Hiding places

I feel a bit weird having the most recent post here still being me ranting on endlessly about depression, so let’s move it down a bit and replace it with a photo I took at Westonbirt a few weeks ago.

It makes me think of hiding places, the little pockets inside of us where we store the bubbles of memory and emotion that really matter. Sometimes they’re good things and sometimes they’re not, but they all go somewhere.

Can you ever really find a new hiding place when an old one gets found? I’m not so sure. But sometimes just hiding things isn’t enough. Sometimes you just want it to fuck off.

This makes no sense to anyone but me.

I has a sad.

When Abbi and I first discussed buying a web domain and writing regularly in a blog, I already knew that I would find it to be a helpful exploration of an issue that has been ongoing in my life to date.

There are many blogs about depression, many websites about mental illness, many people who are sad. I’m not going to try to educate anyone – I know as much as google and a few years of low level psychology class will tell me – but I would really like to write about my own depression, in the hope that one day I can look back on it and understand it, and myself, a little better.

The term “depression” is one I have always been wary of using. Before I had a doctor-provided diagnosis, or even acknowledged that my feelings may seriously warrant one, I have been annoyed by people who sigh and say “Ugh, I feel so depressed”. Some of them may have been genuinely depressed, I’m sure, but it seems to have entered colloquial vocabulary as a synonym for frustration, or sadness. Depression is not sadness.

It’s different for everyone, I’m sure. But this is me, and my experience of it. For me, it was like breathing thicker air than everyone else. Every breath laboured, every single moment of every single day overshadowed by this crushing feeling in my chest. Depression is not sadness, it’s helplessness, hopelessness. It’s feeling that nothing is worth doing because everything is empty, pointless. It isn’t laying in bed because you’re lazy, it’s laying in bed because the thought of getting up and existing in a world so clearly not intended for you to exist in, leaves you feeling so raw and vulnerable that you can’t bear to do it.

Depression is not being alone. It’s being surrounded by people and still wanting to cry without knowing why. It’s avoiding phonecalls and texts from people who genuinely care about why you’ve disappeared, and ignoring them for so long that they stop coming, and it’s feeling relieved that you don’t have to avoid them anymore. It’s not seeing anyone or anything of meaning or note for weeks on end because it’s agony to be social, when the first thing anyone ever asks is “How are you?” and you’re too emotionally exhausted to lie but the answer is too horrible to face.

There are a lot of people who feel as though treating depression with medication is the easy answer. As someone who made four doctors appointments that I didn’t attend, and two that I did attend but chickened out at the last minute and made up another problem when they asked me what was wrong, let me assure you that there is absolutely nothing easy about walking into a room, sitting down with a medical professional and saying, “I need help. I think I have depression”.

It’s the subtext in that, that makes it so difficult. It’s the things you don’t say, by saying that. “I’ve tried to have a life, I can’t, it’s too hard”. “I failed at being happy”. “There is something so desperately wrong with me that I think about killing myself for most of every day”. That is not a good conversation to have. It’s not an easy conversation to start. No one who takes an anti-depressant, does so because they think it will fix their problem.

But when your problem is that you can’t deal with life, you need something to make dealing with it possible, and that’s what these pills do. Almost all of them have side effects. These are not easy options. When you start to feel better, that’s when you can start looking at the things that have been making you feel this way. I’m sure that bit will be even harder still.

I’m starting to feel a little bit better, but I’m not there yet. As much as I may have really good ideas about the things that have turned me into this shell of a person, I’m still not ready to really think about them in any depth. Some things I can’t even say properly because I can’t force myself to use the words, so I think I’m still a way off.

This blog may or may not help me. It might just chronicle yet another failure of mine to deal with my myriad of issues. I hope not though. But one thing is as clear as ever, as clear as it has always been – I’ve never been alone while I’ve been trying to get better. Thank you guys for being my friends. I’m not sure that it was always worth it for you, but know that you were always appreciated.

Addicts of the Modern Age

After reading Ian’s recent post about Foursquare, I was forced to confront some troubling realisations that I’ve been having lately. No one likes realisations – they’re Inspiration’s inbred cousin, sat in the corner of the room as people try to ignore them and enjoy Eastenders instead.

Anway, a few years ago, I was sat down in an afternoon class, being taught how to be a teacher, whilst I stabbed pens into my hand to remain awake after an excessively carbohydrate-laden lunch. It was a very good class, I might add, and it was my own fault for feeling sleepy: I had eaten more chips that afternoon than can safely be imagined without feeling a little bit ill.

Anyway, I remember perking up when the teacher started talking about digital immigrants and digital natives. This is the idea that new technology is something adults struggle to learn and use whilst, to students, it is simply innate: they grow up with it and so do not see it as new or scary.

Someone asked how old digital immigrants were.  ”Over 25″ was the answer. I was as pleased as punch at that, being the lithe and svelte 23/24 year old that I was at the time (I was never lithe or svetle; I have never been even mildly fluid). My pride at being a digital native was well-founded after it was  later  discovered during class discussion that I was the only person who knew what a blog was short for, or even what it was, or had one.

Up to a few days ago, I was under the impression that I still was a digital native. However, it appears I have evolved into something else.

Let me set out my credentials. I text,  Facebook, Twitter and use nouns as verbs  like crazy. I have my mobile phone set to receive updates so every now and again I can read what my friends are up to. I surf the internet from my phone, scrolling through links to Twitpics or news stories, hash-tagging ironically as I go #obviously. I have four different email addresses and use one purely as a spam shield (i.e. if I think typing in my email address to a website competition will result in spam for penis enlargement ads – which websites, you ask? – I use that one). I listen to music digitally and only use CDs as a last resort. I am up to date on trending memes and know what DRATW is all about and also know that, by this time next week, no one will have a fucking clue what DRATW is. I read webcomics instead of newspaper ones and, for comments on the gaming industry and game reviews, I sit back and enjoy some bitching from the legendary online reviewer, Yahtzee. I very rarely watch television – I access iPlayers and On Demand internet sites through my PS3 instead.

In summary, I am your average, plugged in, technology-aware young adult. These things are an everyday part of life.

Oddly, I used to be a technophobe. For example,  Sat Navs were and are still beyond me. This is how my last excursion with a Sat Nav went: Do I come off at this exit, or that one? Where’s the car gone? WHERE’S THE FUCKING CAR GONE?! Hang on, why is it recalculating?! No, I don’t want to go to Basildon High Street – I’m meant to be at Basildon Hospital! Right, I’m turning you off and on again, you fucker. Pin code, ok…no, oh no no no, don’t lock me out, you, you…BASTARD!

Hardly unusual to see people threatening to throw Sat Navs out of their car on the A12, I hear you say. That is very true and, apart from the map machines of Satan, I’ve adapted well to most of the technological features of daily life. However, I’m beginning to get a bit…overwhelmed – unable to cope, in fact. For one, my phone is a constant link to the world and this bombardment of information can be a bit too absorbing. Whereas before, I could leave a message and expect someone to get back to me after work, I’m now wondering why they haven’t responded to my emails, Facebook pokes, tweets or two page texts. Because, ultimately, I really need to know right this very minute if this particular red dress would suit me (I’ll send an attachment later).

I started to notice a problem when I would check my phone every half hour for my Twitter and Facebook page, or just to idly browse for news and emails. Perhaps that’s just the nature of having nothing else to do, or the nature of my brain not being bothered to actually engage with the world around it.

Then the other day I left my mobile phone at home and the internet fluctuated on and off at work. I cannot begin to tell you the crushing anxiety I felt. Who might have called me? Am I missing an important text? What news am I missing out on? How will I find the resources I need without the web? Oh God, what if my manager’s sent me an important email?

I’d just like to pause here a moment to point out some things: my manager works in an office across the very narrow corridor from my office. It’s maybe 25 steps, maximum. Hardly an epic journey to make in order to ease my concern; we are not talking Lord of the Rings, here.

Secondly, I managed to get the resources for my class sorted without having to print things from the internet. Did they work, you ask? I wish I could take a photo of their bewildered and despairing faces for you, I really do. Let’s just say that my shouting, “She’s got a stomach tumour!” at the TV during the “What happens next? You decide!” BT advert was not the worst thing I’ve done this week.

Lastly, no one had texted me when I finally got home to my phone. The only messages on there were Twitter updates. Oh, and Orange had texted me to ask if I wanted a credit card because God knows increased credit card debt is the key to our financial recovery.

I think there’s a difference between being a digital native and being an information addict. I believe I have become the latter. I’m certainly not a tech geek, that’s for sure. I just spent 45 minutes trying to work out how to put an image on my comments and was met by a barrage of computer code so complicated it nearly blinded me. I have still not managed to load an image, only giving up when I started to weep softly.

What really concerns me is how little I think about the information I absorb, these days, or how I cope without it. Maybe it’s the fact I now skim and scan much more than I used to in order to cram in as much information as possible. The easy access to these fact snippets encourages a person to dip in and out of important issues without really contemplating what’s just been found out. Analysis is, to a great extent, thrown out of the window and is instead replaced with knee-jerk reactions. If anyone wants a good example of not thinking things through properly, look at the Raoul Moat fan group on Facebook. I doubt very much that the creator of the group really took the time to examine the possible reactions or consequences, or how it would affect the families of the injured police officer and the murdered boyfriend. Then again, she may just be a very stupid person.

In any case, there is no substitute for this addiction to “must know NOW”- there is no methadrone equivalent for instant access information. The only solution is to gradually wean myself off it, like I did with cigarettes. Apart from the occasional slip, I’ve done quite well against cigarettes; everyone knows cigarettes smoked at parties don’t count, anyway.

So, I have decided to make a stand. I will turn off my Twitter and Facebook updates. I will start leaving my phone at home unless I really, really need it. I will stop wanting a shiny iPad just because it’s shiny. I will try to absorb information in a more meaningful and evenly spaced out way. Starting from next week.

Probably. Maybe. Well, maybe just one more article from BBC News…

Please stalk me

First there was Compuserve and Altvasita – sites for neatly categorising the Web’s early emerging content; then came the dominant force of Google. Some time later, “Web 2.0″ arrived – facilitating interactive information sharing, interoperability, user-centered design, and collaboration on the World Wide Web. In essence Web 2.0 constitutes anything from Blogger.com, to Flickr and its definition also extends to the more recent advent of social networking in the form of services like Facebook, Twitter and Bebo.

It is this form of Web collaboration that has taken the world by storm in recent years. Putting sharp perspective on just how much things have grown, the Metro newspaper reported yesterday that Facebook is subscribed to by nearly half of the UK population. The interest is forever high and forever growing. Users share millions of pieces of personal information in the form of text, video and audio, and whilst the visibility of user information that flows through Facebook’s pages can be restricted through a variety of (complicated) privacy settings that even the likes of Bill Gates would struggle to comprehend, users of the site are increasingly opting instead to open the doors on their personal lives; sometimes knowingly, but more often than not without in fact realising they’re doing so.

More recently, a new contender has stepped into the social networking ring: Foursquare.com. Foursquare is a “geo-location” service. It aims to connect users through geographical data; this not only includes physical global positioning, but information users provide on anything they find at any given location, be that a restaurant review or details of what dodgy alley ways to avoid after dark. The result is obviously a rich tapestry of information which subscribed members can make certain use of. You want to know where Uncle Jonny is today? Simple, jump onto Foursquare and there he is, sitting outside Hyde Park Corner tube station. Daddy’s late home from work and you want to know why? Log on to Foursquare to spot him at his secretary’s house again. The power of this application is undoubtedly phenomenal. Being able to track and be trackable wherever you are in the world has its obvious advantages and with the site recently hitting the milestone of 2 million members, it’s quite clear that people are more than willing to divulge their whereabouts to the world wide web. But at what cost?

The Guardian newspaper today took us on a stalker’s journey (http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2010/jul/23/foursquare). Using Foursquare, one of their reporters was able to quickly track and meet with a lady by the name of Louise within a matter of minutes. The ease at which the information was acquired and then made use of is quite an eye opener and a big warning to those of us keen enough to share with the world our wearabouts to maybe take a second thought or three before doing so.

I’d like to ask the question though – is all this personal information over-share really so bad?

I remember reading a year or so ago, that the days of privacy are dead and, if we want to get by in this world, then we must embrace the openness. I was reading an article at the time which voiced the concerns of residents of a local community on what they deemed as the unfair and over the top use of video surveillance technology. They were fed up, they said, with being watched.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, I read, people are installing cameras in their home for the sheer fun of it. The “enjoyment” of being watched is something more or less pioneered by the likes of programs like Big Brother and it is a reality that people are fond of the idea. Some people have gone so far as to claim that within fifty years we will all be enjoying the delights of being constantly filmed at home.

Sound crazy? Well we’re not that far from it already, when you think about it. How many of us get a kick out of telling the world what we had for breakfast this morning? Answer: a lot of us. So imagine the world watching what we have for breakfast instead. It’s really not that inconceivable, is it?

But back to my question: is all of this openness and invasion of privacy so bad? I think the answer to this is it is of course both good and bad. Good in the sense that we have a more open, transparent existence, bad in the sense that you may well be three clicks away from finding out I’m at the local sex shop. The pros and cons are clear.

But it is also inevitable. As people continue to jump on board with things like Twitter, things like Facebook, things like Foursquare, they go one of two ways: they either love it and stick around, or hate it, leave but never completely forget. The idea is planted and the appeal of the thing is eventually replaced by necessity. “You don’t have a Facebook? Are you mad, how can you possibly keep up to date with people!” It has become the norm to have these tools at our disposal and to fully embrace them without fear of ridicule.

Something like Foursquare pushes this to a new level. At first the idea seems ridiculous, overly invasive with no concern for privacy. Exactly right. But on the other hand, forget all that, embrace it and pretty soon you won’t be able to live without its benefits. And you think you won’t? Just give it a year or two.

Ben

Very soon, for the first time in… well, in ages, I will be living on my own.  I don’t think I’ve ever actually lived alone so it will be a bit of an odd experience.

At the moment, my brother, Ben, lives with me.  But, he’s gone and bought a house so will be buggering off soon.  He’s really pushing the boat out; he’s moving about 2 minutes walk away from me!

I’ll miss him once he’s gone, but at the same time I’m kind of looking forward to it.  Ben is very good at looking after me – I often say I have no common sense, and that’s because he has all of my share.  He tells me when I’m being a twat.  He does my dresses up for me when I can’t quite reach the zip.  He’s a million times better at cooking than I am.  He remembers things like putting the rubbish out and buying milk.  He gives me a hug when I really, really need one.  He acts as my short term memory.  In short, he’s awesome.

When he’s gone, I’m going to have to do all of these things myself.  Some of them are doable.  Like remembering the milk.  However, some of them, like dress zips – not so much.  It’s kind of hard to hug yourself as well, I find.

The extra room I’ll have will be odd as well.  I mean, I live in a three bed house, ffs.  I’ll have three bedrooms to fill with my junk!  I have plans to make one of them a dressing room, and I’ll sit in there all dressed up, pretending I’m 3 again and playing with my mum’s make up.

A cravat? Really?*

*The title will make sense in a bit. Honest. And I’ll try to write less next time.

I tend not to write too many personal things about myself for many reasons. For one, I have a terribly boring life. No one wants to know how much I enjoyed my Shredded Wheat this morning (I did, as it happens) or what time I went to bed (at boring o clock). Secondly, I am easily drawn towards self-despair like a moth to a bloody big bonfire, and any introspection is surely the path that leads me there.

However, I do enjoy ideas, events and general happenings and this is why I love the news. It provides endless amounts of comment, often idiotic, but it is always something which can be looked at with horror and genuine joy. It prepares you for every eventuality of life without having to, you know, experience that shit for yourself.

So, very few things surprise me, not even the price of petrol going up, Terry Gilliam making disappointing films or watching Nick Clegg, resigned to his fate, sucking once again on Tory cock as he retracts his actual opinions and possibly his balls. However, I occasionally do ask myself wtf (cos I’m all down with the kids, yeah, but not in a Vatican way) when something backfires so amazingly due to someone else’s lack of foresight.

The “someone” in this case is Buckingham Palace, who tried to extricate themselves from a publicity disaster and who have, somewhat inevitably, caused a massive media feeding frenzy in doing so.

It all starts with Nick Griffin, which is in itself a terrifying thought. It’s hard to know what to make of Nick Griffin. Someone suggested “a condom for a horny, genital wart-ridden, elephant”, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

For those of you who enjoy a life without constant interruption from Facebook, Twitter and rolling 24 hour news, Nick Griffin was supposed to go to tea with the Queen. All MEPs were invited and so, therefore, was he. However, approximately three hours ago, Buckingham Palace issued a statement saying they were withdrawing the invite as Griffin had “overtly used his personal invitation for party political purpose through the media”. One incident the palace has cited is Nick Griffin’s interview this morning on GMTV where he talked about cosying up to the Queen over sandwiches and maybe a bit of small talk. Perhaps their eye/s would meet over some cream scones, their hands brushing as they both reached for a tiny cucumber sandwich: Nick’s patriotic lips would quiver with excitement… Frankly, there’s a whole mine of disturbing slash fiction for that scenario. Enjoy that thought. You’re welcome.

The other incident was a message board thread where Griffin asked for suggestions about what to ask the Queen. Of all the things you could ask the Queen, I think “Where are the loos, love?” would probably be the most inappropriate, short of enquiring about Prince Philip’s immigration status.

Anyway, so far, so Griffin. The man hardly shies away from the limelight. Thus, I was not shocked to watch him mugging for the cameras an hour after he had heard about the dis-invitation. It was quite a spectacle. Firstly, he was done up like a Christmas turkey – I swear, he was wearing a formal suit and a cravat (told you it would make sense). Some news reporters generously suggested Griffin had only just heard about the news and that’s why he hadn’t changed. I’m less generous and seriously? A cravat?

Secondly, Griffin happily posed for pics, holding up his invite for all to see, grinning like a moron. He absolutely loved it. I have never watched a pig roll merrily in shit, but this is the closest human equivalent I have seen so far and a cravat? Really? With one of those stupid pin things in it?

I guess my point is that refusing people like Nick Griffin entry into the establishment only helps him hammer the nails into his feet and hands. Before: Nick Griffin “accepted” by the establishment. After: Nick Griffin, martyr, turned away by the old boy system again, denying millions of BNP voters (one million at best, I think) their right to vicariously eat fondant fancies with dignity!

Honestly, what was Buckingham Palace thinking? This is a man who had a guy dressed as St George in his election manifesto press conference, awkwardly balancing a fake sword and helmet as Griffin rolled out the “we only hate immigrants who don’t know their place” spiel. He even walked around with a PRETEND soldier during the election to boost his credibility as a patriot. How on earth did they ever think that banning Griffin would generate less publicity?

So, ironically, Buckingham Palace has just inadvertently allowed Griffin to overtly use their personal dis-invitation for party political purpose through the media. I suspect the irony may be missed by Griffin himself, but keep watching as the self-proclaimed everyman does his best to lap up every drop of media attention. This has the potential to last a whole couple of hours, at least. In this age of shot-straight-into-your-eyeballs information, it will feel like a lifetime.

Workspeak

For decades the working man has used a selection of phrases, acronyms and buzz words to motivate, inspire and in most cases confuse his fellow workers. The rule of thumb tends to be, the more confusing the phraseology, the more mystery it creates, leading to (initially) admiration for the speaker, increased productivity and a greater tendency to fall in love with the speaker and/or arrange coffee dates. Sadly the positive effects can only linger for so long. The admiration for the speaker deteriorates over a matter of hours or days and is replaced by acute confusion, followed swiftly by a noticeable break-down in communication and understanding.

I ask you, am I the only one who wants to cut through this crap? I don’t imagine I’m alone. In the ten years (yes, ten whole years now — fuck!) I’ve been in and out of digital publishers and creative agencies the city over, I’ve experienced more than my fair share of what I like to term as bullshit phraseology. Why just yesterday I sat through an hour long meeting where the man in the chair used such phrases as “In this new dawn…”, “We have to shoe-horn this functionality…” and, my personal favourite “We’ve got to pick the low-hanging fruit while it’s still hanging.” Jesus, it’s enough to make you consider momentarily that the man in charge might in fact be a closet poet. Or to consider momentarily killing yourself – I’m not sure which (sometimes I flit between both ideas; different scenarios play out in my head: in the first, he’s dipping a quill lovingly into a pot of thick black ink, looking up at the summer blue sky with wonder, before looking down upon some crumpled paper and carefully writing the sentence “In this new dawn of low hanging fruit” on the page before beaming back at the rest of us with a satisfied smile. In the other, I’m standing up while he’s full-throttle on his corporate preaching, making my excuse to suddenly leave the room due to “toilet trouble” and heading for the roof, making long strides towards the building’s edge and praying that the fall doesn’t just break both my legs).

I mean it’s just unnecessary! That’s my point. It’s just plain unnecessary to attempt to tart up what will always be, no matter what, an absolutely dull and lifeless line of work (let’s face it, all office work is dull and lifeless, I don’t care if you work for Apple or Google, it’s still shit) We don’t need this crap – our days are depressing enough as it is without having to try to translate the mystical dialect of the corporate preacher. Just give it to us straight. Instead of “low hanging fruit” how about “obvious opportunities”? Instead of “new dawn” how about “well it’s kinda, like, different now…” – or whatever! Get my drift? Stop thinking you’re Obama, or Ghandi. If you think you’re Obama or Ghandi then stop working in an office and start hanging out at disused polling stations and so on.

There is no place for such language at work – We’re tried and tired enough as it is.

New Yawk.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed (lol jk, you couldn’t escape it) that Abbi and I went to New York recently. It was pretty fucking fab. Here are some photos of it.

Read the rest of this entry »

My patented packing method

I’ve never been very good at packing.  I have a lot of issues with it.  I overpack.  I leave it until the last minute.  I scrunch everything up in little balls in my case.

A few years ago, I got a nice shiny new suitcase and thought that from now on, I would be oh-so-good with packing.  I would put everything in neatly.  I’d use the pockets in the lid to put sensible things in.  I’d use the separators to put everything in its place.

Turns out that this was all a bit too much for me.  I am still using my patented packing method.  This involves the following steps:

1. Ignore the packing for days and days, until it’s about 2 hours before I need to leave the house.
2. In a blind panic, throw everything that I own that is clean in to the case
3. Wonder where that top that I really, really need to take with me is?
4. Find said top in the washing
5. Try and close the case and realise it’s not going to happen
6. Take everything back out of the case and lay it all out on my bed and wonder what I actually do need to take with me.
7. End up putting everything back in the case again.  Because I really do need to take that bright orange t-shirt that I have never worn before and which is too small for me.
8. Wonder why I can’t close the case again.  I TOOK OUT A HAIR BAND, FOR GOD’S SAKE!
9. Take everything out, whine to whoever is nearest about the fact that I have too much stuff.
10. Get said person to help me thin things out.
11. Argue with said person when they tell me I don’t need to take 5 pairs of heels with me for a 3 day holiday.
12. Realise that they are right so take stuff out.  Grudgingly.

Despite this, I still end up taking too much with me.  ”Packing light” is a foreign concept to me.  What will usually occur is I will end up taking about double what I need.  Especially with underwear – I pretty much always take 2 sets per day that I’m away.

This also has a disappointing side effect – it means I have less space for shopping while I’m away!  Oh yes, did I not mention that I usually end up buying more clothes…

Home.

This is the village I call home. It’s awfully pretty and quaint and all of those good, English things. At the top of that hill is a post office, and at the bottom of the hill is a bakery. It’s that kind of village.

Predictably, there are eight pubs.