The Klockwork Raven

I decided some time ago that I wanted to try and do some blogging.  I have been going back and forth on whether I want to type out my thoughts or whether I wanted to attempt a video blog.  Honestly, there this isn’t an either or  type of thing, so I am going to do both.

As I write, I am being helped by a young guest in my house.  I have been rehabbing an injured baby crow for the past couple of weeks.  Loki the crow came home with me one early evening after taking my European Eagle Owl to the vet.  There is a local Bird of Prey rescue I will help out now and again especially when there is an injured bird in my local area. So on my way home I got a call about a baby crow in trouble.  I picked the poor thing up and he (no I don’t actually know that it is a he) was in a bad state.  He was extremely thin and definitely dehydrated.  It took a week to get him to the point he was starting to show his curiosity.

I didn’t really know about baby crows.  I simply did what I do for any baby or injured bird that has come to me.  The crow that sits on my shoulder is much more lively than the baby I first picked up. He is extremely cheeky.  He loves to sit on my arm and try to remove my tattoo, he chases my poor dog around the garden, he pecks my ear cuff.  But being with a bird with this much intelligence is a challenge.  He has a one track mind and  he is determined.  I never thought of myself as a bird person, but having 3 owls in my family and the occasional wild visitor, I guess I am becoming a bird person.

My original totem animal was the snowy owl.  I was hooked on owls since I was a kid. I never saw an owl when I lived in New Jersey.  It wasn’t until I moved here to Britain that I was able to get up close and personal to Birds of Prey.  I worked as a volunteer at an Owl Sanctuary and I grew in admiration for these wonderful birds as I got to work with them.

I also realised that I wanted to learn to fly one.  I was in a better state physically then.  The second thing I realised was that having an owl was a big commitment. I felt having an owl let me off from having to take the bird hunting.  I have never been someone who liked the idea of hunting.  I am too much of an animal lover.  So that also let me off having a Snowy Owl, my totem.  This is a bird that really needs to be allowed to hunt and worked in order to keep them from becoming difficult.

My second totem is the Raven. Chances are pretty low I will ever have the privilege of having a Raven. Just having Loki the Crow is a challenge enough for now.

I know we are living in an age of disinformation. The advent of fake news and counter journalism you would be excused for thinking what the heck is going on here.  As I grow increasingly more mature, that sounds better than getting old, I have some difficulty making head or tails out of what is truly going on in government.  I used to think that if someone accused you of doing something wrong, you would in addition to saying no, you’re wrong, you would be expected to produce evidence that you were right.

Now a days, it seems that the government can just say, no, you’re wrong and that is the end of it. The government could be accused of acting in their own panto, simply yelling at all of us,  “oh no it isn’t” despite Labour providing the evidence to show, oh yes it is! That’s the case with the Welfare reforms.  Labour has been saying (along with many disability charities) that the punitive nature of the current welfare system is actually killing people and Esther McVey simply says “Oh no it isn’t”.  Thousands of people have been complaining that people on universal credit are being driven in to financial hardship.  The government simply says “Oh no it isn’t”. The United Nations has accused the Uk government of systematic abuse of disabled people.  Theresa May says “Oh no we aren’t”.

It isn’t even just central government doing the panto thing. I am involved in several national committees. The news from every region is that disabled people are being driven into poverty. There are children and working people being forced to use food banks. Severely disabled people, having gotten their independence, starting to live in the community like everyone else are now being told that those with complex needs are too expensive and maybe driven back into group homes. Social care is in meltdown. Councils are reporting that they have to make savings in the Adult Care sector. Most won’t even have adult conversations with the service users to see what works and what isn’t. If assessments are anything like the one I just experienced, no wonder it isn’t working. Rather than telling people what is available and letting there service users decide what works for them, a social worker comes in to do an assessment, listens to every 10th word the person looking for help needs, goes off and writes up a care plan that is complete rubbish. They have an idea on how you will receive help and that is the way you are going to get it, like it or not. I have spent 6 months fighting for the correct care plan and I’m lucky. I have a lot of people I can go to to ask for advice. A lot of people don’t. That inequality is what makes me furious. It is another battle to fight and the union steward inside me is fighting mad. So I will fight on. Is any of this fair? Oh no it isn’t!

I never considered myself a bird person.  I mean I had a canary when I was 7 and a parakeet when I was 12 or 13, but I wasn’t really into them.  They were cute, the parakeet was vicious, but after they were gone to the big nest in the sky,  I never really got into having another one.  I was into dogs and horses.  When I was 8 I started riding and the horse phase lasted well into my 20’s, but by then, having a horse was beyond the contents of my wallet and it’s potential.  We always had dogs in the house while I was growing up.  I continued to always have dogs when I was living on my own.  It was comforting.  It almost killed me when I had to leave my dogs behind when I moved here to be with my husband.  My lab loved my room mate more and my doberman was so neurotic, she wouldn’t have lasted the quarantine period.  Luckily my room mate took them and they lived with him until the end of their lives.

I have to say that there were a few birds I always were impressed by – eagles, condors, turkey vultures and owls.  Where I grew up, the only birds of that type I really saw with any frequency were the turkey vultures, huge birds making lazy circles in the sky.  Occasionally on my way to work, there was a family of turkey vultures who would sit like harbingers of death along the roof line of some poor persons house.  Due to deer kills by cars you could also find them feeding on the carcasses along side the roads before the highways agency came and picked them up.

I did love owls even from the time I was a child. Whether it was Owl in Winnie the Pooh or some fairy story about talking animals.  I just thought they were beautiful creatures.  Unfortunately, due to wildlife laws in the New Jersey where I grew up, you couldn’t really see owls except occasionally in a zoo.  I have since found out there were breeds of owls in the woods near my house, but I never heard them, and certainly never saw them.   You had to be specially licensed to handle owls and much later on you could have owls and other birds of prey if you were a falconer, however this required you to apprentice to a master falconer for 5 years before you could own one.  I never heard of any falconers in New Jersey.

I often tell my friends that I did medieval reenactment in the States.  I did, it was based on Medieval Europe and was started by fantasy authors in San Francisco, California.  Two of those authors involved in the Society for Creative Anachronism in the early days were Mercedes Lackey and Robert Aspirin.  I will probably talk about my adventures in Medieval USA at some other time, right now its all about Owls.

I moved to England in the AUTUMN of 1999 and soon found that their was an owl sanctuary nearby.  I was fascinated.  I decided I needed to be near these beautiful creatures and the other birds of prey that lived there.  I volunteered to work there.  During my time there, I was taught to fly these magnificent birds, all shapes and sizes by the resident falconers in exchange for my hard graft cleaning aviaries and feeding.  I grew more and more fond of the birds of prey and especially the owls.  I was also surprised to find out that I could own one of these birds without spending years learning and a fortune. I have to probably have to say at this point that the advent of Harry Potter did nothing for the welfare of owls.  They were too easy for some rich, indulgent father to buy for their spoiled child.  They often ended up being given up after the little darling got scarred by a sharp set of talons.

After putting in about 6 months at the sanctuary, and after joining the local bird of prey rescue group, I talked to those with years of experience and with their help, I purchased a small bundle of down and named her Havoc.  She was amazing, she spent her early months growing up in the office I worked at until she started flying  and her test flights would clear my desk or those of my co-workers.  At night, I lay on the sofa, watching television with this gorgeous creature laying on my shoulder.  I watched as every day she changed.  I was amazed that an owl had expression.  I watched her as she slept and as she was dreaming baby owl dreams, her face was far more articulated than I had ever imagined.  When I taught her to fly free to my glove, I was so proud.

She was a proper madame and could really be quite crabby, but other times, she could be quite loving. Every year when she had eggs, she would show them to me and want me to examine each one with pride.  As she laid on her nest, I would sit down next to her, she would pull my hand towards her and push it underneath her with the eggs and in that moment we were bonded.  It was truly beautiful to be so close to such a perfect creature who taught me so much.

She helped me teach others about owls and conservation. She helped raise money for injured wild birds of prey. She visited scout groups, nursing homes and village fetes. Unfortunately I lost my beautiful angel with silent flight to an infection caused by a broken egg inside her. I took her to the vet, but there was nothing to be done. So I took her home with me and slept with her next to me in the bed. She died there, with my hand on her breast. She took a piece of my heart with her, I only hope I see her again over the rainbow bridge. She opened the door to other owls and other wild birds I nursed back to health. She gave all these things to me and I love her for it.

People who aren’t disabled don’t understand how difficult it can be to travel. I became affected by my disability 8 or 9 years ago. Before then I commuted to London to work, drove anywhere I couldn’t take the train, didn’t need to use taxis because I could either walk to where I needed to go or if I needed to take a tube or train, I didn’t find places inaccessible.

About 8 years ago, I needed to start using a powered wheelchair. I could only walk short distances and its when my world became so much more difficult. I found many of the places I could access previously became impossible. I still had to travel as I am extremely active in my UNION. I found though that although I was able to use the assisted travel scheme, once I got on the train, I worried that there would be no one at the next station to get me off the train.

This feeling of panic got worse when it actually happened. Another passenger got a member of staff while another passenger held the door open. Thank goodness it was an older train that had the type of door that you could hold open. This experience would play on my mind every time I had to travel. Generally other passengers are willing to help, but occasionally they are the problem. Having to get people with suitcases to get their stuff out of the wheelchair space has led to an angry argument. Again, no train personnel to help sort it.

Now when I have to change trains from one side of London to another, I can’t use the underground. Many stations are not accessible. Even if they are listed as being

equipped with a lift, these are not always working. So I need to take a taxi from London Liverpool Street to Euston, a journey that can be prohibitively expensive. Twenty to thirty pounds. Supposedly you are able to book taxis which are wheelchair accessible in advance. The three times I tried to do this, I arrived at London Liverpool Street only to get a text message to say that they couldn’t get a taxi to take me. Luckily most black cabs can take my chair and my assistance dog and any suitcases I have.

Although some people have reported difficulty taking their assistance dog with them in a taxi, I have never found this to be a problem. I always take a dog bed for my dog to sit on and he travels very well. Over the past 5 years, I have developed quite annoying anxiety. This anxiety plays on the experiences I have had and it starts the night before even though I have booked assistance and bought my tickets. I then worry whether I can get a blue badge space at the train station. I worry that traffic will make me late and miss my train. In order to manage this anxiety, I have to leave the house much earlier to get to the station to beat others to the blue badge spaces. I don’t like to travel alone and if the anxiety gets too much, I will just not go.

These are the things that people who aren’t disabled don’t realise when they see our complaints about wheelchair spaces on trains, inaccessible toilets on trains, worrying about whether or not their will be someone with ramps to help us to get off the train.

When my brain decides to get even more involved in my worry, I get what is called brain fog, this causes me cognitive difficulties and I don’t understand directions and I worry I will get lost. So when rail companies talk about getting rid of the conductor on the

trains, I worry that there will be no one to help me if I get stuck during my journey.

I can’t talk about using buses as my wheelchair is very large and it might be difficult to board a bus. The stories about arguments between mothers with prams and people

with mobility aids just puts me off. I would worry about getting into an argument with

one of these mothers who refuse to fold down their buggy to allow me to have the

wheelchair space. I have read that the disabled person has been asked to get off the bus. I just choose not to get involved in that type of journey and so eliminate the worry. I have seen both sides of the travel situation. I don’t like to be anxious, I don’t like to be dependant on other people. I just want other people to be understanding and make it easier for me and other people like me to travel safely and freely. If transport systems don’t work for disabled people, less of us feel able to travel, our world begins to shrink. Being anxious about traveling has stopped me from participating inn some activities,

socialising with friends and just being independent.

I don’t always think about the fact that I have a disability. Usually I am blindsided by it. It usually comes when I go to do something and I realise that doing whatever ͞it͟ is isn’t as easy as it used to be. I have only been affected by my disability for about 12 years now. The last 5 have been more difficult, just as I have been trying to branch out and do more things. Typical.

Moaning isn’t really my thing and I have been doing the best I can not to burden my friends and family with the fall out of my disability. Unfortunately over the past couple of years, my husband has had to become my carer. Once that happened, the first real bit of my independence was lost.

Following that earth shattering revelation, I found the second most aggravating elements of my disability are that they are unseen and they fluctuate. One of the unseen bits that I deal with would be mental ill health. I hate that term, but there it is. It makes me feel inferior to other people, it isn’t how other people treat me, but how I think they will react if I say I suffer from it. I usually say I have anxiety or I suffer with depression. The depression bit is easier to handle. I am better acquainted with it, after all, I have been carrying that label for 40 years. My Depression hasn’t stopped me from doing things for long periods of time or at least it hasn’t for a long time. The show stoppers have been my bouts of anxiety and stress. These little devils have made me ill enough I was unable to work for several months at a time. Some of that time it wasn’t the anxiety or the stress that kept me out of work, sometimes it was the change of medications.

What causes the anxiety? That’s a good question. I don’t know all the reasons yet, partly I think it is how I am affected by my physical disability. It’s the way disabled people are treated in the media. It’s Television shows that twist the facts to make those who are not disabled and a bit gullible believe that we are all putting on the trappings of being disabled to get something for nothing. Well, the truth is somewhat different. I have worked fulltime for 30 years. I have paid my taxes all that time. National Insurance is there to cover you when you need extra help, isn’t it? I have lived in this country for almost 20 years. I’ve paid into the system. Now that I need the help that National Insurance is there for, I am treated like a second or third class citizen. I don’t have expensive things or go on lavish holidays. I have been subject to disability hate crime. Abused for something I can’t control and I couldn’t avoid. I can’t even live the sort of life I want to live. I’ve lost a lot to my disabilities. It still makes me angry. I haven’t come to terms with my disabilities yet. I have friends who have been disabled longer than I have say that it happens eventually. I am hopeful but I am not ready to let go of the anger, the anger turned on the injustice of what is happening to disabled people is positive. So excuse me while I put on my anger armour and get ready for the next battle.

(Trigger warnings for abuse)

I am a trauma survivor, or at least I believe I am. I know over my years of being in the world my go to strategy has been to box up anything which would give me paralysing fear. I would then stack the boxes neatly in a locked room at the back of my mind. This realisation that I have a room at the back of my mind reminds me of the description several people who discuss their Dissociative Identity Disorder (whom I have come to admire) describe their headspace.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there is a room filled floor to ceiling with boxes labelled with warnings but no more. I can no longer remember much of my childhood, maybe those memories are stored in those boxes. I’m not sure it is normal to forget much of your childhood, replace what was there with a vision of an idyllic fantasy. Periodically, the room at the back of my mind starts to shake and the steel door gets hot. Somewhere I hear the caution alarms sound. I instinctively feel anxiety rise, dreading the idea of addressing the emotions which lie there.

I am aware I survived incidents of sexual abuse by people I knew and someone I didn’t know. What Do I do remember is in perfect recall of bits of what I must have seen. When I was first abused by a stranger there are the vivid memory of the State Troopers gray trousers with the yellow stripes down the sides and the brilliantly shined shoes. The smell of stale tobacco and alcohol breath. The fragments of memories I don’t have answers for. I’m not sure what some of them are, but I can guess.

I don’t trust what my mother has said as she is still very very angry at my Dad. I am angry too, for all the times he let me down and failed me. How he pushed me away while getting close to my brothers and my half sister. That anger is locked in one of those hundreds of boxes in the room at the back of my mind. I have longed for a close family relationship with the people I am genetically related to. I have that with my little brother. I am however, 3,500 miles away now. I have nephews I will never get really close to. I was hurt and I ran to a foreign country. At times I feel quite alone.

I do worry as I am approaching 60 that I may need to resolve what’s in all of those boxes. I know I am running out room for the boxes. I used to deal with just depression, medicated and coping. I now have a really stunning case of anxiety. Which is sometimes paralysing. I have so much stuff I want to do and when I get a an anxiety attack it wastes time.

I am sorry I am partially broken, but being me, has led me to all the interesting things I have done in my life. I never thought I would be involved in a National Organisation, meeting with politicians, in the Houses of Parliament. I may sometimes get all wrapped up in my own pity. I don’t know why my life has gone the way it has. I am not happy to be physically and mentally disabled. It has made me hard working, hard on myself and very very driven. I may never empty those boxes in the room in the back of my mind. I may never do it. I know I have to make a conscious decision to keep moving. If you find a way to get rid of the boxed emotions, get in contact. I have a major job for you.

Well, for now, it’s lights out. Cya again soon.

I met a human being, with a history I don’t fully know. They have shared some intimate details of what life is like for them. I have to admit, as an elected member of a council, not this one, I was appalled. My safeguarding alarm was ringing loudly. And I couldn’t do anything to help. My mind and emotions raged. The person I came to know was funny, intelligent, talented, with a rich history, not all of it suitable for a children’s programme. 

I met a human being, I’ve never met in person, because neither of us can travel easily due to the environment in which we live. As I talked with this human being, my heart has been ripped open. The horrors of some of what I have faced, are nothing compared to those faced by the human being I call my friend. 

I have been doing that reflecting thing that age and infirmity seems to force us to do in the twilight years of our life. My Grandmother told me that this would be a happy golden time in you life when you look back fondly. Not me, I can’t, not now.

I met a human being, who lives on the edge of the peaceful permanent slumber, alone. The situation this human being has been forced to exist in would truly make you cringe and even cry. Now I have not had a rosy upbringing and my mother, damaged herself from her own childhood raised me with respect for other human beings and to step in when someone is hurting someone else. 

Long before the pariah who disgraces my homeland’s highest office giving succour to the far right, I was taught that the right thing to do was to care for the sick, the weak, the vulnerable. My friend, the human being is sick and vulnerable but the agencies who should be taking care of them, is the persecutor. And this is what hurts me the most for my friend.

My friend, the human being, lived their life, in a flat that the RSPCA and environmental health would condemn, but they don’t. This human being, my friend, has been forced to lay in squalor, with black mould growing like a carpet on walls that are damp. This makes the bed that they lie in damp to the touch but because my friend, the human being has one working limb, battered by headaches caused by damage suffered in an accident, lies in a wet bed, their headaches set off from the noise of the dehumidifier which triggers the damage to their brain that screams with pain. 

My friend, the human being, who has been forced to lie in the damp bed, without access to the heating controls that should have been put a height they can reach. Rationed to incontinence pants that they must lie in because they are unable to change their undergarments when they are soiled because they would have to manage this with one working limb. Things were worse, before they became unable to walk, they lurched step by shaky step unsteadily in a flat that was unsuitable for this person to live in. It was only the kindness of strangers that got them a wheelchair that they could use, but this chair had to be chained outside because my friend, the human being was living up a couple of flights of stairs. My friend, the human being, was watched day after day risking certain death from a fall because the responsible people couldn’t deal with the complexity of my friend’s needs. They didn’t understand that it was wrong for my friend, a human being to crawl across the floor and down the steps that separated them from the chair which could carry their tormented body. Left alone because of their vulnerabilities and the ludicrous nature of the law, that the carers can not do their jobs in this unsafe environment.

My friend the human being, an artist inside, with hands that is unusable, ravaged by infection, still creates. With one hand,and a phone and sight narrowed by more damage. Every message and conversation painstaking in the extreme, with the hands that they used to create visual landscapes permanently clawed. Able to converse through limited technology with a stylus placed in their hand by a carer. Jammed into a hand that could be injured by rough treatment and become viciously infected. But still my friend still lives. They have overcome each assault having their dignity taken one layer pealed back and ripped off like the scab off a wound. This is done by those who are meant to keep them safe. 

They live on a knife edge, in conditions every bit as dire as the children shown on tv that good Christians should save. 

I can’t forget that my friend the human being has to fight for every action, actions so easily disregarded by the rest of us. My friend the human being, who is treated in this once great empire like a prisoner of war in prison camp. Sores weeping, soul screaming, discarded. The cynical amongst us, the ones that are vilified in the media as scroungers in order to justify the persecution, are being slowly tortured to death. And because the the ones, like my friend the human being, aren’t seen, they waste away in a living hell. 

So my recollections of life in my golden years are a dystopian nightmare perpetrated by those who BY LAW and by oath allow this to go on. Unfortunately they are not the only one, my friend the human being. They are one amongst many that the government is exterminating quietly but not humanely. Because THAT would be against my friend, the human being’s human rights. 

So that is only part of my tale about my friend, the human being, be patient, I need to recharge because the story of my friend, the human being, cuts as deeply in my heart as if someone physically stabbed me with a shiv. This is the reality I share with my friend the human being.