. Take a picture of a Marks and Spencer’s meal deal for one with a crying-lauging emoji. Something like wild night in.’

    ‘Seems morbid. I’m not getting divorced.’

    ‘No no, it’s endearing, it’s cute! Or you could screenshot those headphones that say Single Use Only. Underline the single part.’

    I took neither suggestion. I haven’t downloaded any dating apps: first, because I don’t want to date and secondly, because there’s no need. The last few times I’ve spoken to guys on a night out, they asked for my profile name instead of a number.

    Only recently did it occur to me that I labour under a dangerous misconception: that I have control over how people see me. I’m sure I’m not alone in this fantasy. Instagram has fuelled one billion of their monthly users to think the same – why else would we put so much effort and value into what we post?

    Of course we can control how little or how much we post, who sees what and who can message us privately. But there are many uncontrollables too. We have no say over what gets attention or the most likes, or what type of people follow us or what they are expecting. And we can’t decide who watches our weekly, hourly, half-hourly live updates. This last is the most frustrating. I currently have two thousand people watching my stories. The last time I liked someone, I caught myself scrolling those two thousand mini profile names, searching for the name I wanted. One day, I counted the lot eight times. One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine Insta handles just to place my thumb over the one that mattered. That’s a lot of scrolling.

    ‘Orbiting’

    The best advice I have received has been from my sister, who said: ‘If someone ghosts you, don’t make it mean anything when they still watch your stories. It means absolutely nothing.’

    This was both a relief and a let-down. In case you are unaware of the term ‘ghosting’ the Merriam Webster defines it as: ‘Informal: the practice of suddenly ending all contact with a person without explanation, especially in a romantic relationship.’

    Perhaps this phenomenon has always existed. But in a dual-lens reality, where our lives are being self-documented on this billion-user app, ghosting is taking over the dating scene.

    Instagram seems to have exacerbated the ghosting epidemic by adding the option of ‘orbiting’ after ghosting. Orbiting can be explained by giving zero contact back to a person, usually in the middle of a dating spell, and then continuing to follow, watch, and ‘orbit’ over their profile. Take for example this story of a friend of mine, who was having, she fervently insists, great sex with a guy for a couple of weeks. He ghosted her in the middle of a text conversation about what film they should go and see together. He then unfollowed her but continued to watch all her stories.

    ‘So, he is searching for my name and going onto my profile just to see what I’m up to. That means something!’

    It didn’t. He was back with his ex three weeks later. He continues to orbit happily.

    ‘It seems the more you give, the less you get back’

    Let’s add another important phrase: ‘the thirst trap’. A how-to dating article from the New York Times[1] told me that I will be able to see if someone is interested in me by putting out a thirst trap – a suggestive photo, one where you look attractive or pose at an angle such that your legs appear longer than they really are; or you turn up the saturation on the image to give the illusion of a sun-kissed body. If the person takes the bait – likes it, comments, or the ultimate goal, DM’s you – then you have the answer you want.

    I think I was unknowingly sending out thirst traps the weeks before my relationship broke down. It seemed to get more likes the less clothes I wear. I don’t resent that. I’m not blaming society or anything. But I’ve learned that a couple of hundred likes for a bikini picture will not make me feel better. Any positive comments and ‘Yaaas queen’s’ are usually silenced by the fear of coming across as vacuous and self-obsessed.

    Women’s bodies have been sexualised for decades with little control or choice; it’s ironic that now that we are starting to take ownership of that sexuality on a platform that in many ways is an empowering marketplace for us, we get judged for doing so.

    Times where I was posting the thirstiest traps were also times where I felt the most depressed. The itch in me to keep up with this dual setting of virtual and real: the first where I have well-placed make-up, regularly sea swim and make vegan lasagne with homemade garlic bread, was never satisfied. It seems the more you give, the less you get back in real life. I think it’s important to question what we lose when we give so much to something that ultimately thrives off ego expression.

    Recently I posted a selfie in good lighting with the caption ‘getting that Vitamin D.’ On the same day I had to take two Xanax after an hour-long panic attack that caused me to hyperventilate and bang my head against a glass table until it swelled. It’s harder to see the hypocrisy in the moment. It’s harder still when the only person who can see the hypocrisy is yourself. Instagram allowed me to maintain an existence when I didn’t want to exist.

    ‘I go swimming without filming it’

    One of my favourite bands CocoRosie have a song called ‘The Sea is Calm’. This is how the last couple of weeks have sounded. If the Amazon forest is the earth’s lungs, then the sea is our blood. Washing us clean, restoring, renewing again. I’m out of the darkness, looking back on it like an estranged friend whose name escapes me. Hearing the soft patter of my mother’s slippers on the wooden floorboards and being coated in the damp air of salt and bamboo leaves. This saved me.

    Back at home in our lilac beachtown, I’ve found renewed love for my sisters. I didn’t think it was possible for that love to strengthen. There’s always been so much of it. I see the babies every other day, feeding their sleepy eyes with berries for breakfast; filling their cups with chocolate milk and kisses. I go swimming without filming it. The grip of Instagram has weakened.

    There was no revenge picture. I’ve stopped looking at story views. I’ve been shit at putting up pictures, just blurry videos of being stoned with my forever friends surrounded by someone’s pet cat. I am rich in love. I feel thankful for the rainy summer. Sitting inside, feeling trapped, facing darkness and finding release, that probably would never have happened if we’d had a Climate Change heatwave.

    And only two more years of shitty summers to go, then we’re onto the magical fourth.

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    [1] Valeria Safronova, ‘Instagram Is Now a Dating Platform, Too. Here’s How It Works.’, The New York Times, December 21st, 2017, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/12/21/style/instagram-thirst-traps-dating-breakups.html.