Where is my mind?
The constant sense of not knowing is the worst part, so how do we prepare ourselves for what is yet to be uncovered in midlife?
Twenty years have passed since I sat through the Pixies’ set at V Festival Chelmsford inside a dismal portaloo.
What do Americans call a portaloo?
A portable or mobile toilet (colloquial terms: thunderbox, porta-john, porta-potty or porta-loo) is any type of toilet that can be moved around, some by one person, some by mechanical equipment such as a truck and crane.
It was a less than desirable situation, especially to have spent a protracted length of time in a festival toilet at the end of a long weekend. I didn’t know the Pixies’ back catalogue - I still don’t - but I enjoyed the dampening of the deafening sound within the heavy duty plastic chamber, whilst trying to coax out my own back catalogue of sorts. They played a great set (setlist here), and I was thankful for a seat, albeit with several layers of toilet paper between the seat and I. It was a brief reprieve, as I had been standing up all weekend.
“2004 saw a cracking line-up for V Festival, featuring Muse, The Strokes, Dido, Pixies, The Charlatans, N.E.R.D, Faithless, P!nk, Snow Patrol, Athlete, and Jamie Cullum. The NME Stage hosted gigs by Kings of Leon, Massive Attack, Embrace, Starsailor, and Elbow. If that wasn’t enough, there were also performances from Amy Winehouse, whose debut album was well-know by this point, Primal Scream, The Human League, and Basement Jaxx. Blimey.” (NME)
💕 I will forever be devastated that I missed out on seeing Amy Winehouse performing. No idea how I missed her at V Festival. May she rest in love 💕
Festival toilets are precarious, and not for the faint of heart. The motto “don’t look down” has never been as pertinent as it was at Glastonbury Festival’s infamous long drops. Meanwhile, taking your chances in a V Festival portaloo was more than risky, since the hilarious skanky festival goers would tip them, and their contents, over when occupied. To have sat in them for long durations was an act of sheer bravery (although it was out of desperation due to festival-induced constipation) and should have been enough to get me the long awaited irritable bowel syndrome diagnosis I deserve, yet continue to be denied. Medical gaslighting is still going strong almost a quarter of the way through the 21st century.
Regarding the Pixies, I knew few of their songs, other than their classic “Where Is My Mind?” at the time of their performance at V. Yet I now ask myself this question on a daily basis. Often many times a day.
Perimenopause has broken down the muscle memory that I have been building and relying on for decades. Only this morning, whilst making porridge, as I have done every morning for twenty years, I forgot how to complete an automatic task. In the five steps it took me to walk from the stovetop to the fridge, I forgot that I needed to take out the milk. I stood at the open fridge, muttering expletives to myself whilst racking my empty brain, looking blankly back at the stovetop. I looked at the pot I had just filled with oats, then stared back into the fridge, wondering what I was doing there.
What is the word for this? Cognitive dissonance is what comes to mind but, as already established, my mind cannot currently be relied upon. If you know, please tell me.
The frustration at losing words, forgetting what I am doing and being unable to regulate my emotions is deadening to me, yet I have to let it go because otherwise I can start to get quite scared.
How bad am I going to get? Am I losing my sense of self along with my memory? Is this what is supposed to happen in midlife? Is this a reversible change? When will I stop regressing?
Am I losing my mind?
Where is my mind?
It is incredibly disconcerting feeling like I am losing my mind in midlife, yet I have to radically embrace it and remember that forgetting things reminds me that I am still stretched well beyond capacity. Am I forgetting things because I have too much to remember? I then forget to remember, due to the very nature of this perimenopausal beast I am trying to ride.
V Festival was never my favourite of the UK festivals back in the 00s. Back when I had a life. V was full of VIPs gliding around in full view behind roped off high security barriers carrying their obligatory miniature pooches in papooses, whilst the rest of us slid around uncontrollably in mud, or covered in dust. Weather dependent. There was no comfortable middle ground.
At least when I reduced my water (or Pimms or hot cider, festival dependent) intake then I would have fewer trips to make to the hideous toilets. I would also return home with a UTI caused by dehydration and fear-induced toilet avoidance, but with plenty of stories to tell.
I simply didn’t know how best to care for my body back then. And I’m not sure I know how to yet. I have had deep and immersive interests in the Blue Zones’ longevity and lifestyle research, and long before it hit Netflix. But it is becoming increasingly apparent that there is a huge chasm where research into women’s health should be. Particularly our health in midlife. Often it feels as though male research is based on longevity, whereas research into women’s health is primarily focused on our fertility. When we are beyond our fertile years, we are discarded and our needs neglected.
Back in my festival going days, I was always preening myself to be more acceptable to others. (Albeit quickly donning a black plastic bin bag when the weather took a downward turn. Humidity and rain are my hair’s nemesis.) Camouflaging myself, and eating my feelings. I drank a lot of alcohol to fit in, and to dampen my feelings when I made a social faux pas. It was easier to blame it on the booze than myself, but I would often feel a lot of clarity when absolutely hammered. Perhaps I was self-medicating my undiagnosed ADHD? My dose tended to be at least six double vodka and Red Bulls.
Compulsive exercise interspersed with binge drinking and binge eating was my norm. Public health advice back then portrayed that “everything in moderation” was best, yet that phrase is open to immense interpretation. When they say “everything” do they really mean that? I was never able to moderate my chocolate intake.
The 90s “ladette” culture was pretty toxic in hindsight. The British tabloids sensationalised the behaviours of girls, AKA ladettes. We were pressured to match the lads drink for drink, and completely disregard our gender differences. This carried on into the new millennium.
I am definitely feeling the repercussions of this on my health twenty years on, and my current swollen bloated painful meno belly looks like the beer belly I somehow managed to bypass back in the day.
In the portaloo during the 2004 Pixies set, I think I sang along loudly to “Where Is My Mind?”, grateful for my social isolation away from the crowds, if only for a short time. But I may be misremembering this as I also know that I hold my breath for as long as possible in public toilets, particularly those that are unclean beyond belief…
I long for my youth when I unwittingly had all the facial collagen and pelvic floor strength imaginable. But I don’t spend my time trying to regain those characteristics, since tinted sunscreen, absorbent underwear and radical self-acceptance are gifts for us all midlifing in the 2020s.
We have to take whatever wins are available, however small, whilst the world turns to shit all around us. Come to think of it, it is currently much like being trapped inside a tipped portaloo, but on a global scale.
I call it brain fog. It happens to me, and like you I'm terrified it's the new order of things and that my faculties are doomed. My friend swears by fish oils but somehow that doesn't seem enough.
I enjoyed your festival nostalgia! I only attended V once. A hard trade off to manage the sensory assault for the sake of seeing my favourite bands! (Incidentally, I've seen the Pixies a few times as an adult and once stumbled on them after a show in our hotel bar. Once they realized hubs and I wouldn't hassle them, they were so relieved they bought us a drinks.)
Yes it’s cognitive dissonance.
And hugs