Photography: Stone Studies

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Dear Diary: You Can Never Hide

One of the great things about life is we can hide, work, family, hobbies, athletic endeavour combinations of those afford us wonderful opportunities to hide away from reality.

While we get away and pursue some noble and worthwhile goal to the applause of our peers, we can hide from facing something bigger, and more frightening than the challenge we tackle for the world to see.

But when the goal is achieved, the project is over, we instantly seek the next one to avoid the chasm and void of light where we know we face the truth we have been hiding from all the time, so we stay in the darkness calling light.

How long can we pull the trick of self-delusion, do we pull it at all?

Dear Diary: The Day After Blues

It’s not really the day after, imagine it’s Monday

The weekend was the “weekend”, Sunday was the “day”. A year of work, 5 months of pure heartache and if anyone follows, I would guess you could call it heartache and real pain physical and mental have been my, and my family’s companion through life.

Probably giving way too much away, I have another life and this weekend that life was my life, the biggest day of the year so far for that life.

It’s over, its happened. Monday the sun came up, my son went to work, my wife went to work. There was a beautiful cake and a note on the side that he and his adorable girlfriend had made. There are of course messages on my social media posts saying well done.

But, the rain falls, the traffic flows, the TV didn’t record like it should, life on Monday morning ultimately doesn’t care if I won or lost. My ex doesn’t care, my biological children don’t care nor will my eldest care on our Skype. My news won’t even wrap chips.

Tuesday has become indifferent, the rain it lashes down, the shopping needs doing, and the carpet needs a hoover, the milk is running out too.

 

Poetry Corner: Clock of Time

I’m not sure I asked,

It happened anyway, you said I did,

It’s all my fault,

It always is.

 

An earned reward, that consequence

I knew better,

You said I did,

I always do.

 

I gave up knowing,

Not even the same is safe

Breathing daring,

I know I should.

 

You would think

In the years that passed
I would have forgotten

I thought I would.

 

People promised time

Would be a healer

That the pain would fade

I guess I never learned.

 

You try to change

And think in different ways

You trust again
I am stupid, the story stays the same.

 

The clock it ticks

Tocks of hurts inside
A fading frame
I say ok when I hear my name

Dear Diary: Look Down on Me?

Most days a look of contempt or disdain is nothing to me, the opinion of some random non-entity who knows nothing of who I am

Today it bothered me: today I wanted to shake her and ask who are you to think for one minute you are better than me?

No one is better than anyone; we will all die, we will all hurt, we will all feel pain, hurt, we will grieve and feel the burning sear of loss, we will all be scared, we will be both courageous and cowards, we will regret and we will cry.

 

Thinking Out Loud: Staring at the Future

It has taken me a long time to face writing this: recently an infection put me back in hospital. Opposite someone with hemiplegic migraines.

They were under a regional specialist centre with a proper specialist consultant and were under a treatment team with multiple therapies. They were exactly where I am supposed to want to be, they followed the advice of every attack getting admitted.

It was horrific. The man was a shell, the ward was noisy and chaotic, and they had no idea how to treat him, worse, they were random and haphazard with his pain treatment, most of the time he curled facemask on, earphones in pain trying to make it through the day to his release.

He saw no treatment, he was pushing his family away as he failed to cope with the emotional effects of attacks, and each admission robbed him of days and weeks of his life, you could see him imprisoned by his “disease” and crippled by doing exactly what he was told to do. Exactly what I am supposed to do.
We spoke, he could not believe that my attacks were both longer and more debilitating, that I had no support in place, and that I was not being admitted like he was each attack. His disbelief crashed head first into the fact that, while we shared symptoms and experience, I had carried on doing life in direct defiance of medical advice and was doing well, and he, doing what he had been told, further down the road than me, was now virtually crippled and imprisoned by his condition.

We spoke only that afternoon, he left. I doubt he will change, he is embedded in being a patient and invested in the model where he would be saved by modern medicine. I don’t believe in white knights on unicorn’s, as a child I learned very early that it doesn’t matter how loud or how long you cry, how much it hurts, how bad it gets no one is coming to save you.

Perhaps then, out of the damage of those abuse years has come a useful toolkit for journey ahead

Dear Diary: Proof of Something

If I am proof of anything it’s hard work doesn’t pay off, practice doesn’t make perfect and what goes around doesn’t come around.

In reality, you have to be working hard on the right things in the right way, it has to be perfect practice, life isn’t even remotely fair and the universe simply does not care at all.

Ultimately the world will neither miss me nor mourn my loss, I matter only so far as I decide that I do, beyond that, I don’t matter at all. I lack both relevance and significance. My existence continues in large part through luck and cowardice; mostly cowardice.

I live a life of pretend and make believe. I pretend what I do has significance, it matters, it counts, that somehow my life is worthy of something, that I as a person have value and worth. In my make believe world I am wise and knowledgeable and people look up to me and value what I say, they support me and believe I will succeed, that my endeavours valuable for my part I pretend along that my life has value with them.

I know, I am, sadly, and I wish I was not, completely aware, of the sham and masquerade.

I am playing along like it matters because it’s all I know to do, but I do know exactly what is true.

 

Dear Diary: Manchester is not by the Sea

The seaside, so often the facade of towns long closed down in heart and soul existing was not for me.

This was reflection and calm, the quiet, where people said a cheerful hello while you look out, a gas rig or two between your bench and Norway. A different place, a different sense of time.

A little calm so close to places so familiar and a life so very different to the one I have now.

My obligation fulfilled, respects duly paid, tears respectfully held back, and happy memories built upon the ashes of the past.

My dearest friends a comforting bridge, welcoming arms and helping hands, solace in the storm.

A place does not know, it does not remember, it meant no harm, it held no anger, it will not be bitter, nor will it be sad, it will shed no tears, knowing not the passing of our years. Those we bring, they are ours to leave or take away, memories are our own each day, and the stories ours to tell, like the place lest we too face away.