Content Note: infertility, miscarriage, suicide
A little over a year ago, singer-songwriter Georgia Train (formerly of Bitter Ruin) opened up to her fans about struggling with fertility treatment and IVF. Having done so, the devastation when the process was unsuccessful was atypically public. When faced with any tragedy, the best thing we humans can do is use it to fuel art, sharing that pain in a way that can connect us and make a stranger feel a little less alone. The result is her latest album, Needles & Pinches, which contains a beautiful outpouring of grief and hope. As well as recommending that you listen, I would like to use its release to discuss some of its subject matter, issues from which we typically shy away. The photographs illustrating this post are publicity shots for the album taken by Scott Chalmers.
“I’ll never forget the day
Georgia Train, Needles & Pinches
They told me you got away
From it all.”
The title track opens the album and is a statement of intent: brutally honest and hauntingly beautiful in capturing the weariness from gruelling fertility treatments, and then the overwhelming rage-inducing grief from the loss of a child. Conventional wisdom (at least in the Anglosphere) advises parents not to discuss a pregancy until 12 weeks in, since most miscarriages occur before that date. Whilst it is of course a personal choice for those involved, the default approach leaves parents who do experience miscarriage to deal with the anguish alone and with little support. Since it is so little discussed, many people are not even aware of how common it is, with 10-15% of known pregnancies ending in miscarriage (a figure that, along with the volume of unknown miscarriages, ought also to feature more heavily in the discourse around abortion).
It may seem odd that I have particularly strong opinions on this, but I am fortunate that a few friends felt able to open up to me about their struggles with having children, and what I saw above all was the crippling isolation they felt in not being able to talk freely about it, whilst going through an experience that permeated every part of their lives. There was a visible flood of relief simply in being able to talk about it with someone other than their spouse.
“And I know it’s easier to let go
Georgia Train, Pain Beneath The Best
To let the fire leave your chest
In exchange for deeper rest”
The fragile piano beneath the plaintive vocals on Pain Beneath The Best marks Georgia coming to terms with a friend’s suicide attempt. Lyrically it feels like an understanding embrace, accepting the truth of the pain but reminding you that the world would be worse without you in it. Yet her voice also echoes that personal hurt and the fear of being left behind. It is a pleasing balance to find, with many songs touching on this subject matter leaning more heavily into the anger at wasted life or expressing only the pain rather than the love which causes it. Discourse around mental health has improved immeasurably over the past decade but I feel a lingering sentiment that remains is the idea that suicide is a selfish choice rather than a last resort for those who can see no end to the pain they have endured for too long, and who genuinely believe others will be better off without them. It is only by starting from a place of understanding that those drowning deep within suicidal ideation will ever feel comfortable in revealing it rather than concealing their struggle until it is too late.
“I don’t to want to talk about it now
Georgia Train, The Who
I just want to be the who when they
Point the finger and the who you say
You love”
This is the common thread that I see through these particular trials — that they are so often concealed rather than shared. Particularly in our fragmented modern communities, where family and friends may be separated by miles or even oceans, it is vital that we are able to talk openly (whether the restriction comes initially from a personal choice or an external stigmatisation). Art like Needles & Pinches can reach us over those distances, so that we know we are not alone, but that is only the first step. I previously said that I felt fortunate to be able to support some friends through these agonising experiences, but I also worry about those I could not reach and mourn the ones I never can. As I often tell friends: you don’t have to talk to me about it, so long as you have someone that you’re talking to. And if you don’t, you know where I am.
