Can I just say that this thread (and its predecessor) are giving me LIFE!!!
As my name would suggest, I was one of the first members of GTL facebook group: read her "colin" from the beginning, and joined her FB group in the second week in November 2011. It was a big part of my life and I made some amazing friends (with whom I am still very much in contact). However, I became so disillusioned by Sali and her faux-feminism/progressivism (esp on race - it took her FIVE FUCKING YEARS to have a person of colour on the ITB vids FFS!!) that I stopped frequenting the forum. (As someone else rightly pointed out, she only set that up to profit from the community that has grown around the column and the FB group - her now husband was one of the original investors...) As much as I try to avoid taking pleasure in otehr people's misfortunes, I can't help but experience a fair bit of schadenfreude that it has died a miserable and pathetic death.
She claims to be all about empowering women but look at Lauren Luke! She effectively got her sacked/took her job by publicly bitching about her on Twitter! She muscled in on poor Carey (THAT was a revelation - the way she makes it sound is that she set up the campaign around Sarcoma!!), claims she has wonderful eyebrows because she does them herself (so who the hell is Daxita then?!?!).
For those who wanted to read the article about her mum, I have a copy of it. See below.
"Recently, a pregnant friend told me she planned to have her mother present at the birth. She couldn't imagine experiencing such a momentous occasion without the unwavering love and support of the women who'd been caring for her since she was a baby herself. I felt happy for her, but also envious. My own mother had not been present at my children's births. With my second child, I hadn't even told her I was pregnant.
I haven't spoken to my mum in two years. There, I said it. We are no longer in touch and I feel it's very much for the best. My life is happier, calmer and more productive without the anxiety, chaos and insecurity her presence brings with it. But as a woman effectively without a mother, I am painfully aware that I am not part of the club – the one where trips to the shops or spa are planned, or where funny memories are shared, or invaluable child-rearing advice dispensed. That's something I have never experienced and as a mother of sons, never will.
My mother left my father and us when I was a toddler. My dad was unfaithful and worked abroad for months on end, leaving her alone with three young children. I imagine she was very unhappy. I can't remember her leaving, but I'd be naïve not to assume it had a big impact on me. We saw her on weekends, but were never close. When my two older brothers and I moved in with her when I was seven, things didn't improve. She was extremely moody and seemed to be permanently exasperated with me. I constantly walked on eggshells.
She wasn't demonstrative or affectionate, and afforded us an inappropriately high degree of independence that felt more like neglect than freedom. I have vivid memories of being left in her car for several hours, while she went shopping or visited friends, returning only after dark. I was no more than six. She was always the last mother to arrive to pick me up from birthday parties or sleepovers, late and without explanation, and sometimes forgot altogether. I felt embarrassed and ashamed and would lie to my friends about the closeness we shared. But she was never the mumsy type you turned to when you started your periods or had boyfriend angst. We didn't talk about anything.
And later on, she had a fair bit to contend with in me. I was a rebellious and precocious teenager – lying, playing truant and eventually, at only 15, running away to London to live with my much older boyfriend, with just a letter left to explain my actions. While all my friends' mums would've been straight on the phone to the constabulary demanding my immediate return, mine did nothing. Some weeks later, in London on business, she met me at Paddington station. We sipped Maxpax coffee and did our usual skirting round the issue. Finally, as her train pulled away from the platform, she simply said, "You stupid cow", and then she was gone.
Somehow, our strained relationship muddled through my early adulthood, with spats routinely resulting in her anger, my tears and our mutual silence. As the pattern repeated, I noticed that life became confusing and chaotic whenever we were on speaking terms. During these periods, I found it hard to focus on anything else and felt insecure and depressed, yet unable to reach out to anyone. Mum and I reconnected somewhat when I met my husband. He was shocked to see how extremely anxious, frosty and uncomfortable I was in her presence, and acted as a useful bridge between us. She was thrilled when we became pregnant with our first child.
But soon after my son was born, my father died suddenly. Overwhelmed by becoming a parent and losing one in quick succession, I fell into a severe depression. Now that my father had gone, I desperately wanted to repair old wounds with my mother before it was too late, and sought professional help. Psychotherapy made me get out all the anger and resentment I felt towards my mother. How unjust I thought she'd been, the shame I felt, how I was allowing these unresolved issues to negatively impact every aspect of my life – for the first time, nothing went unspoken. My therapist sat silently and never proffered an opinion, so I was taken aback when one day she tactfully suggested it might not be wise to leave my son alone with my mother. It was a big moment for me. How could I, when I had been so desperately unhappy in her care as a child?
love. it.
.
. But I am so ready for the age of the over-confident influencers to give way to something more thoughtful and considered.