Understanding

March 2, 2012 By 6 Comments

A few months ago (or maybe a few weeks ago? I can’t remember) I once tried to explain to someone what The Noise is like. She herself had some understanding of depression, having studied it, I think. Or, studying the psychology behind it.

Or something.

Anyway, the only way I could convey it to make any kind of sense, was to imagine you’re at work in a hight powered, insanely busy office job, where you get, on average, 30-40 emails an hour. Or, you’re on a switchboard where quite frankly, the phone doesn’t actually stop ringing. I’ve been in both of those situations, having been a temp for nearly 10 years of my life. Very busy, non-stop, always ticking over. Then I told her to imagine all of those phone calls, all of those emails, still coming at you, but this time cram them all into a few seconds, maybe 3, tops. Now, take those few seconds, and stick them all back to back. Forever.

Sound like an exaggeration? Of course it bloody does! How the hell is that even possible? That’s bullshit.

Only, it’s not. It’s how my head works, it’s how my thoughts work; it’s how my mind ticks over, every second, every minute, every waking hour. I say to people “sometimes I barely even remember to finish a sentence because I’m bombarded with so many thoughts”, and they say “God yeah! Me too! Like, last week, I had to remember this, and then the other day, I totally forgot that…” etc etc. People tell me “Oh you should totally make lists! My life is a shambles without lists, saved my life.”

Tell me. How am I to do a To Do list, when while trying to write the To Do list, my brain can’t actually capture and snapshot the things that I need To Do? Do you know the number of times I’ve sat down to to a To Do list and have given up, for feeling so bewildered? Because I simply cannot catch a single thought?

I can’t even explain it.

I’m still thinking about the boy over the road in the field and his cry for help. I’ve had a few texts and messages from people telling me to just ask for them if I need help. “Don’t be on your own; I’m listening.” It’s the loveliest thing, it really is. But I think one of the reasons why I don’t do it, is because when I have done in the past (all too many times) the reaction has been the wrong one. “Oh yes, me too, I totally know what you mean.” Or maybe “yes, yes I think my mom’s cousin went through exactly the same thing, and we all watched her, so I totally get it.”

It’s that “me too”. I can’t cope with it.

Because the thing is, I’m not looking for someone to sympathise with. I’m not looking for someone to pat me on my shoulder with a “there, there, I know how you feel”. I just want someone to STFU and listen to me. And not judge me. And not say anything. Just listen. Really listen. And if they’re superhuman, I want them to take all of this crap, and hatred, and sadness, and anxiety, and stress, and fear, and paranoia, and noise OUT of me and make it all go away so I can breathe again. Then comes the real problem – I want them to listen, and then understand. Really REALLY understand. Everything. All of it.

I’m nervous that I’m now approaching The Braindead Zone again. I don’t go there often, it’s been a while. I suppose the difference this time is that I’m actually writing about before it’s happening? I can only assume that’s a result of seeing Trevor. I’m not at all convinced that I’m strong enough to stop it and keep ploughing on, or whether I’ll just embrace it like a black shroud; like my lovely morbid comforter which I can pull over my head and just stop living.

My short-lived time of no longer being alive to all my senses, where my body finally shuts itself down. Where my brain becomes a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode into the real world again with it’s noise and light and confusion. But finally, finally my body and soul relaxes, dead to everything around it.

Sometimes it’s a lovely world and sometimes it’s hell-bent on destroying me. Most tell me it’s a lovely world. I’m disagreeing at the minute.

Filed Under: Depression, Fucked-Up-Ness, MAKE IT STOP

Can we please stop the world? I need to get off. Just for 5 minutes.

March 1, 2012 By 17 Comments

Ahhhh stupid fucking messed up head.

There’s been too much crap around here, and for some reason I’ve found myself bottling it all in.

On Sunday, after we’d all spent a lovely day digging and playing in the garden, just as we were putting the boys to bed, we discovered someone (a young lad, late teens possibly early 20s) had hung himself from a tree in the field opposite our house. It wasn’t accidental.

Instead of feeling sorry for him and his family, I felt angry with him. I felt that what he did was pathetic. It turns out he did it because he’d had a fight with his girlfriend, and I was pissed off that this was quite possibly the only reason for doing what he did. I don’t even know the details. I talked about it briefly on twitter, giving no details, but needing to talk to someone about it. I got a DM asking me to stop talking about it. I told them to unfollow me. I can’t bottle stuff up, I’ve done it before and it got me to a Not Very Nice Place.

But anyway, I judged. I judged him for doing it so publicly. I have no idea why.

And then I hated myself for judging him (who the fuck am I to judge someone I don’t even know?) and then hated myself even MORE for judging someone who successfully completed something I’ve tried to do many times over 20 years and failed.

Clearly failed.

I sometimes still wish I hadn’t failed. Maybe that’s why I judged him – I was jealous he had succeeded. Yet, grotesquely, I was frustrated with how he did it. I don’t know why.

I don’t even know what my problem is. Well I do know, but after hoping I was finally sorting my head out, I’m too scared/ashamed/confused to say what it is.

I’m also tired of hating myself. I’m also finding it incredibly difficult to deal with people asking so much of me, but getting nothing in return. I’m exhausted from “friends” coming to me only when they want something, and then hearing nothing from them in between. I’m tired of this feeling of not being able to approach them when I really feel like I need to, and also tired of the fact that when I do finally try to talk to people, they haven’t the faintest clue what I’m trying to say.

Everyone does the head tilt, the nod, the “yeah I totally know what you mean”, when I know they don’t.

I’m tired of harbouring this stuff like a hideous dirty secret, because I scare away those who don’t understand.

I’m tired of failed humour. I often turn to “friends” on social media for distraction. Yet lately, I seem to be a great source of other people’s entertainment. Am I being childish? Probably. It’s that old line “Oh I’m just having a laugh Jay, lighten up”. Yes, I know that. I’m aware of that.

But it wears people down. All the time. All those little things. they build up into one big thing. And it snowballs, real damn fast.

Sometimes I wish I had the power, the voice, the strength to speak up and just say “you know what? I need you to cut that shit out, now.” The irony? I can’t face the further ridicule that comes with. “Oh seriously? Geeze, what is wrong with you? Can you really not take a joke? God I was only kidding…”

I’ve heard it all.

All the time.

For far too long.

Maybe it’s weird that I can make jokes about myself. Maybe that’s how I deal with it? You know what they say, if you can’t laugh at yourself, then what can you laugh at? (Or..something like that…) It seems easier to do it that way, everyone’s happy that way, right? No uncomfortable silences with people wondering what the fuck they can and can’t say to me, right? Everyone else can be totally at ease, right?

Yeah, everyone else.

Masquerading is hard. And I’ve had to start doing it a lot lately, as my photography career (career! Huh. I’m still wondering about that) moves around into different areas, building up new client relationships and potential business partners, still exploring different areas of photography and trying (so desperately) to find my own style.

I love photography a lot, but sometimes I hate the world it sits in. It reminds me far too much of the classical music industry, full of asshats who will do anything to make you feel like the largest turd ever to attempt to play an instrument. People who would pay you a reasonable half decent compliment to your face, then just as quickly turn around and belittle your every move.

Why? Why do this? Aren’t we all in the same boat? Or am I just not cut out for cut throat? Should I just, in fact, go back to the days of temping? With a steady income? Stable hours? Minimal creativity in a world that seems hell bent on destroying me? How many times have I thought about the amount of money I could make if I finally sold all my cellos and all my camera gear?

Surely I’d be a whole lot happier?

Surely I could concentrate, then, on trying to be normal?

Wtf is “normal”, anyway?

I’m hitting a low, and I’ve stupidly sat back and watched it coming for a while. I don’t mean hours, or days, I mean weeks. Quite a few weeks. The noise in my ears and in my head was seriously fucking loud after I went to see Trevor, and for a while, I thought it had suddenly gone quiet. I mean, I was aware of it, but, well it didn’t seem to be there.

What I DIDN’T realise was, in fact, the noise was louder than ever; so loud it had pretty much become everything I could hear. I look back and recall things like sitting in the car at junctions staring blankly, because I was so unaware of everything else going on around me.

The noise.

The one thing that may well actually kill me.

I confess sometimes I still think of suicide, as a means of escape, not a cry for help. I gave up crying for help a long time ago, felt a bit pointless. Escape is, quite often, one of the biggest things I think about. Escaping my own body, escaping my own mind. Leaving it all to be in a world of nothing; of silence and darkness, neither warm nor cold, no senses alive, everything dead. Is it wrong to wish that? Looking back, as a kid, I think it’s why I used to overdose on sleeping tablets and not painkillers. Painkillers were just silly. What’s the point? They’d pump your stomach and ironically, you’d be in pain. I just wanted to switch off completely. Sleeping tablets did that. I remember always taking just enough in the hope that they would put me to sleep long enough to perhaps forget the noise upon waking.

I always woke up, though, and I hated t hat I always woke up.

Some would say I should just get some sleep. Yeah I kinda tried that. Sleep is never long enough. 8 hours is never long enough. I want days. Endless days of darkness.

Am I being selfish? Yeah I guess so. I don’t know. Is it selfish to want to feel normal, to be able to hear things properly for 5 minutes? Is it wrong to want to be able to have 5 minutes of sensory nothingness?

Is it wrong to just want everything and everyone to stop, and give me 5 minutes of nothing?

Filed Under: Depression, Fucked-Up-Ness, neurosis

Every time I have a meltdown, Good Shit happens

January 27, 2012 By 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, , Ultimate Stresssss, wtf

January 18, 2012 By

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 “l” and “” and also ““. 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 and m 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, , Ultimate Stresssss, wtf

In Search of Perfection

December 1, 2011 By 8 Comments

I’m a sap. Despite my colourful mouth and sometimes hard as nails attitude (that’s my defence mechanism, I swear to God), I’m actually quite a sap. It comes from wearing that bastard heart of mine on my sleeve.

I wish I would’t, it becomes a right pain in the, er, heart.

A while ago I posted about becoming good friends with people, and searching for the right friend, and other soppy hit like that. Over the last 4 years or so, I’ve made plenty of new friends, which is wonderful. I’ve made some awesome friends, people who I think, quite frankly, are totally kick-ass. I’ve also lost friends, which has made me really sad. Drifted apart, changed circles (damn you social media networking bastarding shit), fallen out…it’s all taught me a lot of things.

Annoyingly, it’s mostly taught me stuff about myself. I hate the sort of friend I am. I jump in with both feet first, far too much enthusiasm, full of beans…and all that shit. I don’t expect it in return, that’s for sure. I know I’m a freak when it comes to things like this. But I do wish I’d stop it. I wish I’d stop trying to be perfect for people, stop trying to find that perfection in myself. Because it’s breaking my heart.

I very often wish I would stop getting so close to people; I wish I’d stop baring my soul directly and just leave it to the outpourings of crap here on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if my blatant (and sometimes terrifying) honesty would just piss off, and I could become the world’s most awesome liar. I wish I could be blazé; not really give quite so much of a shit.

I wish I could stop being so damn clingy. Stop being so fussy.

I always envy those who have laid back friendships, much as I envy those who can have such intense friendships and not feel guilty. How do they do that? How do they have (a) friend(s) whom they’ve known for eons and forever remain close without so much as a blip? Every time I find myself getting close to someone, I want to run, because I know it’s only a matter of time before I do something to make it all go hideously wrong.

Bah. Maybe one day I’ll win the lottery and just buy all my friends. I’m sure that would be easier on the soul.

Filed Under: Fucked-Up-Ness, neurosis, pointless crap, wtf
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