mocha beanie mummy

Every time I have a meltdown, Good Shit happens

January 27, 2012 By mocha beanie mummy 2 Comments

Anyone close enough to me will know that I pretty much have put my blood, sweat, tears, Facial Orifice Fluid and bacon drool into making my business work. When I ditched the cello completely (almost a year ago now…) and threw myself entirely into the photography, I had a fair idea of how difficult it would be. I knew, sure as fuck, that it would NOT be easy.

I’m not that stupid, thank you very much.

The thing that’s been the biggest ball ache though, is coping with the setbacks along the way. Not the lack of funds, or the lack of equipment, but the mental health setbacks. The burnouts. The meltdowns. I go through stages of putting absolutely everything into what I do. No corners cut in the slightest, no hints of slacking off, no pissing taking and absolutely staying on the ball. Of course! It’s expected with every business, right? Expected. Normally, straightforward.

Add in two demanding little boys, a house to look after and a husband to pay attention to, and suddenly it’s not so easy.

The one thing I overlooked, was becoming a combined SAHM and WAHM mom. I always thought I was just going to slot into one or the other.

I dunno, I clearly took leave of my senses for a little while back there.

So as a result, every so often, I pretty much just have a complete meltdown. Not like one of my fucked up depression episodes, where, quite frankly I could walk up to the medicine cupboard and overdose without so much as a “Thank you Bob”, but more like…a weird, horrible, childish tantrum-like meltdown. My brain goes something along the following lines:

“Fuck this shit I give up no one fucking appreciates how much fucking effort I put into this bollocks and given I don’t stop busting my ass it’s like a waste of fucking time because no one is booking me and what the fuck do I need to do should I give you blood slit directly from my own wrists because clearly that is what people want because nothing I ever frigging do is good enough and I swear to God I spend how many fucking hours a day sitting at this bastard computer constantly editing and networking and updating and don’t you fuckers sit there and tell me I spend all my time fannying about doing shit all because I do as much as I can without breaking and holy Jesus now the children are talking to me again and how am I supposed to get anything done without breaking me or screaming at them and there just isn’t enough time and I want more work but how the fuck am I supposed to cope with more work and omffffggggggggg maaaaaakkkeeeee ittttt stooooooooooooooop.”

And then I pretty much dump everything and walk away. For about 12 hours. Usually less. Because I’m a chicken. (And probably addicted {to being slaughtered like a wee baa lamb.}.)

In that very short time frame, a number of things happen.

1) I realise I’m not entirely shit, and that sometimes, I do produce good work.

2) The kiddos continue to behave in exactly the same way, because I’ve done a reasonable job of not letting them see me break.

3) I go back to thinking about my “split online identity” and question whether I’m doing too much trying to run @cosmicgirlie, my beloved outlet when I’m not blogging here, AND @JayMountford, the outlet where I pimp myself like crazy and stalk other people regularly to find work.

4) People start booking me.

Yeah, I don’t get number 4 either.

My only guess is it’s because I’ve gone through a period of putting so much effort into establishing my career, that just as I reach the point of “omffffggggggggg maaaaaakkkeeeee ittttt stooooooooooooooop”, I’ve done just about enough to put myself in the light, gain recognition, and therefore earn bookings.

Now, it’s obviously an arse that it goes this way, because frankly, that’s a real ball-achey way of doing things. It also makes me wonder if I have what it takes to continue in this industry. I second guess myself enough as it is, so these quarterly meltdowns really do make me think.

Since the start of this year, I have already done 4 photo shoots and turned down one (out of area for a portrait session), as well as having 3 further portrait enquiries. I have a total of 9 weddings booked for the year, with 3 more waiting to confirm or cancel, and have turned down one because it clashes with another wedding. I have done an impromptu photo shoot in Birmingham’s Bull Ring and have been invited to photograph CybHer. I’m about a third of my way into my second full year, and well, yeah.

I’m doing ok. I could just do with less of the meltdowns.

Filed Under: Depression, Fucked-Up-Ness, MAKE IT STOP, neurosis, twitter, Ultimate Stresssss, wtf

Blognonymous – It

January 26, 2012 By mocha beanie mummy 4 Comments

This post was written anonymously and submitted to Blognonymous for publishing on this blog. Please feel free to leave your help and support should you wish, in comments below. Many thanks.

oOoOoOoOoOo

To look at me, to know me, you’d never know it was a part of me.

I used to think everyone knew just by looking at me. That was when I was much younger.

As I grew older and wiser I knew there was no way anybody could know it was a part of my life.

These days it gets me like a bolt of lightening, out of the blue- often when I’m in the supermarket.

It’s that isle with all the books of horrid life stories of suffering. It’s that tv program, that movie, that story, that song, that certain date, that advert.

As quick as it hits me, it leaves me. I push it away because it deserves no place in my life.

It gets me mostly in my dreams. My many therapists, councillors, doctors who’ve tried to help it leave me, say that happens when you don’t face it.

The thing is, I have faced it a million times. I’ve talked about it until I’m blue in the face and frankly quite bored of it.

It came into my life when I was 9 until I was 18 and then it took another form now I’m in my thirties.

It is often is inconciderate. Girls nights out, dancing, drinking, having fun and then tales of the old days- our first kisses, first times and there it is. That hard bolt of lightening, shocking me, so for a moment I lose my breath and lose who I am. And again as quickly as it comes it goes.

It’ll never leave me.

It’s part of who I am. It’s why I’m strong and often fearless. Sometimes I’m cold to those that don’t deserve it. Those are my darkest moments and they don’t come very often. I fight them with everything I have. It will never win.

I once believed it would win. It was so strong and out of my control that I could never beat it. But I did.

I was 24. I kicked it into a prison cell along with my step father.

Guilty as charged.

It?

Child sexual abuse.

I hate those words. I call it ‘it’

I’m a survivor not a victim so don’t feel sad for me. Feel glad that I fought it, and talked to the police about it, and it sent somebody away for a long time so they couldn’t do it to anyone else.

And that’s my story. My battle with it.

If you ever suspect it. Report it.
Do something about it. Never be afraid of it. It’s weaker than you think.

Filed Under: blognonymous

Hernias, Poop and Dr Twitter

January 18, 2012 By mocha beanie mummy 7 Comments

Ahhh. When you have kids, no one, NO ONE warns you of all the shit that awaits you on the other side.

Like, piles. And losing your sanity. And your missing pelvic floor.

And a hernia!

Yeah. A hernia.

I appreciate it isn’t a universal mothering thing. I also appreciate that two 11lb babies will WRECK YOUR INSIDES.

I don’t blame the boys.

Much.

I decided to ask Dr Twitter last night about hernias, *cough* for a friend *cough* (I think they were on to me), and had responses such as “my sister worked in surgery one female patient had a hernia the size of a basketball” and “it feels from the outside like bulge near the groin. On the inside it hurts like a mofo” and also “yup it hurts above ur belly button and feels like ur skin is gonna split open!!“. I thank you, twitter, I love that you can always reassure me.

So after the peace of mind from Dr Twitter, the natural progression obviously was to go read up on Dr Google. And then I spotted stern warnings from Tara and tiddlyompompomm which pretty much secured the deal of making an appointment with the doctor today.

The hernia thingy isn’t there all the time. Only, um, when I’m on the loo straining like a bitch. There’s nothing like squeezing like crazy and then suddenly having to pop a little bit of your insides back into where they should be. Whilst doing everything you can to not yell out in pain. (It’s a bit uncomfortable causing such alarm for everyone else in the house, and quite frankly, I’m not entirely happy having someone banging down the door while I’m on the crapper.)

My doctor is awesome. If she ever leaves, I suspect I may never go to the doctor’s surgery again. Previous experience with doctors has NOT made me feel good. Anyway, she had a poke around my stomach and congratulated me on fixing my diastasis recti (FUCK YEAH, no more pyramid belly for me). And then she poked a bit on the side and well, yeah, it didn’t look promising.

So! I have a hernia, though I don’t know which one because there are LOADS of them. It might be ok left alone, or I might be looking at keyhole surgery. There’s a consultant surgeon appointment winging it’s way to me in the next week or so, and an ultrasound scan to have a good look around. I’d rather not have surgery. I have no fear of going under the knife and all that (if they have to do open surgery), but I just can’t be arsed with even more scarring. My body is scarred enough as it is, and they are rubbish at fading. I have burn scars on my neck and arms which have been there for 32 years.

I really don’t want any more.

Vain? Yeah, probably. But what’s even bigger than worrying about scarring, is finding yet another something wrong with me. I’m tired of being broken, it’d be nice to be fully functional without assistance, you know?

Oh. How. Wonderful. *sigh*

Filed Under: Fucked-Up-Ness, illness, Mutha-Hood, Poopgate, pooping, twitter, Ultimate Stresssss, wtf

And So we made Cock Cakes.

January 16, 2012 By mocha beanie mummy 11 Comments

Fact is, I’m a rubbish parent. Or, The Smalls have absolutely no interest in my parenting skills AT ALL. That’s not to say that I don’t try, because I do try.

Sometimes.

Anyhow, both Smalls had some cookery utensil stuff for Christmas, really nice stuff, and uh, bought by me and The Mr (what were we thinking? He doesn’t bake {EVER} and I end up being really OCD. Good one.) thinking they could be encouraged in the kitchen. Obviously, Noah has been hounding my ass desperate to do some cooking since he found the boxes hidden behind the sofa. No amount of train track would distract the boy.

Dammit.

So we got home from school and started baking. Roughly 30 minutes before they were due to sit down for their tea. Because you know, I just love to make shit really easy, right? I ran backwards and forwards with the ingredients while they pretty much “got stuck in”.

I was obviously delighted when Isaac chose this moment to bring on his cold a step further, bringing Facial Orifice Fluid to the table. How I love that boy. Lovely.

Anyway, I took a step back and tried my damndest to not step in with the perfection, or the general spattering of muffin mix up the walls. Do you KNOW how frigging difficult that is? Yes I’m well aware I should have rolled up their sleeves and the rest of it, but that’s not the point.

Crap everywhere. But you know, they’re kids and they enjoyed themselves, right?

That’s the point, right? They got the mixture in the cases, and all was good. That was all that mattered.

Only, when I peeked in on the cakes to see how they were doing, I can’t say I didn’t feel a little violated. I’m glad The Smalls are too young to understand…well…I’m just glad they’re too young. Because when I saw THESE, I could do nothing but raise one hell of a fucking eyebrow.

I reeeeeeally want to declare them works of art. Instead, my brain could only think “Cock Cakes”. I just don’t even know. Twitter offered up all number of reasons for this occurrence. To be honest? I don’t care.

A miracle happened in our house. Cock Cakes. Some miracles just don’t need explaining.