My first year in freelancing

My first year in freelancing or more commonly known as –

 A journey into the unknown

 On the 31^st of December I will have been a freelancer for one whole year. Yes, one whole year. And it’s been one rollercoaster ride of highs and lows. I started with great confidence. I had the website, the obligatory 6 months’ worth of savings and my laptop in front of me. My bedroom having been converted into the little stream lined office I’d always wanted. I was all ready for the exciting life of a freelance copywriter.

 Living the dream, or better known as -

 Thinking you know it all and finding out you know nothing.

I’ve placed my first year in a series of phases, phase 1, 2 and 3.

 Phase 1 is me thinking I have it all sown up, getting up at 11am looking for a bit of work on bidding sites and then relaxing in front of the tv and then reading a bit and then going out and doing a bit of shopping. Also a little bit of soul searching and not understanding why I’m not in demand, and why the phone isn’t ringing off the hook, and why isn’t my inbox chocker block full of emails demanding my services. After all, am I not a well-educated adult with TWO degrees, TWO degrees I tell you! Am I not a short story writer and an ex public sector employee – why isn’t everyone banging on my door?

 Phase 2 is the bit where my savings have all but run out. I’m despondent, and I’m having the worst kind of reality check in living memory. I’ve hit rock bottom with such force it feels like my blood pressure is in my ankles and I’m surprised I don’t flat-line.

 It’s not that I wasn’t working, I was. It’s just that when I look back it seems I was living the life of someone who’d been doing this for years – and I’d only been doing it for a few measly months. Phase 3 is where I revaluate my strategy, start again and work like a Trojan.

 Evaluate, evaluate, evaluate, or more commonly known as –

Find out where you went wrong and rectify it

Time to think

The one thing I’ve realised is that being a copywriter and working for myself at home is not only a privilege it’s something I want to do for the rest of my life. And let’s be clear about this, working freelance IS a privilege. I know because I spent enough time working in a variety of different jobs over the years, some nice, some not so nice that made me thoroughly miserable. I know the meaning of clock watching, I’ve done it enough times to know. With a regular job comes a regular pay check and that brings tremendous security, but with it comes soul crushing conformity and repetition. And it’s not for me. And yes, there’s a certain degree of repetition in all jobs, but if you’re doing something you love then it’s half the battle.

Recession

 We’re in the middle of a terrible recession and people are finding it hard to keep a roof over their heads. Being able to do something you love is not to be taken for granted. So let this be a lesson learned, just give me one more chance and this time, I’ll make it good. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life staring at a ticking clock or standing in a job centre.

Evaluate and get back up

In my short period as a teacher the one thing that was drummed into me during my training was evaluation. Write a lesson plan, evaluate, spend the day teaching, at the end of it, evaluate, at the end of every term, evaluate. Evaluate your strengths and your weaknesses; evaluate your successes and your failures. Evaluate, evaluate and then evaluate some more. And I need to get back into that mindset again. Evaluate my successes and my failures, evaluate my performance and if I see any weaknesses then rectify it with reading or training, or a combination of the two. This time I’m aiming at the top and I’m not giving up.

A period of reflection and strategy, otherwise known as –

Making it work

So what have I learned about being a copywriter, about being a freelance copywriter no less? Well-being a copywriter takes talent, strategy, stamina and hard work, a LOT of hard work. It also includes selling yourself raw, marketing like a demon, putting yourself out there like you’re the best thing since the invention of colour TV. I don’t find that easy, I’m shy, reserved, but it’s no excuse. If I can’t market I’m dead in the water. You can be the most talented writer, copywriter, web designer in the world – but if you don’t market yourself properly, no one knows you exist.

I need to make you believe in me, whoever you are out there reading this.

 I AM GOOD. I AM VERY GOOD

Bidding wars

Also working on bidding sites is all very well and I still have to use them, but at the end of the day, clients go there because they’re cheap. They don’t go there to get the very best, because the very best costs, so if you want something done on the cheap, then you’re not going to go to them are you? You’re going to go to the bidding sites. The bidding sites are like my trip to a cheap hairdresser. If I can’t afford a decent hair cut at some fancy salon, then I’ll go to the student salon run by the college. It won’t be the best but it’ll do, it’ll do until I can afford something better. I AM WORTH MORE THAN THAT AND SO ARE YOU. I don’t want to be that someone you pay because I’ll do. I want to be the someone that you want because I’M GOOD. But words are exactly that, words. Actions take something else, energy and hard work.

The strategy

For 2014 it’s going to be like this – I’ve calculated how much I need and want to earn. It’s not a king’s ransom, but it’s enough to get by, I don’t want to be rich, I just want to be happy.  Market myself ragged. Learn. Read. Train. The training will have to follow some earning, but it will happen, I will make it happen. Watch this space, because I’m telling you now, I will succeed. No slacking off, no tv, no taking my eye off the ball.

If I could change the past 12 months, I wouldn’t, because if I had I would have learned NOTHING.

Here’s to 2014 and all it brings, it’s been a steep learning curve, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’ve done many things with my life, enough to know a good thing when I see it. And this is it. It doesn’t get better than this. If YOU want to be a freelance copywriter then take note and start living the dream, but not until you’ve put the work in.

In Passing/Brian Harris

To be born in Wales,
Not with a silver spoon in your mouth,
But, with music in your blood
And with poetry in your soul,
Is a privilege indeed. 

 

Your inheritance is a land of Legend,
Of love and contrast.
A land of beauty so bright it burns the eyes.
Of ugliness that scars the Spirit
As the Earth.

 

Wales is an old land with wounds
That weep in hills.
They wept before in the bodies of men
And in the hearts of women
And time will never heal them.

 

The stigmata of sorrow,
Of pain and poverty,
Of lonely crucifixion in the dark,
Remain our lives to feed.

 

This Land of our Fathers was built on coal.
Its rivers of mingled blood and sweat
Have forever darkened it,
Relieved only by death.

 

We are a sad people.
Our sadness being wrapped in harps and music
And praise to God,
For the lovely, yearning light
That feeds the Spirit as well as the eyes.

 

1967

Hollywood dreams

"If we bring a little joy into your humdrum lives, it makes us feel as though our hard work ain't been in vain for nothin'."Singin’ in the Rain (1952)

 

My mother collected things, many things. That may not seem unusual in itself, but she was what would now be known today as a compulsive hoarder. There are perfectly good reasons why this was, but I don’t want to talk about that today.

What I want to discuss is one of my mother’s more excellent collections, her film annuals. Growing up I spent an awful lot of time watching old movies with my mother. I was a weak and wussy child prone to infections and bugs and my mother was quite over protective, so as each sneeze or sniffle arrived I was kept home until I was deemed healthy enough to return.

Hollywood dreams

While I was in convalescence for whichever bug I was plagued with my mother would bring me downstairs and we’d watch an afternoon film together. This was the afternoon matinee, usually a black and white murder mystery, or full on Technicolor musical complete with singing, dancing and glamorous costumes.  

Hollywood was a place of refuge for my mother, a place where dreams came true and happy endings were practically guaranteed. We would watch quietly as each heroine sang her way through another crisis or danced her way to success. Her favourites were Bette Davis, Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, and Jennifer Jones.

Dream weaver

They were beautiful; perfect figures with their corseted silhouettes and tiny waists. Their crimson cupid bow lips and perfectly sculpted hair a revelation. We watched in awe silently until the final credits rolled, sometimes with a tissue handy but always with plenty of chocolate and tea at the ready. They were special times when I felt especially close to my mother and I look back at those times with great fondness.

"That's, uh, quite a dress you almost have on...What holds it up?"An American in Paris (1951)

What it also gave me was an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of Hollywood actors and films of the 40s and 50s that made me old before my time. Most of the actresses and actors had died before my time anyway and while most of my friends were hooked on the latest singing sensation to grace the charts,  I’d be rambling on about Lana Turner’s hair and Mitzi Gaynor’s dancing skills. I must have seemed odd.

 

But they were special; they were so unreal, glamorous and perfect. I wanted to wake up and be Rita Hayworth or Lana Turner, they were a perfect anecdote for my less than perfect life, an escape route from my own misery.

"I just love finding new places to wear diamonds. “Gentlemen prefer Blondes (1953)

We know now that the well-rehearsed picture poses and perfectly written articles that featured in the film annuals of the time were often a cover for their own less than perfect lives. The film studios eager to portray a squeaky clean image for their audiences, made sure their contracted stars looked every bit the Hollywood star right down to hair and make-up. Their private lives had to be above scrutiny at all times with not so much as a hint of scandal.

 The annuals I have go back to the late forties and early fifties each one full of pictures and “stories of the stars.” In the Film Show Annual we are greeted on the inside dust jacket with a promising message “here to greet you are the stars of film-land telling, in intimate articles written especially for this edition, of their moments of heartache and happiness, of their disappointments and successes, of their hopes for the future.” How intimate or how truthful these articles were remains to be seen, but it gave those of us hungry for a taste of glamour, a glimpse of their perfect Hollywood lives.

 I have not only inherited a love of old movies and film stars I’ve also fallen in love with forties and fifties fashion – my favourite vintage period. From the cupid lips to the shimmering bangs and high waisted shorts, the forties were a time of unrivalled glamour that gave the public an escape route from the austerity of World War II.

 

"Well, I'll wear the darn clothes if you want me to - if-if you'll just, just like me."Vertigo 1958

Hollywood saved us all then, my mother, the millions of men and women who made that trip to the cinema each week and me, sat in my mother’s arms watching them dance and pirouette their way into the arms of some good looking hero ready to save them from themselves.

We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives."Plan 9 From Outer Space (1959)

These film annuals provide precious memories of not only my mother, but my own childhood and the glamorous escape route Hollywood gave us all. 





All I wanted was just what everybody else wants, you know, to be loved.



 

Gillian Jones is a freelance copywriter and blogger. If you want to know more about her services then drop her an email at pandora.77@hotmail.co.uk or visit her site at www.taith.net 





Twitter, Twitter, before I fall, who's the best seller of them all?

Twitter – friend or foe?

I’ve been using Twitter now for the best part of 4 years, long before I decided to become a copywriter. In that time I’ve been followed, unfollowed, made friends, unmade friends and even met some of them and formed long lasting friendships.

 I get sick of Twitter and threaten to abandon it on a monthly basis. However here I am, still here after all this time.

 It almost sounds like an excuse for a song – but sometimes I wonder, if you’re using Twitter to promote your business, how far should you go? I'm still learning and fearful of putting people off rather than turning them on to my talents.

  The keyboard is mightier than the written word

Have you read my book?.

 From the point of view of someone that follows other users who use Twitter to promote their work, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that it can be a tad irritating when all you get is a constant stream of tweets with links and short phrases. Some writers are notorious for it. They never talk about themselves, they never seem to reach out to their audience, other than to try and sell you their latest book. If you send them a message they usually have so many followers they don’t have a clue who you are and your message gets ignored. This doesn’t make me want to buy their books; in fact it puts me right off. I say some, not all.

Another thing that I find particularly irritating is when someone is complimented on their work, regardless of what they do and they feel it’s their solemn duty to share  it with the rest of us, so we can see how wonderful they are and how wonderful their product is. So endless retweets then of how amazing Johnny Smith is and his first foray into science fiction.

I'm selling mirrors

Links, links and then more links

If someone follows me I usually check out their profile quickly, I’ll take a quick look at their bio and then at their tweets, if there’s nothing there other than a constant stream of links and they don’t seem to be saying anything else of interest then it’s unlikely I’ll  follow right away. I’ll leave it for a few days and then maybe I’ll ask them something, if they can’t be bothered to reply and this happens more than a few times, then I definitely won’t be following them – and that’s bad news if they want to sell me something in the future. I especially hate it when someone fills my timeline all at once with endless plugs. That’s why I’m reluctant to over promote myself or my blog - no matter how much I want people to read it, I don’t want to alienate people.

Personality – let it shine

 I did buy one book from someone on Twitter once who actually gave some hint of a personality, giving away little snippets of what she liked and disliked and what she gets up to, not an autobiography mind, in forty characters that’s impossible, but just enough to make her seem interesting, so interesting I wanted to read one of her books. It made her seem human. And she still carried on following me after I bought it. And I say this with good reason; another follower of mine bought a book from someone only to be unfollowed by them after the purchase!

 How much is too much?

 If you want to promote yourself on Twitter – should you try and interact with your followers, or just go for the hard sell? I think a combination of the two with a bit of soft sell, maybe a bit of subliminal selling. You have to be clever to do that and it’s not something I’ve quite mastered yet. It helps if you try to connect with people. I’m not suggesting you have great meaningful conversations on philosophy, far from it, who has the time for that? But if you give the impression you have time for people, that you’re warm blooded, that you give a s**t, it makes all the difference in the world to those that follow you - especially if you want them to buy something from you somewhere down the line.

Striking a balance

But when is talking about yourself too much, how do you really strike a balance between making yourself seem interesting and not over marketing yourself? How you come across as interesting and warm and not vain and self-glorious? It's a difficult balance because all social media platforms are about narcissism to a certain degree, it's all about the self. If you come across as warm, human, giving a little away about yourself and show interest in others then a balance can be achieved.

 You are not a robot.

 Be human, be real and connect with your followers, because they could be your future clients or customers in the future.  If they see you as a real person and you come across as being approachable then they might ask you something, something that may lead to further enquiries about what you do, your services and who knows, perhaps a purchase or a recommendation.

 And no that hasn’t happened to me yet on Twitter, but I’d be interested to know what others experience of self-promotion on Twitter has been, have you had success? Has it led to further clients/customers? Do Americans have it covered; are they better at self-promotion than the Brits? Should we take a lesson from them, or steer well clear?

Tell me what you think.



I love you!

 

Gillian Jones is a copywriter and freelance writer. If you want to make use of her services, contact her on pandora.77@hotmail.co.uk    and find her website here www.taith.net

Tartan terror

Tartan is not for me

William Wallace once said that every  man dies and not every man really lives and this is especially true if he's been forced to wear tartan.

Wikipedia describes tartan as being a "pattern consisting of criss-crossed horizontal and vertical bands in multiple colours"-  I call it something to avoid. It probably has something to do with the fact that tartan has some pretty traumatic memories for me. Seeing aunties dressed in full length head to toe tartan and lifting out purses from their handbags covered in it, with those simpering little clasps was enough to give me the shakes. Much like Marnie in Hitchcock's thriller when she sees the colour red, I scream with terror when I see any form of tartan.

Tartan trend 2013 - 2014

This is unfortunate, as tartan is the thing to wear this winter. Tartan jumpers, trousers and oversized coats adorned the catwalk. Personally I'd rather be forced to wear a bin liner. The tartan trousers remind me too much of Rupert and the scarves look as if you've been forced to tie your cat's blanket round your neck during a blizzard. The oversized tartan coats look too reminiscent of the 80s and early 90s and are all very well if you're skinny and tall, but they're not for the slightly cuddly and short, unless you want to look like Mrs Pepperpot after being let loose in Edinburgh Woollen Mills for a few hours. 

Fashion cynic

So I'll be staying as far away as possible from the tartan trend. However, I may be cynical, if you've lived through the eighties and nineties then you'll have seen one or two trends come and go. That means that whatever comes around has probably been round once already. Skinnies were once drainpipes, 80s boots come and go, padded shoulders, patterned tights, salmon, orange, oversized blazers. For some of us these have come and gone and we roll our eyes as they enter our line of vision once again.

Oh for a longer skirt

That isn't to say that there aren't a few returning trends I'm happy to see again. Longer lengths skirts is one and that's not because my legs are starting to look more knarled than a 100 year old oak. My legs are perfectly respectable thank you very much. But after 35 you don't go near a mini skirt unless you're very confident and I'm not. I'm also sick of looking for dresses that finish just below thigh level. (Are you listening ASOS???) I'm happy to see the return then of knee length skirts, not so much calf length, which aren't such good news for those of us with short legs.



By 'eck Issey Miyake knows
how to make a fluted skirt


Flutes, leather and glamour

The fluted skirts are a god send, absolutely lovely, loved them first time round. Don't buy any with stiff fabric, it makes the skirt seem cheap and stiff, especially around the fluted part. If I get the opportunity to wear one again I'd wear one with slightly more fluidity in the fabric and looser around the fluted part ,so it feels more feminine. A pencil skirt never goes out of fashion and one in a bright colour matched by a dark top is always a striking look. Flats and knits always look good so that and a knee length pencil skirt is a must for the office. There's talk of sheer panels and leather, but I won't be going there, please indulge if you wish, but I won't. There's also rumours of fifties petticoats and pleats, again, great if you feel confident enough, either that or you're very young, but for me it'll be a more conservative version of the longer length skirt. My motto for the future is: less is more.

 

So finally, fashion always comes full circle, sometimes you embrace it, sometimes you want to run away from it. I say this to you in the name of friendship - run away from tartan, run and don't look back.

                                                                

Oh to be scared.......

I want to be scared

 I’m fascinated by the ability to scare, to be scared. Sometimes my expectations are dashed by whatever it is I’ve seen or heard or read, if it has failed to achieve the desired effects. I fear that perhaps I raise the bar too high. There was another world, where being scared came easier, when the world wasn’t quite so black and white, where things seemed more opaque.

 No God, no afterlife, no consequences

 We believe in nothing, we fear nothing. We have nothing to fear from the dead for we know they can’t come back now. There’s no God so why worry about consequences? There’s no price to pay in the hereafter for we know there isn’t one. There is just the now, just here in the present, with the past firmly behind us and the future straight ahead.

 Are we starring in our own horror?

 Perhaps that’s the best horror film of all, the world we’ve created for ourselves, and we’re acting in our own technicolour screamfest, each one of us playing a starring role. And like the characters in those old horror flicks, we’ve no idea we’re being watched. We don’t know what’s lurking behind us or ahead of us until we hear ourselves scream.

 Life in the 21^st century – horror at its best

 

“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”   Sigmund Freud

Unedau gwag

Mae tu mewn I fy mhen yn ngwag
mae tu mewn I fy mhen yn ddu
does ddim byd arall yna
dim synadiau
dim meddylion
dim byd ond tywyllwch
tristwch, dagrau,
meddyliwn hyll
meddyliwn ddu

Hedd Wyn

Hedd Wyn was born Ellis Humphrey Evans, a sheep farmer from Meirionnydd whose interest in poetry had led to several competition entries in the Eisteddfodau. He was the eldest of 11 children.  When the Great War came he joined the army along with nearly 300, 000 other Welshmen. He joined the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and within a month of joining he was killed in the Battle of Pilken Ridge. In the same year his poem Yr Arwr won the coveted chair, but as he'd been killed in battle the chair was simply draped in a black cloth as the audience was given the bad news. Yr Arwr has since been described as one of the best winners of the Eisteddfod in the 20th century. Most of his poems focused on the horrors of war, including Rhyfel (War) and Y Blotyn Du (The Black Spot). The name he chose for himself is Welsh for white peace.

Yr Arwr


WYLO anniddig dwfn fy mlynyddoedd
A'm gwewyr glyw-wyd ar lwm greigleoedd
Canys Merch y Drycinoedd - oeddwn gynt:
Criwn ym mawrwynt ac oerni moroedd.

(There aren't any great translations of this poem that I could find, if anyone knows of any I'd be grateful for a link)




Y Blotyn Du


Nid oes gennym hawl ar y ser,
Na'r lleuad hiraethus chwaith,
Na'r cwmwl o aur a ymylch
Yng nghanol y glesni maith.
Nid oes gennym hawl ar ddim byd,
Ond ar yr hen ddaear wyw;
A honno sy'n anhrefn i gyd
Yng nghanol gogoniant Duw

http://www.firstworldwar.com/poetsandprose/wyn.htm

The Black Spot
We have no right to the stars,
Nor the homesick moon,
Nor the clouds edged with gold             
In the centre of the long blueness.
We have no right to anything
But the old and withered earth
That is all in chaos
At the centre of God's glory.

Hedd Wyn

Rhyfel

A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
 A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw

"The shouts of the boys is in the wind
and their blood is mixed with the rain."


Gillian is a freelance writer and copywriter, her contact details are here www.taith.net/

Granny leave? No thanks

I have to say that I'm not at all keen on the idea of the unflatteringly titled "Granny leave," whoever coined that phrase needs to think up a better one. The idea of course is Harriet Harman's, who believes that grandmother's should be given special leave from work so they can look after their grandchildren, when their own children have gone back to work. This is because of course, looking after children isn't the responsibility of parents at all, it's the grandparents, because their lives are over and that's what they should be doing.

Why, may I ask, it is it incumbent upon Grandmothers, and I emphasise the word Grandmothers here seen as the word Grandpa has been left out of the equation, to look after the children when the parents go back to work?  Surprise, surprise but women are left once more holding the baby, never the husband and never the grandfather, but the mother and the grandmother. The grandfather of course will have far more important things to do like play golf and huff and puff while joining endless committees and worthy courses that no one else cares about.

Some things never change do they? It doesn't seem to have crossed Harriet Harman's mind that yet again women are expected to look after the babies in later life with no mention of the grandfathers. I find that ironic seen as she is meant to be "championing older women."

I'm not a grandmother yet, but when I am I'll look after my grandchildren when I'm asked, I'll babysit and more than likely enjoy it, but I won't be made to feel that it's my duty to do it because I don't have anything else going on in my life. When grandparents have spent their entire lives working and striving to pay the mortgage and raise their own children, surely they're allowed to spend some time at the end of it all, reaping the rewards of years of hard work while they still have some degree of health and fitness?

Why is there an automatic assumption that as people get older they're just there to play out what's left of their lives as a footnote in other people's lives with no regard for their own?

I realise that there'll be plenty of grandparents out there who'll welcome the proposals, but there are many out there that won't, (myself included when the time comes) who won't welcome the added pressure that'll be placed on them to take the granny leave and stay home with the grandchildren. Having had to do it once already with their own children, perhaps they have now carved out a career for themselves in later life, have money of their own and are enjoying the fruits of their hard work. However, it'll be pretty short lived once daughter or son pop out a baby and fully expect granny to take the leave, the baby - and get back to the kitchen.

Don't make grandparents feel the pressure, they're already facing the prospect of having to work until they drop without having to take on the responsibilities of young children. Great for those that want to, but for those that don't, it's nice to have the choice.

Swn gwyn

Pobl yn siarad ar y we am hyn ar llall

Am dan eu hun , storiau byr a hir

Straeon grim

Straeon  ddigalon

Ymlaen ac ymlaen

Fel swn gwyn

Byth yn stopio, yr un un peth

drosodd a drosodd

Tynu sylw at eu drama

Tynu sylw at eu hwynebau

Tynu sylw at eu bywydau byr

Ymlaen ac ymlaen  

Fel swn gwyn

"People can try to reinvent themselves. I don't think you can really change who you are, though, because who you are is pretty much where you came from and what you've done up to now."

Eminem

Wise words indeed from the forty year old rap artist.


 I like the idea of reinvention; to change myself completely, to try out a little metamorphosis and become another being, to slip out of my old skin and become something quite different. To jump out of my very own cocoon and come out as something quite different to what I was before. Perhaps it isn't necessary, you could just reinvent parts of your life, little parts that could be changed into something completely different, perhaps your history, your past. Then if you believed it enough, you could make it true. It would be real because you made it so.

If you believed it enough it could change everything, self belief is a powerful thing. I believe it therefore it is true. I am this, I am that, I am whatever I want you to believe I am. I think people already do that, I don't think I'm making revelations, I just think that some people are better at it than others. Being candid, wearing your heart on your sleeve can be very endearing, but sometimes it might be better to lie and let people see what you want them to see, that way you can leave the reinvention to them. They can recreate you in their eyes and you can just nod your head and go along with it.

I think that's what I shall do, as long as they don't change me into something I don't like.

The above picture is of a piece of artwork by Kate MacDowell, more of her work can be seen on http://katemacdowell.com/index.html I think the picture suited my mood. The one at the top of the page is called "The God of Change" which I thought was rather appropriate.

 

 

"Everything that kills me makes me feel alive."

On being insane in insane places.............

I don't know if you've ever heard of the Rosenhan experiment in 1973, it was a psychological experiment to explore the validity of psychology diagnoses. David Rosenhan called it "On being insane in insane places." It plays an important role in the study of psychology from A level standard up to degree level. It is still believed to be a significant piece of research today on the validity of a psychiatric diagnosis. It's enough to give you sleepless nights..........

What happened was this; there were twelve students and there were two parts to the study. The first part of the experiment consisted of eight healthy students, three women and five men, who pretended that they were suffering from hallucinations and attempted to get admitted to 12 different psychiatric hospitals in over 5 states in the USA,  they were ALL admitted with psychiatric disorders. AFTER admission they behaved normally and told the staff that they felt quite well and were no longer experiencing hallucinations. But in order to guarantee their release they were all forced to admit they were mentally ill and take antipsychotic drugs as a condition of being released. All except one were diagnosed with schizophrenia, even though there was nothing really wrong with them in the first place.

"These pseudo-patients telephoned the hospital for an appointment, and arrived at the admissions office complaining that they had been hearing voices.  They said the voice, which was unfamiliar and the same sex as themselves, was often unclear but it said 'empty', 'hollow', 'thud'.  These symptoms were partly chosen because they were similar to existential symptoms (Who am I?  What is it all for?) which arise from concerns about how meaningless your life is."

"Each pseudo patient had been told they would have to get out by their own devices by convincing staff they were sane."

In the second part of the study, the hospital administration of one hospital who'd taken offence at Rosenhan's study challenged him to send more "normal" patients to their hospital to prove that they could identify them. Rosenhan agreed to this and in the next few weeks out  of nearly 200 patients the hospital  detected 41 as perfectly normal (referred to as "psuedopatients") and 19 were suspected by one of the hospital psychiatrists and another member of staff. However, Rosenhan had not sent ANYONE to the hospital.

The BBC did something like this again on the Horizon programme in 2008 called "How mad are you?" There were ten subjects, with five having previously diagnosed conditions, and five who'd never had anything wrong with them. Three experts were used to determine which five had mental health problems, two were identified correctly , one was misdiagnosed and two healthy patients were diagnosed with mental health problems.

It's enough to keep you away at night - isn't it? And that's always been one of my major fears; being misdiagnosed with a mental health problem and never being able to leave, until in the end you DO end up with a mental illness, like a self fulfilling prophecy, oh that and being locked up for a crime you haven't committed.

A copy of the study is here if you'd like some sleepless nights:-

http://www.holah.karoo.net/rosenhanstudy.htm

 

On a final note Rosenhan said this:

 

"Rosenhan explains that psychiatric labels tend to stick in a way that medical labels do not and that everything a patient does is interpreted in accordance with the diagnostic label once it has been applied."

You'd like to think things have changed, however with the stigma faced by millions of people everyday suffering from mental health issues you wonder whether the actual diagnosis is the beginning of your problems not the end and although his study was conducted over thirty years ago, keeping in mind the 2008 BBC Horizon programme it makes you wonder whether anything's really changed.

Whatever you do, don't complain about how meaningless your life is in public.......

How to access the medical records of the deceased

People are often confused about how to access medical records especially those of the deceased. When I worked for the NHS it wasn't unknown for people to request the medical records of the deceased quoting the Data Protection Act 1998. Unfortunately, the Data Protection Act 1998 only covers the data of living persons. So, if you feel there is a good reason why you should access the health records of, say a deceased relative, how should you go about this?

People sometimes think that if they can no longer access the notes of the deceased via the DPA Act 1998 then they can take the route of the Freedom of Information Act 2000 instead. Although there are no specific exemptions regarding the deceased,  it is likely it will be made exempt under the provisions of the confidentiality exemptions (FOI). If someone wishes to access the health records of someone who died after 1991 then they can access them via the Access to Health Records Act 1990 under section 3 (1) -

Access to Health Records 3 (1) :-

(f) where the patient has died, the patient’s personal representative and any person who may have a claim arising out of the patient’s death.

If you have a claim arising out of the patient's death or you are a personal representative of the patient then you may be allowed access to the deceased person's notes. However, you would in all likelihood have to provide proof of this.

"To see a deceased person’s health records, applicants may be required to provide evidence to support their claim and may need to provide evidence of their identity."

Further advice can be found at NHS Choices :-

http://www.nhs.uk/chq/Pages/access-to-medical-or-health-records-of-someone-who-has-died.aspx

A love letter to Twitter....

Dear Twitter, my lovely adoring Twitter,   

Twitter, you love me right? You love me till you can’t get enough of me right? You want to hold me till the sun goes down right? See my latest pic, I look so cute don’t I, with my hair combed forward and my pretty pouting lips, and my eyes Twitter, don’t my eyes look ever so flirty, so come hither, so big, don’t you just want to get closer to me Twitter, don’t you just love me Twitter, right? Just the right amount of misty-eyed loveliness.

 I’m so witty, so funny, so creative, soooo artistic, I draw funny pictures and I write things. Yes, I'm writer and I'm deep and I'm creative. I’m sooo deep Twitter, I’m soooo deep, I say really meaningful things, so many things that make you want to retweet tweety me over and over again and tell me how funny I am, tell me how intelligent I am, tell me how you love my hair Twitter, how you love my eyes, how you love my lips, how you want to get to know me Twitter, how you want to get right deep inside my mind and understand me like no other Twitter, don’t you Twitter, don’t you?

And when something REALLY political and important happens Twitter and I can think up just the right soundbite Twitter, you’ll retweet me Twitter and then EVERYBODY will love me Twitter, everybody will love me just the way they should and when I’m down, someone will offer to hold me and tell me it’s okay, because I live in Twitter, THIS IS MY HOME, I’m popular Twitter, here in cyberville where you can be whoever you want to be. I don’t know those losers in their sweaty little clothes,  in their sweaty little houses in their sweaty little bedsits, hoping that they’ll meet me one day and that I’ll fall in love with them them right? It's just like I’m a celebrity Twitter, just like I’m a celebrity, a CELEBRITY ON TWITTER!

 And those celebrity B listers, they loooove me don’t they Twitter? I post cute pictures and give some really funny cutsey captions and those celebrity B listers love me soooo much they crave my attention, they want ME, not just anybody, but ME Twitter, because I’m so important Twitter, I rule, I rock this joint, I’m somebody, I’m somebody special Twitter, somebody special. They follow me Twitter, because they realise how important and special and clever I am. My jokes are funny, my puns are funny, my cutsey pictures are funny, oh me and that cute picture of me and my dog and my hair was just so fluffy and so cutesy and didn’t my eyes look like you could just see the windows of my soul Twitter? I’m so lovely and famous and special and, well I’m a WEBCELEB, I’m kind of as famous as those other celebrities on Twitter and I have so many followers Twitter, it just goes to show how popular I am on Twitter, thooooussssands of people follow me on Twitter, I spend so much time on here honing my skills, I’m a brand Twitter, I’m not a person anymore Twitter, I’m special, I’m somebody. If I take the right picture I look like a real cutsey pie cutey with my hair done a certain way and my eyes all big and flirty and my glasses just on the end of my nose and my lipstick just soooo, just the way you like it Twitter.

 

I only follow special people, people who are special just like me, people who love me and think I'm great, people who tell me all the time how special I am, how funny I am, how everything I say is sooooo witty and funny and amazing. I ignore the ORDINARY people Twitter, because they're such plebs, they have no place in my special world of special people, who are famous for being special and funny and witty and amazing, just. like. me. And when those special people tell me how great I am, well I retweet it OVER and OVER again, so everybody else knows how SPECIAL I am!!

 And I know my secret’s safe with you Twitter, because for as long as I live on here Twitter, I’m someone, I’m really special and you love me don’t you Twitter, don’t you? don’t you? I don't love you in return of course, because after all there's only room for one love in this joint Twitter and that's ME.

 

S.W.A.L.K

Simulacrum

Muriel examined her own image using a variety of different methods, and in each one her reflection seemed to take on a different identity each time. It was almost as if she were several different people at once.  Muriel often thought that she wasn’t altogether sure who she was at all anymore.  If her own reflection could deceive her in this way then how could she be really sure of who she was? She would often feel her face and stroke her features slowly of an evening so that she could be reassured by the tracing of those familiar lines of nose, mouth, and cheeks, so that she could see and feel that she was really herself and not someone else. She wasn’t sure who she was and if she wasn’t Muriel,  (and she knew that she was starting to believe that she could in fact be several different people at once), then who were all these different reflections staring back at her?

 Each image seemed different and unique in its own special way and at the same time achieved its own grotesqueness.  Who were all these people, these ghostly images, why were they impersonating her? Was this some kind of vile mimesis, some fraudulent sprite she could not escape from?

 She seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time examining each reflection producing different poses and angles to look at various parts of her face in detail, each one seemed to have no verisimilitude to who she thought she was and who she expected to see.  Muriel came to the conclusion that perhaps she was spending far too much time alone and that she was going quite mad.

 For some reason the bathroom produced the most flattering image of herself. Here was the youthful woman she was most familiar with and it was the one image in the house that frightened her the least.  Also, and perhaps most importantly, the most truthful image of herself in the house, and one that gave her great comfort. And yet at the same, Muriel realised with a little unease that she could not still be this young, her face glow in the way that it did in the soft light.

 Her bedroom mirror produced a rather unflattering image of her face. Here she could pull a range of faces and each one would produce a rather loose and colourless mask that looked bloated and misshapen. Although she would often try to convince herself afterwards that anyone would look that bad if they pulled such ridiculous faces, some part of herself told her that those faces would not look anywhere near as ugly in the bathroom mirror. Was it the light? Why did her face look so bloated in this mirror and not in the bathroom? How could two images lie to her in this way?  Sometimes she would compare and contrast her image with the one in her bedroom mirror and the one in her laptop’s webcam.  This could sometimes take several hours of her time. Sometimes she would stare in frustration at the mirror and then take sidelong glances into the laptop’s webcam, compare and contrast she used to call it. In this way, Muriel could compare herself from the side and from the front while staring wide-eyed, although she found it hard not to blink.  She was sometimes surprised at how different she looked from the front, and how different she looked from the right side of her face, especially when she stared like that.

She saw nothing abnormal in her behaviour.

 Sometimes she would catch her reflection in the kitchen window especially around dusk.  She looked quite attractive in the soft glow of the window, although not as attractive as she did upstairs in the bathroom.  She looked mysterious and her eyes seemed more prominent, you know, the way men liked it, or so she thought. She would look from the left, and then from the right, all the time checking for jaw definition and saggage, and nose alignment from both left and right. Following this she would apply either lipstick or lip gloss and either pout or smile. She would try out different poses and check to see how they looked. This could take up to an hour sometimes. She knew that the person she saw here was not the beauty in the bathroom mirror, but was at the same time an attractive woman.

 Her mobile phone gave off the most hideous image of herself. It did not seem like her at all. It seemed like someone else altogether, someone much older and much uglier than her true self. This was the most warped image yet. This could not be her; it bore no relation to who she saw in the mirror upstairs, the one in her bedroom, or the one on her laptop webcam. Well perhaps that wasn’t entirely true; there were some identifiable features and a vague familiarity in and about her eyes and nose, but that was it. This person was grotesque.  The nose from the side was hooked almost; her real nose wasn’t like that, not really. It had small thread veins and it looked much larger than it did normally. Her jawline definition was deeply flawed; there was definitely some saggage there and some flushing around the jaw area. Her eyes appeared sunken with bags directly underneath which gave her a rather hangdog expression. Her eyebrows drooped downwards somehow, and her eyelids were more hooded. Her whole face looked as if it was travelling downwards on a slow melt.  

She was starting to feel quite disturbed by all of these multiple and warped images of herself. She needed to guarantee that she (if this was in fact her and not some a collection of ‘others’ that were trying to impersonate her) could look the same in any reflection at any given moment regardless of which angle she looked at.

She came up with a variety of ideas on how to achieve this and finally whittled them down to two final ones that were the most engaging and workable (at least in Muriel’s mind).  The first one was to purchase more mirrors and place them strategically around parts of the house that could chart her reflection from any angle at any given moment. Then she could check how she looked and whether or not she was metamorphosing into someone else, and catch it in time. But she would always look different in each reflection wouldn’t she because this was how it worked? Therefore, what would be the point, and if she did catch herself changing then what could she actually do about it?

Her second idea was far more radical than the first. If she had some kind of surgery perhaps to certain parts of her face, (the aim would be to make it more symmetrical), then perhaps her image would look exactly the same then in each reflection she caught herself in.  All she needed was perhaps a half face-lift to the lower half of her face to give her jaw better definition and then she realised that her eyelids where perhaps more hooded than she realised and that the mirror was not deceiving her, or was it? She would need the top part of her face lifting as well. Therefore, she would have a full face lift; this would make everything clearer to her.  Then she WOULD look the same in every reflection because her face would have been stretched to accommodate any given reflection or mirror image.

There was also the small issue of how she was going to finance this. She could take out a modest loan, something which would tide her over and pay for any work to her face and also provide enough to pay for any extras just in case there were complications, for after care and such like, not that she foresaw anything untoward happening.

Muriel suddenly felt her stomach tighten and she felt clammy all over, she had caught another perhaps an even more grotesque image of herself reflected in the coffee table, she was almost too afraid to look. What kind of sick joke was this? This was wrong, her mind felt violated. Her chin was dropping and her face looked puffy and swollen, and why wasn’t her face staying where it was? Her chin hadn’t done that before, and those wrinkles around her lips were vile, they were more than vile,  they were enough to make someone sick. How could she go outside looking like that? Why the shock of it would be enough to kill someone.

If that was in fact her.

She stopped for a moment. Perhaps it was someone else, something else, some maleficence, some twisted creation from hell.  What if she was possessed?  There were some things that couldn’t be explained, things that even the laws of physics could offer an explanation for. She knew, she’d read about it on the internet.  Dear God this was getting too much.  The confusion she was feeling filled her with the kind of dread and terror she could barely cope with.  Something could be living within her, residing within her very being, clawing their way through her intestines, squeezing their way through her veins.  Their occasional appearances were carefully staged in order to show her their insidious powers and how much sway they held over her.  She knew that she did not look this bad really, she had always been an attractive woman and she had now come to realise that these sick visions from hell bore no relation to how she knew she really looked.

She would go ahead and book the surgery. She rested her plump fingers on her knees; she was starting to feel much more relaxed now. She felt she had made a sensible if monumental decision about her future, but this would be the best way to deal with it and her terrible situation. 

She also thought that she could put a mirror on the ceiling just above her head as she faced the front door, this was almost an afterthought really. When she looked up she would see a true likeness of herself because when she looked up she saw the person she really was – the tight skin, the familiar expression, the bright eyes.

She eventually decided upon nine extra mirrors and also invested in a rather expensive Nikon Coolpix P510 Bridge Camera which was just under £300, but was a rather handy piece of equipment for taking pictures of her real self ,and also, this camera was clever enough not to lie to her like all the others did.

However, she found that there was always somewhere in some part of the house where she found a rather startling image or reflection of herself which took her by surprise and filled her with terror.

Muriel also went ahead and had the surgery as well as investing in the camera and the mirrors, and her face was stretched into a blanched mask of smoothness, a perfect one dimensional symmetrical mask of blemish free skin, a blank canvass of youth. She was pleased with what it gave her, hope and certainty. The mirrors, the frightful reflections of the horror masks that had visited her without mercy would be a thing of the past. It would no longer matter from which angle she looked, only the face she had put there would stare back at her, those sprites of terror, those mimesis of the night would no longer haunt her dreams or invade her mirrors.

**********************************************************************************

 

This sometimes unpleasant and often compulsive psychological glow of illusion had almost consumed Muriel to such lengths that her neighbours and a few of her friends had become increasingly concerned.  Although they had seen her go into her house once or twice a while back, they hadn’t seen her come out for some time.

When they eventually saw her they were so shocked they could barely speak, whoever had done this to her face must have been blindfolded; Jesus, had she paid someone to do this her?

Of course Muriel took this reaction to mean something completely different. From what she understood, these ghouls of terror, these representations of horror had returned, to fill her days and nights with terror.

 Muriel would have to regroup, a full on attack on these unknown assailants would be the only answer…….