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Yuppie Flu: Why does M.E Affect High Acheivers?

Yuppie Flu: Why does M.E affect high achievers? ‘I was such a high achiever before I became unwell’. I have heard this statement in many patient testimonials since I began reading about M.E CFS over a decade ago. As a high achiever living with the chronic illness myself, I wonder whether M.E really does affect high achievers more frequently? I’m not the first person to ask this question. M.E was known as yuppie flu in the 1980s because it was believed to be a disease of young, high achieving, burnt out professionals. In this essay I shall address questions such as ‘what is a high achiever?’ ‘when might M.E affect more doctors than patients?’ and ‘is the yuppie flu stereotype true after all?’ Firstly, some background. M.E/CFS (myalgic encephalomyelitis/ chronic fatigue syndrome) is a chronic illness classified by the World Health Organisation as a disorder of the nervous system (“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” n.d.) . Blacks medical dictionary 43 rd edition defines ME as having a combi
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The Cobbles Outside Brasenose College

  The Cobbles Outside Brasenose College You are the rainbow sheen of the ink from a black ballpoint pen  laid out on the paper. I am the light from the torch that dances  off falling drops of rain.  They look like snowflakes except not as cold. And not as beautiful. You are the majesty of the night that sits around  the shoulders of buildings. I am the crumbling  of sandstone beneath fingertips. You are the crisp white fibres of a cotton shirt lined up like soldiers waiting to go home. I am the breeze that slips in between cardigans: the breach in the barrier that cannot be identified.  Least of all by me; and it is my body. You are a degree, a title.  Enshrined in the historic register of  wasted days. I am all the books you didn't read but should have done. —————— This is the first poem I wrote in Oxford. It’s based on a series of conversations I had with a friend, about our preconceptions of Oxford and the reality when we arrived. People reading t
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Peace for eleven

Two months on a mental health ward. Two months of locked up belongings, restricted outside access and making friends with wonderful strangers. Two months of using sign language for the first time and flying in a bubble of autistic joy. For all its faults, the mental health ward was wonderful. There are lots of ways to communicate using sign. It's important to recognise the difference between gesture languages and formalised sign language. Gesture uses hand signals to convey meaning. It is specific to the people communicating, and is almost like a personal language between two individuals. Over time, gestures become ingrained, so there is no need to clarify what they mean. This is how many of the world's 300 sign languages began, and how sign languages grow and evolve in the modern world. Gesture is my protected language, and I spoke a combination of verbal English and gesture on the mental health ward. My favourite gesture was Peace For Eleven. I was in room 11, and my locker w
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Am I an activist?

 Hello, my name is Sophie and I am an activist.  It has taken me so long to get to this point. I used to believe I was an activist failed, that I had tried so hard and fallen at every hurdle. It wasn't a name I would have claimed for myself out of shame for being an angry disabled person. The reality is I'm not angry. I'm not an angry person; anger isn't really an emotion I have access to. Instead I'm a worrier who likes to help people. It makes my activism quite unusual and very effective. I've achieved a lot throughout my life, but I've had two major wins. The first win was my first ever accidental attempt at activism. I became an activist aged 14 whilst in hospital with severe anorexia. I wasn't expected to live, my mum was told to say goodbye. And in typical Sophie style, I decided I wanted to live. I started to eat, and there was hope. The doctors became very dismissive of my struggles. Why can't you just eat more, Sophie? Drink orange juice, So
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A Lock and Key Model

Here is the key to my heart that I clench between my knuckles when I’m walking down alleys at night.   My heart stands alone beneath the street lamps wears a winter coat does not shake your hand. Does not give you directions. Does not give you it’s name because haven’t we all found crushed fairies at the foot of our bed and said nothing? Haven’t we all said goodnight to our dreams?   Here is the key to my heart that I left in my foster carer’s door latch when I was fourteen when home was the cavity inside my chest when home was the broken space between dawn and silence. I told my carer I’d fallen and cut myself. She bemoaned my muddy jeans.   Here is the key to my heart that I used to flip open the lock when my little sister was stuck in the bathroom.   Here is the key to the lock.   It is yours now. _______ I wrote this poem four years ago and forgot about it. I wrote the first verse again, without remembering, in the wake of Sarah
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I didn’t know the fires were cold

Before I became disabled I was in awe of disabled people who did things I couldn’t even whilst living with the hot fire agony of pain. Now I know how they did things in pain. They could do it because their pain was constant, so if they wanted to do something, they did it in pain. And they could do it because the disabled relationship with pain is different to the non-disabled relationship with pain. I didn’t know the fires were cold.  Many non-disabled people know disabled people experience pain differently. Usually they think disabled people get used to very severe pain and it no longer hurts. They think there is no fire. But disabled people usually feel pain at least as intensely as non-disabled people, and lots feel pain more excruciatingly. But the way the pain affects their life is different. The ways they manage their pain are different. There is a fire and the fire is cold. Disabled pain and non-disabled pain are different but they are both pain.  Hot fires burn hot and bright.
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