Tag: creative burnout

Sit Rep IJM

Posted on Posted in Black and White PhotographyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 6 Comments

Disclaimer Alert. This post talks about sensitive subjects but should be read, even by my mother. Not everything in this world is perfect. We don’t all have perfect lives. It’s not all toxic positivity. Listen first to the Deep Dive talking about this article.

Not great to be honest.  Today was not a good day.  Today was particularly shitty.  Well more pissy and shouty, but more about that later.  Let’s get something straight.  Despite what might be said in this article, I love my daughter and wife very much.  I just don’t like them a whole lot.  I can’t fucking stand them to be honnest.

My daughter is turning out to be an entitled little shit that is a typical teenager who thinks the world revolves around her and that we must all bow down and accept every whim and of course respect her and talk to her nicely.

Dad, are you on your meds?

Not effing likely.  Why should I take them just to put up with you?

So not at my best…  It would appear that I have survived blue monday.  But only just.  My “darling wife” is right in the middle of menopause and thinks HRT is only good for giving her cancer.  Intriguing thought to be honest.  At least like that I won’t be getting shouted at any more for being a useless shit show despite all the work I’m doing on myself,  I’m still a waste of air.

Stop doing that thing you keep doing!

Breathing Dear?

Why should I even bother taking the meds?

Because why should I take meds just to put up with you?

Good fucking job I love you.  

Maybe I should just jump under a bus and put them all out of their misery…

Shame I actually like my son.  He’s a good kid.  He took me out to a lovely restaurant for my birthday.  Then we went to a ‘retail outlet’ for me to buy myself a present which is adorable but I need to declutter and have too much shit in my house..  The clutter is doing my head in.

Ah well.  It could be worse.  I could be back at work…  One of my great fears.  At the moment the fashion seems to be to treat your staff sufficiently not too badly for them to be put on leave for depression.  Oops! Well that worked out really well.

Birthday on Monday and if anyone wishes me a happy birthday, I will be screaming at them internally, swearing at them and cursing them, whilst saying “thank you”with the appropriate grace.   

And no—

I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t want to heal.

I don’t want to find meaning.

I just want it to stop!

For precautionary self censoring reasons, don’t jump under buses. You might damage the bus. You probably won’t but safety first eh! Help lines:
🇨🇭 CH: 143
🇫🇷 FR: 3114
🇬🇧 UK: 999 or 116 123
🇺🇸 US: 988

Never Complain, Never Explain

Posted on Posted in Mental Health, ReportageTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 15 Comments

Content Note: This post discusses depression and emotional exhaustion. Please read with care.

That was the old Royal Family rule—stoic, impenetrable, forever above it all.

I, alas, am not royalty. I’m an overthinker with a camera and a blog, and I owe you nothing… but I’d like to offer a little explanation anyway. Call it common courtesy. Or perhaps just the need to name what’s been happening.

So here’s the situation report from IJM Photography.

I haven’t written in a month for two reasons.
First: the season. If you’ve followed this space for a while, you know I’ve long wrestled with melancholy—especially as the days shorten. This year, it hit harder than usual. I made it through November, but only just. By December, I was physically and mentally exhausted.

Second: my health. After a conversation with my manager and HR, I was referred to the médecin du travail. She diagnosed me with dépression aiguë—acute depression (not the cute, Hello Kitty kind)—and noted a heart murmur. Frankly, I was relieved to have a name for what I’d been carrying.

She ordered me to go straight home—not back to work—and to see my GP the next day. She mentioned my brain chemistry was “in a bit of a mess.” Which, in its odd way, reminded me of three things:

  • — I have a brain
  • — I have a heart
  • — and I am profoundly tired

Not broken. Just worn thin.

I was referred to the local Centre Médico-Psychologique. There, I broke another unspoken rule: when the nurse asked how I was, I didn’t say, “Fine, thanks.” I told the truth—calmly, factually, without blame—about the weight I’d been under since returning to work after my accident, and how even the resilience I’d inherited from past generations suddenly felt out of reach.

To my surprise, a session with a psychiatrist opened up right away. He was kind, thoughtful. We talked about identity, belonging, and the quiet strain of straddling cultures. He said I carry “the mindset of an immigrant”—and that perhaps I’ve become more French than I realize. He suggested working on communication with my spouse, and that a trip back to the UK might help me reconnect with myself.

He might be right. If funds were no object, I’d book the ticket tomorrow.

For now, I’m taking things one day at a time. Resting. Recharging. And slowly returning—to my camera, to my words, to myself.

Thank you for waiting.

— IJM