The Definition Of Life

Not much to write about really when I'm still off work, still achieving nothing and still a fucking mess. But I figured I'd better let those in the blogosphere who care know that I'm still alive.

Alive's a pretty funny word isn't it? I mean define exactly what it means. If we are going with the literal definition then yes I am alive, my lungs are taking air in and out, my brain is controlling my vital organs which are continuing to function. The difficulty comes when people ask about having 'a life'. Therein lies the problem. I'm not sure a life qualifies when it's spent trying to sleep through low moods and then lay awake at night debating the best ways to end this problem.

Being brutally honest a couple of weeks ago I made genuine plans to end all this shit. It was my friend Nat's birthday and I figured what better way to mark the occasion than being as brave as she was 6 years ago and putting herself out of her misery. I'd been thinking on means and methods leading up to that weekend and had a loose plan that I would take some flowers up to Beachy Head, to the spot where she breathed her last on this earth, and just see if fate would intervene, give me a reason to carry on with this fucking tomfoolery.

Obviously I'm not typing this from beyond the grave hence nothing happened. I never even made it up to the cliffs. It was my poor Mum's reaction when I mentioned that I was going up with flowers, I can't put my loved ones through that, especially not at this time of year. There's no point ruining Christmas forever more for them, just 'cos I dislike it.

The stupid, stupid, stupid thing about my brain is that it can spend the morning like that Saturday when I was crazily agitated ready to throw myself into oblivion and then by the evening be chilled out drinking gin with friends. I mean how the fuck does that even work? That surely must be the definition of crazy?

Perhaps I am just an overreacting, selfish, attention seeking bitch looking to cover up my many failings. Maybe I am just inadequate, incapable of functioning in a normal world or workplace.

I have this appointment with the mental health peoples on 30th Dec but if it goes anything like my last appointment it will be fuck all help. I await being told that there's nothing much wrong with me and I am imagining my problems and am just a little anxious. To be honest if it goes down that route I'll just walk chucking my meds behind me, since I'm sane why do I need to be ingesting all these weird and wonderful chemicals? I may as well just go and shoot up herion for all the good they're doing me at the moment, it would probably give me a more chilled out effect!

Yes I'm angry, yes I'm miserable, yes I feel guilty as everyone around me is doing their best to help me and I'm effectively draining them, I'm furious with the twats at work who have put all the extra pressure on me that have worsened my symptoms so badly; they must be rubbing their fucking hands together with fucking glee knowing they have even more ammunition with which to prove I'm useless. I'm exhausted from being excited, creative, bouncy and anxious one minute and then miserable, sleepy, tearful, depressed and hiding in bed the next.

I have no idea what my brain is doing or what it's going to do next. Answers on a postcard anyone?

Love Jen
XxxX

More Quality Journalism From The Daily Mail

Flicking through Nirvana & Kurt Cobain pins on Pinterest this afternoon I came across this charming article on The Daily Mail's website (webshite more like) from earlier this year http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2586299/Never-seen-photographs-reveal-Kurt-Cobains-Los-Angeles-apartment.html

For my readers from overseas The Mail is a newspaper here in the uk that likes to pretend to be highbrow but in reality fills it's pages with moral panic scare stories about Immigration, the Labour Party, Paedophiles (often directly opposite a story about the offspring of one celebrity or other being papped whilst trying to enjoy a peaceful day out in the park) or telling women how they should or shouldn't look or act.

The article would have  made me laugh if it wasn't written with such smug superiority. Scraping the barrel of reporting once again "a spoon was found that could show evidence of heroin use". Seriously??? Yes we all know Kurt was a heroin addict but a single spoon does not indicate a drugs den! How about the packet of Smarties? With the E numbers they still contained in the early 90s I'm very much surprised that their quality journalism hasn't picked up that they could be used for hallucinogenic purposes! I always remember reading an article in the NME when one of their reporters working when the news of Kurt's death broke was contacted by "some plummy voiced hack from The Daily Mail asking about 'this Chuck Cobain'" says it all doesn't it?

Looking at my floor I guess that the Mail would assume from the pair of socks and copies of Vogue and Marie Claire (plus the annoying leaflet inserts that come out of them) that I am a dangerous, superficial fashion obsessive who must be stopped! The truth is I like me a bit of couture, the socks are there to be worn this evening. In truth all it tells you is that I'm a bit messy. Which apparently is a newsworthy crime!

What winds me up the most is the use of someone's very real battle with mental illness and drugs as cheap entertainment. The Mail were one of the worst when Amy Winehouse was still alive, hounding her with glee then proclaiming what a tragedy it was when she died.

So Daily Mail we may be here but please feel free not to try to entertain us.

Love Jen
XxxX

Nothing Bad Ever Happens At Tiffanys

I'd done pretty well so far at disregarding the myth that you should never meet your hero's, I've met 30 Seconds To Mars a few times and got up close and personal with a Spitfire and been on Concorde.

One of my slightly more materialistic dreams has always been to own a piece from Tiffanys. Whilst there are many other beautiful jewellers in the world such as Cartier, Harry Winston etc Tiffanys has always stood out to me as pure elegance, cemented in the Audrey Hepburn classic Breakfast At Tiffanys. When I finally get to New York I have an entire day planned around that film.

I was talking to a friend the other day about relationships and such and jokingly said "I would never get married unless the deal was sealed with copious amounts of Tiffany". I got to thinking later that evening, why should I in theory wait for someone else to treat me? Why should someone else decide that I'm worthy of pretty jewellery?

I made the decision there and then that it was down to me to provide for myself, why rely on someone else to make me happy. Now I'm not saying that money and jewellery make you happy, I of all people will confirm that. But occasional little extravagances brighten the day and most importantly make me smile.

Just call me Audrey.

Love Jen
XxxX

A Very Fine Vintage

A week or so ago I saw a post on Vintage Life Magazine's Instagram asking for readers to send in photos of their favorite vintage items.

Now you all know how much I love vintage clothing and jewellery so I thought I'd send them my pick of my vintage lovelies.

This is a gem I found on Ebay. It's a handmade dress from the 60s, the seller didn't have much information about who it belonged to except to say that it was custom made. It's incredibly comfortable and looks really cool when I team it with my bright red Dr Martens. I often wonder about who had it before me and hope she had as much fun wearing it as I do!

This belongs to my Grandma but is on permanent loan to me. My Grandad bought it for her in the 70s (I also own it's matching necklace and earrings). I adore it's old-world glamour and it's one of the most feminine items in my jewellery box. I keep it pinned to my beret and whenever I put it on it reminds me of my Grandma and how much fun we have together. 

This bracelet is my Mum's and is another item I have on permanent loan (there is a pattern forming here!). The charms have been bought from her from all over the world wherever her parents went on holiday or from trips she went on. I love that it has so many memories hanging from it and one day I hope to visit all the places that the charms came from. 

 I found this whilst rifling round a flea market in Brighton looking for vintage jewellery. These pins were produced during the Second World War to raise money to build Spitfires. I love holding a genuine piece of history in my hands and that it's an object that in it's own small way helped contribute to victory.

These pearls belonged to my late Grandmother, my Uncle bought them for her when he was working in Saudi Arabia in the 80s. I love that they have travelled across the world and were bought specially for her. My Grandma was always very stylish (I get my love of shoes from her) and when I wear them I feel  glamorous!

A big thank you to Helen too for very patiently photographing me and not rolling her eyes too much when I complained about how fat I looked! Although of course a slick of red lipstick covers all sins!

Love Jen

XxxxX

A Day In The Life - Blog 1

I'm taking part in the A Day In The Life blog project that aims to capture what it's like to live with a mental health condition by asking writers to blog about what they have been doing on specified days throughout the year. There's a 700 word limit on each post so I couldn't ramble as much as I do on here (Hurrah I hear you all cry!). But this was my post -

"At the moment none of my days are 'typical' days. The reason for this is that I am on sick leave from work due to my mental health condition. The truth is that I was getting along pretty well after a life changing change of medication until it was decided that actually I was rubbish at my job and needed to be put onto performance management. This culminated in a competition between colleagues and managers to dig for every little mishap or misfile I have ever made in the three years I have been with the team, I mean I know I wear a lot of black and aren't particularly attractive but is a modern day witch hunt really necessary? 

The culmination is that my poor brain pretty much melted down and one morning after a few weeks of being "on and off" of work I found that I couldn't physically leave my room to walk the short distance to work. So here's where I am. I don't technically have a 'proper' diagnosis of a mental health condition, for years it was just assumed by Drs and GPs that I was depressed and the best option was to fill me up with anti-depressants and hope for the best. I could play bingo with the amount of different meds I've been on - Citalopram, Fluoxetine, Duloxetine, Sertraline to name a few. What I didn't think to mention to anyone until I saw a psychologist last year was the crazy mood swings I've always had since I was a kid, sky high can shoot to rock bottom in under a minute, these go hand in hand with crippling anxiety and the huge amount of anger I carry around inside of me that I have to keep a tight lid on to stop it exploding out.

Back to today, I'm in what I like to call one of my 'crazy sad' states at the moment, I have been for the last few days. I have the energy and creative ideas of being on one of my 'highs' (sadly without the elated mood I often get) and the inability to sleep for more than an hour at a time without waking up thinking I can hear people talking (I checked to make sure my TV was unplugged 3 times last night, not amusing when it's a freezing November night and prior to going to sleep I was struggling to get warm). This is coupled with  what I call my 'low' characteristics which are feeling depressed or numb, paranoid, and suicidal. My first few minutes of being properly awake were spent inspecting the cuts on my arm from last night's self-harming session. I think only I could start an evening off cutting my arm to distract myself from the voice in my head telling me to take all my tablets and be done with everything to an hour later bubbling with creativity drawing Moomins and Rockabilly tattoos on a pair of boots. 

The first person I speak to every morning is my best friend in the world Helen (thank god for WhatsApp), messages from her throughout the day keep me going, I love her so much but I worry a lot that I'm an anchor round her neck preventing her from moving along with her life or meeting someone (who wants to date someone with a dependent, crazy best friend?). The next interactions I had this morning were of the furrier variety in the shape of my two gorgeous lop eared rabbits Estelle and Esme, they are nearly six and are the centre of my world, they are well aware of this and treat me with the necessary amount of disdain required to keep me on my toes. 

The rest of the day has been spent doing odd tasks, a trip to Tesco with Dad and a look at the waves breaking on the beach, walking a friend's dog and tonight a trip to the pub with Helen, I feel a nice G&T coming on!"

I'm hoping the project will help teach others what living with a mental illness involves but also help people realise that these are real people living their lives despite the struggles they face.

What I also didn't have room to mention is that the blog was written whilst I watch a super-epic lightening storm out of my bedroom window!

Love Jen

XxxxX

Face The Facts

Sometimes you just have to stop messing around and accept the facts.

These are my facts.

1. I clearly get in the way of my friends' lives and happiness. I'm an anchor round their necks weighing them down whilst being boring and annoying.

2. I have no career prospects. As being proved by my work at the moment I am a liability with very limited ability who cracks under the tiniest bit of stress. My brain is broken beyond repair.

3. No matter how 'good' my photography/sewing/drawing is or how many likes my customised boots get on Instagram this does not count as making a meaningful contribution to the world.

4. Even if money wasn't an object and I didn't have to work I still would be of no use as any one's partner, my heart and body will never be open for business.

5. On this horrible, cold day I fell asleep and didn't wake up until it was dark which meant my poor bunnies only had their day cover on. I'm terrified I'll accidentally neglect them really dangerously one day.

6. I'm too cowardly to do anything about the above and do the noble thing.

There are so many more faults I could list but I'm just too fucking tired anymore.

This Is What A Feminist Looks Like

I've just finished reading Elle's Feminism Issue and like the best of any kind of journalism I found it incredibly thought-provoking and inspiring.

I first became aware of the concept of feminism when I was a young teen in the late 90s early 00s. In history we studied the women's suffrage movement and a brief comparison was made to the 'bra-burning' feminists of the last century. It was crucially all presented as 'history' as if all objectives had been achieved.

Looking back now the examples set to me and other girls my age during those impressionable years were appaling. The popular magazines - Sugar, Mizz, Shout & J17 to name a few were full of articles about how to mold yourself to be attractive to boys.

I can't remember any articles that focused on the importance of school work or how to break into career paths, but hey don't worry yourself here's a whole page dedicated to a survey of boys telling us which flavour lipgloss makes you more 'snoggable' (I still hate that word!!!).

School itself wasn't any better. The boys in my year group would think nothing of loudly critiquing your looks to each other, if you hit back with a smart response you were a "bitch", if you tried to stand up for yourself you were laughed at, if you showed you were upset then you had no sense of humour.

The lads were also at perfect liberty to paw and squeeze at us girls right under the noses of teachers with no reproach. In one incident a boy in my class squeezed my boobs in front of everyone whilst declaring "Jenni has big boobies", I looked up to our teacher and she just looked away and refused to meet my eye. The girls were expected to laugh along with the 'joke'.

The worst incident that happened to me was in the first few weeks of school. Queuing outside a classroom one boy took it upon himself to shove his hand roughly between my legs and wriggle his fingers around in order to entertain his mates. At 11 years old and already feeling pretty isolated and alone in a new school I confided in my parents, I was hoping that they would assure me that this was just a normal rite of passage. Naturally they were disgusted with my account of the event and immediately contacted the school.

What followed was an excruciatingly embarrassing interview with the deputy head having to detail exactly where I had been touched. The outcome was the boy was given a half hour detention and I was mocked for reporting the incident for the next 5 years, at one point even feeling that I needed to apologise to him for the trouble I'd caused him! I was on the receiving end of a lot of this kind of treatment for the entireity of my school time, being grabbed, having my butt slapped or in one incident being repeatedly kicked whilst crouching down on the floor.

The teachers at my school missed a real opportunity to tackle these problems head on. It happened to nearly all the girls at one point or another. They witnessed girls deliberately dumbing themselves down in order to hang out with the 'cool' boys. If they had lead a discussion on why this behaviour was unacceptable it would have helped the boys change their ways (I genuinely think that they believed the way they behaved was funny and normal) and crucially teach the girls that it's not ok for them to be treated in this way.

I didn't realise that these experiences would pave the way for how I viewed myself with relation to men. My first few kisses with boys were slobbery affairs with me nearly gagging on tongues shoved down my throat. I just put up with it as according to the advice columns in needed to make sure that my partner enjoyed his snog and if I was a really lucky girl he may snog me again!

Even in my one serious relationship I naturally took on a subservient role as it just seemed to be the 'done thing'. Whilst my boyfriend never treated me badly he was used to being waited on hand and foot by his mother and sister and having everything his own way.

I put all his wants and needs before my own, supporting him financially, having sex despite finding it  painful because I thought that was how a good girlfriend would behave. One evening after we'd been to a party he insisted on having sex, he was quite rough that night (I put it down to him being drunk as he was always quite gentle) and wouldn't stop despite me being in agony, asking me to "just let me finish". When I came to during the night I was laying in a large patch of blood. The next morning I felt so bruised, even walking was an effort, the sheets were washed and he claimed not to remember the incident. Our relationship broke down after I started to become more independent, wanting to go on holidays with friends and do my own thing.

I should make clear here that this isn't a blog attacking my ex or men in general. My ex and I had some wonderful times together that I wouldn't change for the world. I'm lucky enough to have brilliant guys in my life my Dad, brother, Grandad, friends Luke, Barry and James who treat everyone with respect no matter who they are, or demonstrating equal opportunities piss-taking in Dad's case!

Feminism isn't about being better than men or beating them at life. It's about women being equal to men and having the same control over their lives and bodies that men take for granted. I believe that no woman should ever have to "put up" with anyone's behaviour towards her, feel ashamed of who she is, be scared to be at home, work or school. No woman should have to fear abuse be it physical or mental.

I believe that women should demand equal treatment, rights and opportunities to men. Not more than just equal. As Floyd Dell said in 1914 in his article on women's suffrage "feminism is going to make it possible for the first time for men to be free".

I believe that men and women should all be able to break free of the constraints of gender expectations and live their lives the way they want. And that is what makes me a feminist.

Love Jen
XxxX