Dogs, dusk and happiness

I was asked recently, "are you happy?"

Not the first time I've been asked that. Not the first time I mused on the question before giving an answer.

Eventually I answered. But I haven't stopped rolling that question round and round in my head. While I've made a decision to stop over-analysing everything, I am also trying to be a little more reflective.

No, I'm not too sure how all that is going to fit together either. I'll get back to you on that some other time.

So, am I happy...?

I am not in pursuit of happiness. That much I know. I think it's a foolish goal to set myself - to be happy.

One can only be.

And if one experiences some happiness along with everything else, then that starts to sound like balance.

I'm in pursuit of balance.

I fall over a lot though.

This weekend I took a stroll on my own through some nearby woodland, just after dusk. OK, I wasn't exactly on my own - I had my dog to keep me company and stop me looking like a complete weirdo.

Have you ever noticed the way that in poor light if you stare directly at something you've seen out of the corner of your eye, it seems to disappear?

This happened a lot, not surprisingly, while walking in the fading light of the day.

It became a kind of metaphor for me, or more accurately for the way I have pursued 'happiness' in the past - like it was something you had to give 100% attention to in order to obtain, to possess.

Yet somehow the more I would focus on it the more elusive it would always become.

Once or twice while out on my walk I lost sight of the dog and got a little anxious - how on earth would I find her in the dark?

But when I stopped looking, there she would inevitably be, visible out of the corner of my eye.

And what's more, I didn't need to go looking for her - she always came looking for me.

Metaphorically speaking

Ever stared at something for so long you didn't realise you were still looking at it?

And then when you avert your gaze, the image of it stays with you. Often for long after it is no longer around.

Powerful stuff, metaphors.

A return journey

The view from my train window is obscured by heavy fog.

I am reminded of a day many years ago when a friend's grandfather took us fishing – two boys with fishing nets, scooping tiny fish from a canal. It was a foggy autumn morning. The sun was a sickly ball of yellow dim light, reminiscent of a pale full moon.

I think it happens to children at different stages of their development – they will one day notice something commonplace as though seeing it for the first time and the memory of that moment stays with them.

And so it was for me that day. I looked up and saw, as though for the first time, the sun enfeebled by the thick, thick fog that had draped itself across the sky.

And so it is for me today. And I am transported back in time.

I'm writing this while travelling by train to the city where I grew up and in which I lived until my teens.

If asked, I would probably describe the manner in which I left that city as a phased withdrawal. I moved elsewhere, and came back to visit friends and family increasingly infrequently. And although I once returned for about three months, over a period of four or so years my visits to that place fell to just once or twice a year.

The street where I grew up no longer exists. It was flattened as part of a housing estate clean-up project in the 1990s.

But I still dream about the places where I used to play as a child. The streets, the buildings, the gaps between buildings, disused factories, the railway yard. The view from my bedroom window, which faced due west and afforded me a mesmerising tableau, night after night, of the sun setting across a post-industrial landscape.

Scenes revisit me while I sleep, mocking me like a latter-day out-of-season Scrooge.

Much like the street, the view and the bedroom window, my childhood is long gone.

But the sun, of course, remains.

And this morning it is the very same sickly-looking yellow ball I remember from that one particular day so long ago.

I shall shortly be alighting from the train at a railway station where I last walked as a young man with his life before him, a head full of dreams but already by that stage a heart weighed down with disappointments.

What would I say to that young man, I wonder, if I bumped into him on the platform of the station? Which direction would I advise him to take? Would I tell him that never looking back over your shoulder isn't the panacea he will come to hope it is? Or would I let him find that out the hard way?

Deep breath...

Each new entry on this blog pushes something off the edge of the page and into the archive. Nothing new in that.

While looking over my blog this weekend I realised that the next thing I was going to post would push one of the hardest things I've ever written off the page and into said archive.

I wrote it on 4 November, and it's entitled I missed your birthday.

It made me feel uncomfortable knowing it would go.

I decided to mark its passing into the archive by, well marking its passing into the archive.

So, this post serves two purposes.

It deals with something that I had been putting off.  And at the same time provides a link.

This may make sense to no one but me.

But that's OK.

And anyway, I can't even be sure if anyone but me ever reads this stuff.

First make a bow, then a second like so

As children we are dependent on our parents/guardians to teach us everything we need to know to get through life.

Of all the things I remember, I can clearly recall my dad teaching me to tie my shoelaces.  It took me ages to get it.  I had been stuck with pull-on shoes for long enough though and one day announced I wanted to learn how to tie my laces.

And so we spent what felt like hours and hours, night after night, with him showing me step-by-step how to tie shoe laces.

Eventually I got it.

I think I have a slightly unconventional way of doing it, as I've never seen anyone else tie laces quite like me. And my dad has form where an unconventional approach to shoes is concerned. But what the hell.... they stay tied and I've never felt the need to enter a "nicely done" award for attaching one's shoes to one's feet.

He also taught me how to polish shoes properly - having been in the armed forces it was something he instilled in me.  Two brushes.  One to put the polish on.  One to buff the shoes with.  And if you really wanted a super-shiny finish.... well, if I told you that I'd have fewer superpowers wouldn't I. So I'll keep that to myself.

In later years I had to teach myself a lot of life's little practicalities.  How to cook.  How to clean.  Ironing.  Shopping.  The list goes on.

And it doesn't end with practical stuff.

One of the things our parents and guardians need to teach us is how to be well-rounded emotionally mature individuals.  With or without well-tied shoes.

Did my parents show me love?

Of course they did.

As a small child I felt very loved, very cared for, very wanted.

Things began to change as I got a little older - six or so maybe.

My parents became distracted by their deteriorating relationship and - mostly on my own - I became mostly ignored.  Or worse.

Watching them relate to each other, like two elite athletes in the Passive Aggressive Olympics, I soon picked up a few handy hints on getting attention from the people I loved and showing them how much I loved them.

If you want someone's attention, if you have a problem, or are feeling down, don't talk to them.   After all, if they really loved you they'd know there was something up.

If someone has upset you, don't take timeout to feel better and then discuss it with them.  Far better to attack them directly in the most hurtful way possible.  After all, if they damaged your self esteem shouldn't you return the favour?

If after all that they still can't figure out what they've done wrong, give them the silent treatment until they come to their senses.

What better way to be reminded by someone that they love you and that you are worthy of being loved than to act like a total shit and then be forgiven?

Without really appreciating the extent to which all of this had formed part of who I was, I have - over the years - felt myself turn in the blink of an eye from an easy-going, kind-hearted and loving person into a spiteful, out of control, self-destructive narcissist.

I can't lay all the blame at my parents feet.

After all, I can still tie my shoe laces.

Of gallant knights and terrible monsters

When I was a small child, as small children often do, I lived inside my head - inhabiting imaginary worlds full of excitement, fantasy and fun.

And I can't have been the only small boy hooked on tales of knights in shining armour, slaying monsters and being heralded as heroes.

Funny the way things come full circle.

When someone important to me said something about needing a knight in shining armour to appear on his fine white horse and save her, it spoke to me.

I thought to myself, "I am that very knight. I will slay the monster. I will win the heart of the fair maid."

Funny how things turn out.

I didn't slay the monster.

I looked around me but couldn't see him.

I knew he was there.  I could sense him.  Hear him.  Feel him.  I witnessed the aftermath of his rage, his destructive capabilities, his instability.

I looked in all the wrong places.

Finally, I looked inside me and realised where the monster had been all along.

I didn't win the fair maid's heart.  Instead, I broke it.

Does he still squeak for you?

This little chap carried a weight of responsibility.

He's so simple, so commonplace.

He doesn't say much.

He can only squeak.

And yet, once upon a time, he said everything.  And you heard him.

Pay no attention to the howling, I'll be OK

I'm not OK.

I've been feeling OK-ish.  And have told myself that if I say and do the right things then I will become OK, almost by default.

But I'm not OK.

Last night I sat on my sofa, in the dark. Feeling less than 100%. Exhausted. Nauseous. Anxious.

I know what tiredness does to me. I already find weekends hard. The routines of the working week keep me grounded. Give me a framework. A sense of identity. At home, at the weekends, I often feel surrounded by my shortcomings.

As I sat there in the dark I began to hear strange noises. A low mournful howling. The kind a distressed sleeper might make. Or a wounded animal.

But there were no distressed sleepers nor wounded animals.

And no, it wasn't me either - this isn't one of those 'big reveals' dripping in bathos.... "when suddenly I realised the howling was coming from me, for I am that distressed sleeper, that wounded animal."

Nah. Nothing so melodramatic. Not this time, anyway!

In truth I don't know what it was and after a quick check round the house I couldn't find any obvious explanation.

But whatever it was spooked me good and proper.

Am I hearing noises now?

I've almost got used to seeing things. Well, ok that is melodramatic. But since I starting taking medication a few months ago there have been lots of unpleasant visual disturbances that fall loosely under the heading of side-effects.

I could do without hearing things though. I frequently joke about the voices in my head - I've been chastised for using humour to deflect how I'm feeling.

Voices... that's one thing. I really don't need to start hearing imaginary howling. Good lord, where will that lead?

Not sleeping can put me in a very grey-black place. Getting out of it isn't always easy.

I'm not OK.

And that reminds me there is still a lot of work to be done, choices to be made, effort to be put in.

In way though, that's OK.

Sing me to sleep

The last three/four weeks have been tough. Tougher than tough.

Financial troubles. Sigh.

Insomnia. Again.

Which, as usual, led to bouts of depression and a heightened sense of anxiety and self-doubt.  Which in turn led me to go back on a decision I'd made NOT to take the sleeping pills (the ones that inspired the name of the blog). That was a first. And a last.

They didn't agree with me one bit.

I slept better. Of course. But failed to notice my shortened fuse, frustration, anger, irritability, and so on.

I'd already been going through a challenging time with a relationship that had been (and still is) very very important to me.

But the weird combination of self-doubt/lack of self-worth, the insomnia, the effect of the sleepers and the extent to which I'd given up trying to take responsibility for myself and my actions eventually dealt what I fear has been a mortal blow to that relationship.

I handed the sleepers back to the doc a few days ago - "never again" I told him.  Not worth the collateral damage.

He & I had a discussion about the anti-depressants I'm taking.  I don't think he understood what I was saying about the need to feel in control of myself again being the reason I wanted a planned withdrawal.

Maybe in a couple of months, was his opinion.

I've actually been feeling more like "me" just recently, having stared long and hard at myself in a metaphorical mirror and realised owning up to being unpleasant is part of the process of regaining control and getting well.

But I'm struggling with the wounded-relationship.

The other person is extremely important to me.  It's not just that I'm in love and feeling heart-broken. I respect and admire them. I want them in my life. But it's hard balancing that with a sense of "please forgive me and come back, I swear I'll never hurt you."

Then, thanks to an upset stomach, I hardly slept last night and woke up in a bit of a mess, wishing someone would whisper some kind words to make me know everything is really ok.

I felt very sad and lonely.

I let it be known. That was a mistake.

To top it all, the postman came this morning and reminded me how poorly joined-up the medical profession is. I was with my doc only a few days ago. But this morning I got a letter from the hospital about some test results. They'd like me to call to make an appointment to go back in at my earliest convenience.

I had a small, fleeting panic.

I like getting letters in the mail. But I prefer my less-than-great news delivered face-to-face.

Call me old fashioned.

I think I chose the wrong time to quit smoking.

Fireworks

It is 5th November - a date commonly referred to in the UK as "bonfire night" or "Guy Fawkes."

It is the date when the UK celebrates the foiled attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in the 17th Century.

There are bonfires lit all across the country.  And firework displays - professional as well as DIY.

Kids love it.  Adults too.

When I was very young I got very excited at this time of year.  My folks never took me to an organised firework display, but there were always lots let off by regular people, so there was plenty to see.

One year my dad suggested he and I took some household detritus to the local bonfire just before it was lit.

We packed up a load of stuff and he had a couple of bags and boxes he'd prepared earlier, including an old blue suitcase.

We got there and I excitedly helped unload all the stuff and pile it up on the bonfire.  Then we hung around for a while until it was lit.  It felt thrilling having helped build up the bonfire and then standing there basking in the heat from the flames.

It was getting late so we headed home.

I got ready for bed.  PJs on, teeth cleaned, hair brushed.

All that was missing now.... my panda.  I had a soft-toy panda bear.  I'd had it from shortly after the time I was born.  He & I were pretty much inseparable, except I'd never take him out of the house for fear of dropping him or losing him.

This evening though, Panda had gone awol.

I asked my parents.  They looked shifty.

My mother said something about Panda having a funny smell that wouldn't wash out.

Then my dad laughed and informed me that Panda had, in fact, been in the old blue suitcase that I'd not long before excitedly helped put on the bonfire.

I missed your birthday

I missed your birthday.

No one else knows I missed it.

No cake. No card. No presents.

No singing.

I could say I’m sorry. But you won’t hear my apology.

Did I think of you?

Yes.

Do I think of you?

Always.

Well, often. Therein lies yet more regret.

If I threw you a party you would not come.

Could not come.

I will miss your birthday next year.

I already know it.

You'd be 22 now.

My never-born daughter.

But.

You missed your birth day.

A boy died

Look both ways before crossing.

Look again.

More slowly this time - drink it all in.

Ignore the car.

This is it - the last place you will be. The way out.  Your time.

Don't go with that as your last memory. The car, closer and closer. A screeching of brakes. Fear. Tension. A jolt. Pain. And then... out.

There are trees here. And birds. Grass and flowers, even at this time of year.

Lots of trees. Lots of birds.

You weren't here very long.

You must have crossed that road a thousand times in your short life.

Always, always looking at the cars.

Not this time.

Maybe this time you were looking at the trees, the sunset, listening to bird song, remarking to yourself how delightful it is, as winter begins to show her teeth, that there are still some flowers bold enough to show off.

I hope so.

I really hope so.

Public private

This isn't so much a blog post as an epilogue.

Yes, the piece below - entitled Initial question - is very personal and written with somebody in mind.

Will they see it?

I can't be sure.

If they do see it, will they read it?

Again, I can't be sure.

But I hope they do.

And I hope they do.

Will it change anything?

Of course not.

After all, very few dreams come true.

Initial question

Where did it come from?

It was a connection that felt so real – a love that felt so pure.

Like with so many other life-changing things though, I struggle to remember what life was like before that time.

Life before that time…. it even feels wrong when I contemplate it.

Yet I know you haven’t always been part of my life.

One day, a day I can’t bring to mind, must have been the last day before I knew you.

Unknowingly, a casual remark or two led to a white-knuckle ride that changed everything.

Change was a part of everything for us – we were both at crossroads, dealing with challenges, fears and hopes.

One by one problems came our way.

Mine felt smaller with you at my side, I think you felt the same way too.

Even though some knocks left us reeling and questioning our sanity.

But you were always there for me, even when I was too blind to see.

Adjusting to life without your heart entwined with mine is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.

Coming to terms with the hurt I caused you brings tears to my eyes.

Knowing you may never trust me again has hollowed out my heart.

Things I wish I'd written Pt 1

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

I think this was written by Thomas Campion, but can't be sure.

Pushing at a door marked "pull"

There is no particular reason why this came to mind recently. It just fell out of my head, so I thought I’d write about it.


I remember going to visit an old college friend a few years ago. We went to the pub, talked about old friends, caught up on each other’s news and then went back to his flat – where I was spending the weekend.

He had a very nice guest room and I was made to feel very at home.

However, when I turned in for the night I found myself suddenly tensing up, and becoming agitated.

Being in someone else’s home carries with it a heightened awareness of boundaries and privacy.

In short, I realised it was expected that I should shut my bedroom door.

But it wasn’t easy. Not because there was anything wrong with the door, or the doorframe. No, chiefly because I suddenly became acutely aware that I never shut my bedroom door.

This wasn’t exactly news to me – it’s been habit for decades.

But it was perhaps the first time I’d taken a step back and thought about it.

I shut the door, obviously. And then lay there in bed staring at it for hours, unable to settle and kept even further from sleep by the questions in my head – why did it matter, what did it mean?


When I was about seven years old I was a very sickly child, and was eventually admitted to hospital for a routine procedure that sorted everything out. But before that happened I missed almost an entire year of school.

My mother wasn’t working at the time, so the two of us got to spend a lot of time together.

Anyone with children will know they can be exhausting and exasperating at the best of times, more so when they’re not well and you’re constantly fetching and carrying, cleaning up vomit and so on. Despite your best intentions, patience is not in limitless supply.

I must, on occasion, have driven my poor mother to distraction.

I can’t see how I didn’t – it’s only natural.

There were times when it obviously got too much for her.

When I got too much for her.

She would lock me in a bedroom and leave me there for what felt like hours.

I got wise to this eventually, and when it was clear she was about to do it again, I would scream, beg, shout, cry, plead and beg some more for her not to.  She would drag me kicking and screaming and deposit me in the bedroom.  As soon as she let go of me, I would bolt for the doorway to avoid being shut in. I sustained a number of bumps to the head from getting in the way of the door being slammed shut.

She soon got wise to how I’d try to escape, and before too long would shove me into the room so that I’d stumble and wouldn’t be able to make a run for it.

She’d have to hold the door handle and keep the door pulled shut as I fought to open it, only being able to draw the bolt across when I became exhausted and stopped pulling from the other side – that’s when she was able to relinquish her grip on the handle.

I’ve lived at about 15 different addresses in my adult life.

Every time I’ve moved somewhere where there are locks on the bedroom doors, removing them has been one of the first things I’ve done.

Take two of these and call me when it's all over

Everyone has troubling sleeping sometimes.

Everyone.

Maybe you ate or drank too much.

Or feel like you're being chased by a runaway brain.

Whatever the cause, it's not exactly rare.

Insomnia, however, is different.

I've been a frequent flyer on Air Insomniac on-and-off since my early 20s.  Being tired but not able to sleep is grim.  You lie there staring into the darkness feeling both alert and exhausted.  The noise inside my head some nights is almost deafening.  Sometimes only drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

And it goes on night after night sometimes for several weeks before I usually crack, hit the bottle and drink myself unconscious.  It doesn't help much immediately.  Drunk-sleep sucks and the hangovers can be bothersome.  But the night after a day spent keeping a hangover company I generally sleep really well.

Try as you might to be at the top of your game when you've had a cumulative 10 hours sleep over three days, the cracks will start to show sooner or later.

Lack of concentration.  Poor attention to detail.  All the obvious ones.

It's probably not safe to drive, but you do it anyway.  You eat too much because you feel permanently hungry.  And you guzzle so much caffeine that you start to shake.

But for me are lots of other leftovers from days spent with no restful sleep to punctuate them.

Self-doubt.  Anxiety.  Depression.  The latter was eventually diagnosed as such, rather than the theme of a Pity Party I decided to throw myself.  Although eventually I found myself amid the detritus of such an occasion and didn't like the mess that surrounded me.

In addition to the anti-depressants I was given (well, I did ask for them) I was prescribed something to help me sleep.

I wouldn't take them at first - the warnings about side effects were pretty stark.

First post - a test

I can’t remember if it was Shakespeare or the Bible where the saying there’s nothing new under the sun originated.  And let's face it, with literally millions of new blogs being spawned month after month, I doubt there's much need for another one.

But what the hell... everyone needs a hobby, right?

And so with that in mind - welcome to my blog.