The Fjordhammer Project: Metalcore, Mental Health & Me - Tasha Brown

Bio

I’m Tasha and I live in Kent with my folks and my Old English Sheepdog Zeus – who’s infinitely more popular than I am, hah. I guess you could call me a writer and music journalist specialising in rock and meta; In the past I’ve explored the relationship between “extreme music” (metal) and aggressive or violent behaviour as well as its impact on mental health overall. Currently I’m a contributing writer for Distorted Sound, Emerging Rock Bands, Noizze, Total Rock, and Rock Sins where I’m also the Reviews Editor. Sounds like a lot when you list it all out.

Metalcore, Mental Health & Me

*Trigger Warning* - Anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), self-harm, suicide, rape, sexual assault, drug abuse, alcohol abuse.

If you’ve had the pleasure of physically meeting me, you’ll have noticed I’m a fully pledged member of The Shy Club. Destructive internal monologues ruled the roost over conversations I wanted to dive into. As you can imagine it presented a block between what I thought and what I said. There was a constant feeling of being one step behind. Nine times out of ten I’d be rendered silent. Out of a skewed feeling of ease more than anything. Writing doesn’t come with that specific ball and chain. It’s the core way of expressing myself.

Looking back on my relationship with writing puts it into perspective that I’ve always been a weary soul. An old soul. My writing life started in the realms of fiction. From a really young age as well. Of course it was for fun to begin with. I didn’t fall out the womb with a wealth of material to work through. Yet I did find I was writing about things kids shouldn’t necessarily understand at age seven. Writing did become my salvation when mental health issues started arising.

To cut to the chase, I’ve lived with anxiety and depression since my early teens yet wasn’t diagnosed until my 20s. Trying to process almost ten years of complex emotions and confusion surrounding that is probably a hard thing to do at the best of times. Doing it in a time where mental health awareness wasn’t prevalent though… it was hard.

Being bullied for showing clear signs of both afflictions forced me further within myself. Nothing interested me. Sleep didn’t really happen. Feeding and watering myself wasn’t a priority. If there was a way for me to neglect myself, I did it. That extended to self-mutilation. Something I still deal with from time to time.

Writing was an escape. I’d spend hours hunched over a notebook or keyboard projecting feelings on to a fictional version of myself. Determined to find salvation in something. Some advice dear reader; trying to outrun the black dog will not save you. If you don’t deal with it – it will deal with you. I have no shame in admitting it got me pretty good. In my 32 years, I’ve attempted suicide three times. The last time was just over four years ago. Feels like a lifetime. From experience: absolutely nothing is worth ending your life.

Writing hasn’t always embraced me as much as I do it. In 2014 I lost my partner unexpectedly. Not even a month later, I was drugged and raped by a friend of the family. One event would be a test of mental fortitude. But both? The quote escapes me but some time ago I’d read something with the sentiment you can become too broken to create your own healing. That’s what happened. Writing had abandoned me. Outside of a birthday or Christmas card- I wouldn’t write a single word for almost five years.

Instead, I’d drink and take drugs to avoid dealing with myself. Those binges would spiral quite quickly. Those substances in turn became a crutch. In the interest of being honest, those binges almost certainly would have killed me. The wake-up call came in the form of waking up face down in a pool of pitch-black vomit after a session. I’ve now been sober for 1,340 days at time of writing this.

Two women convinced me to start writing again. Shirley and Sandra. Two therapists and incredible people. In a way we remapped my creative brain which was now processing mild PTSD. Rather than a canvas for my truth-based imagination, the word processor became a mirror. I confronted the black dog and hated every second of it. A necessary discomfort.

The current incarnation of music journalism came into the picture when my PTSD was in its infancy. I’d dabbled in it previously – having interviewed the likes of Bowling For Soup and My Awesome Compilation for various online publications. Kerrang were knocking at the metaphorical door. When my partner died however… my dreams went with him. Until late 2020. Honestly, I joined Freak Magazine to help my friend Jazmin as she was getting swamped with requests and whatnot. Part of it was also to answer an internal question: what if it works out this time?

While I could list my achievements in terms of who I interviewed or what positions I hold in my respective publications, I’m not going to. Not because I’m not proud of them. I am. Massively so. The biggest accomplishment wasn’t sat on the other side of a Zoom call. Nor does it have a publication date and reader count. People are going to cringe at the next sentence, but I really don’t care. Music journalism gave me my life back. Each review or feature was me rebuilding myself. I feel confidence, comfort, and pride in myself I hadn’t felt in years. For the first time, I’m proud of my name and the reputation it comes with. The work I put in to fix myself might not have paid off as intended but it’s given me so much more than I’d anticipated. It’s as if I’m finally free of the ball and chain.