2089: Connect the Dots

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

“Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.”

When looking for “entirely uninteresting stories”, your first port of call should almost certainly be your local newspaper. Sure enough, the Daily Echo didn’t disappoint with this marvel:

BREAKING: City bridge closed due to ‘police incident’

A SOUTHAMPTON bridge was closed this evening due to a ‘police incident’.

The Itchen Bridge was shut at around 6.30pm but the exact nature of the incident is unknown.

And the bridge was quickly reopened at 6.40pm.

This is currently the top story on the Daily Echo website, which probably gives you an idea of the sorts of things that get posted on there. But let’s ponder the actual question from the daily post: how this connects to my life in some way.

Well, okay. This is actually quite an easy one in many ways. The most obvious connection, of course, is that I live in Southampton, and consequently I know where the Itchen Bridge is. But the connection actually runs a little deeper than that: about five or six years ago, I used to live very near the Itchen Bridge in the town centre. The bridge itself was within walking distance, only about five minutes or so away. This didn’t really have much of an impact on my life for the most part, as I tended to find other ways to cross the river owing to the toll gates at the other side of the Itchen Bridge. But during my oft-mentioned “difficult period” in my life — the time my first wife left and my life pretty much fell apart — the bridge became somewhere that I liked to occasionally head towards in order to just stand and reflect.

I don’t think I ever seriously considered jumping off the bridge, though with my mental state at the time I won’t lie to you: I certainly thought about it more than once or twice. Ultimately I knew that I’d never actually have the courage to do it, though, for all manner of reasons: firstly, part of me, despite being deeper in a pit of misery than I’d ever been in my whole life, I didn’t really want to die; secondly, even contemplating that sort of thing made me feel guilty about the people I’d leave behind; thirdly, the idea of jumping off a bridge into horrible dirty water sounded both terrifying and unpleasant. And, I mean, I know killing yourself (or the contemplation thereof) isn’t particularly pleasant anyway, but I kind of figured there were easier, less painful ways to do it.

That didn’t stop me regularly going out to that bridge, though, noticing the Samaritans stickers on the railings every time I walked up to its highest point to look out over the water. I never called them — as I say, I knew that I didn’t really want to jump — but they always gave me pause when I saw them. Perhaps they did help, in their own way.

Eventually I settled for getting these musings out of my system with a piece of creative writing. In the short first-person narrative — which was left a little open-ended in case I wanted to expand it into a full-on story at some point — the protagonist, who was very obviously me, walked out to a bridge that was very obviously the Itchen Bridge, tormented by his own despair, and jumped. At the last moment, he was saved from his seemingly inevitable demise by a character I’d created and had my own story in mind for; this particular little narrative was set after that other story, even though, to date, I still haven’t written all of it. In other words, the character who saved me was the character as she was at what I had planned to be the conclusion of her original tale; as it happened, she fit nicely into this little fantasy scenario, though.

But I digress. How does this news story connect to my life? Well, my first thought upon reading the headline of the story on the Daily Echo website was “someone’s probably jumped”. Given that the bridge was re-opened after just ten minutes, though, I wonder whether that was really the case or not; at the moment, it looks pretty much like a non-story, despite its prominent billing on the Daily Echo website. I guess my thought process ran something along the lines of “I wonder if there would have been a story like that on the Daily Echo website if I’d actually given in to my despair and jumped back in those dark days?”

Bleak? Oh, absolutely and definitely. But, well, there you go. That’s me.

2061: By Request: More About My Stint as a Teacher

Continuing with yesterday’s little exercise of taking suggestions from my Twitter followers, today I come to a request from another Michael, in this case Michael J. Hughes, aka @mobilesworking. Michael wanted to hear more about my stint as a teacher, so that’s what I’m going to write about today.

Longtime readers will, of course, be aware that when I started doing this whole oneaday thing, I was still employed in education, just coming to the end of a short-term maternity cover contract where I was looking after a Year 4 class while, at the same time, the school in question was gradually collapsing into Special Measures. This meant an inordinately stressful period of my life, although anyone who has ever worked in education will know that education in general is pretty stressful; throw in regular visits from government inspectors, though, and things get a bit too much to bear. If you really want to read my thoughts and feelings from the time itself, start here and go right ahead!

In the meantime, I will attempt to give a potted history of my time at the chalkface in this single post, since it’s now a few years ago and I’ve subsequently had time to reflect on my experiences — which, while I look back on them in such a way as to know that I never, ever want to be a classroom teacher ever again, aren’t entirely negative. Just mostly negative.

I kind of fell into teaching. While I was still at school, I took on a few piano pupils, since my mother and my teacher thought that I would do a decent job of teaching them. Turns out that I did; it was hugely nerve-wracking to begin with, but I gradually settled into it, noticing things like different pupils learning in different ways and the different tutor books handling things very differently from one another. As time went on, I developed my own unique style of teaching, as most teachers did, and I was enjoying myself. I was particularly enjoying it as piano tuition can be very lucrative indeed, and when you’re a highschooler with no real “expenses” besides the latest video games, that money soon mounts up if you have a few pupils.

Anyway. A few years later, I was coming towards the end of my degree studies at Southampton University. I’d been studying English and Music, though the English component had proven to be somewhat disappointing, focusing rather too much on philosophy rather than actual English for my tastes, and the Music component had demonstrated to me that in terms of ability, I wasn’t anything particularly “special” among the overall musician community. A little disheartened, the time came for me to ponder exactly what I’d do when my degree course came to a close; I was on track to receive a decent grade (it eventually turned out to be a 2:1, which I was more than happy with) but it was occurring to me a little too late that my original idea of taking a “good, general degree” and falling into a job straight afterwards due to the multi-purpose nature of my qualification wasn’t really going to work; an awful lot of jobs that I might have been interesting were looking for specific degrees in things like management, computing and whatnot, and so I was finding myself a little despondent.

I’ll add at this point that I certainly don’t regret my time at university, as I’m aware all of the above may sound a little negative. On the contrary, I actually rather enjoyed the chance to have three years studying things that I found interesting, and I wish I could have that opportunity again in the future. I enjoy learning, even if I don’t end up being amazing at the thing I’m learning, and for that reason alone — coupled with the very good friends I made while I was there — the experience was worthwile. But I digress.

The time came to make a decision, and I thought back to my time teaching piano. I knew that teaching in the classroom wouldn’t be the same as teaching an individual pupil one-on-one, but I thought it was something potentially worth pursuing, anyway. Taking a teaching qualification, I thought, would give you a ready-made career path and hopefully sort you out for if not life then certainly the immediate future.

My PGCE (PostGraduate Certificate of Education) studies remain some of my fondest memories of university. Our tutor Rebecca Berkeley was one of the most charismatic, entertaining teachers I’ve ever had, and she set a fantastic example of how to engage and thrill people in the music classroom. Our small but dedicated cohort of trainee music teachers were enthusiastic and passionate, too, and we all had our own ideas and approaches to lessons.

Then we got into the classroom. The university had a whole bunch of partner schools in the nearby area, and I ended up at a place in Eastleigh, the next town over. This necessitated the catching of an early-morning train every day, at least until I made friends with the painfully gorgeous trainee Geography teacher Debbie, who started giving me a lift after seeing my sad figure trudging through the rain to the station one day. The school itself was an interesting structure, with its main concourse being all concrete and glass, looking to all intents and purposes like a small shopping centre rather than a school. The music department was, I recall, upstairs on the left as you went in; it consisted of a single, very wide room that always seemed much too big.

Following the suggestions and ideas we’d been given during our initial training — and after an initial period of observing the school’s resident music teacher — I prepared to deliver a short series of four lessons that I’d planned out in advance. I was very pleased with them; they represented a gradual progression from simple, straightforward activities to a more freeform assessment-style activity to finish off with, and I’d made an effort to drop in some references to things that I knew the kids would relate to in my worksheets. Thought I knew, anyway; turns out my subtle references to Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, which was a recent release on PlayStation 2 at the time, were… well, too subtle for them, and no-one appeared to notice them. Disappointing.

My actual delivery of the lessons varied in quality somewhat, though I attribute this partly to the variation in the makeup of the different classes. Some classes are “better” than others; sometimes all it takes is a single unruly child — usually one with “special educational needs”, it has to be said — to disrupt everything and spoil the flow of a lesson, and sometimes kids just have off days. (Sometimes teachers do, too.)

Anyway, to cut a very long story short, my teacher training proved to be a bit of a rollercoaster of emotions. When it went well, it was a fantastic feeling. When it went badly, it was the worst feeling in the world… actually, no, when I thought it had gone well but my mentor in the school told me he thought I was actually getting worse, that was the worst feeling in the world.

I passed my course comfortably in the end, and was ready to begin my career, though I already had a few misgivings based on my experiences as a student teacher. In particular, the one aspect which I had worried would prove to be the most difficult — behaviour management — did indeed turn out to be the most difficult, and more so than I’d expected. And the trouble with behaviour management is that you can fill your head with all the theories and strategies you like, sometimes they just simply don’t work; sometimes you’re just faced with a class of shitheads who don’t want to do anything, don’t like you and don’t like school in general. In which case, you’re pretty much fucked.

I encountered this position on a fairly regular basis in my first full-on teaching position, which was at a school in an army base town on the Hampshire-Surrey border. The school’s population was made up of a melting-pot of Forces kids and local traveller children, and consequently clashes were frequent and often violent. The polite term for the school would be “challenging”; the area wasn’t exactly impoverished as such, but it wasn’t particularly well off, and the school wasn’t especially well-equipped, either.

The school’s approach to staffing was to recruit people into a main position, then encourage them to try out some other subjects, too, broadening the staff’s expertise and making the whole workforce a little more flexible. It also gave the kids a bit more variety, too. I was recruited as the second music teacher at the school, but I was also presented with a few English, ICT and “Key Skills” classes. I didn’t really know what Key Skills was, but being relatively bright-eyed and keen to make a good impression, I agreed to jump in and have a go at them.

Key Skills turned out to be the “get the naughty kids out of our fucking hair for an hour or so” subject. Each class was made up of no more than about ten or twelve kids, all of whom were either painfully stupid or behaved like psychopaths. There were a few instances of kids exhibiting both characteristics, but for the most part the stupid kids weren’t the problem; they’d happily get on with doodling something in crayon while the psycho kids would kick off. Because they always fucking kicked off.

In a way, I don’t really blame them; they almost certainly knew why they were in the Key Skills class, and the subject matter — which included, among other things, how to operate a washing machine — wasn’t exactly the most inspiring stuff in the world. But the amount of rage, resentment and abuse directed at me as a result was almost intolerable. On one occasion, a kid threatened to knife me because I asked him to stop talking; on another, most of the class locked me in the classroom and broke the door; the couple of pupils who had remained behind then climbed out of the window.

On another memorable occasion — and this isn’t exactly abuse, but it’s a story I delight in telling — I had taken the Year 8 Key Skills group to the library for some innocuous activity, and noticed that two members of the class — Fat Barry and his friend Shane — had been gone for some time. I eventually found them behind some bookshelves, Fat Barry straddling a face-down Shane and… gyrating.

“What are you doing?” I asked, foolishly, kicking myself mentally for not simply being assertive and telling them to “get up”.

“We’re doing a bumsex, Sir,” replied Fat Barry, with admirable politeness and deference.

Anyway. I digress. My stint at this first school lasted just a single year because the headteacher who was in charge when I first joined was seemingly Not Very Good With Money, and this meant that when the new head came on board partway through my first year as a qualified teacher, he was faced with the unenviable task of laying off a considerable proportion of the school’s staff. As one of the last in, I was, of course, one of the first out, though thankfully it wasn’t long before I managed to secure a new position in another nearby school that, this time, was in a slightly more affluent area.

I stayed at my second school for just under two years. During that time, I had some good experiences. I absolutely adored working with my GCSE group, for example, because they treated me like a human being rather than a teacher, and I reciprocated. Also it’s a magical feeling to successfully convince an entire class to spend two hours writing arrangements of Battle on the Big Bridge from Final Fantasy V. They did a great job!

I also loved working with the drama department on the production of Blood Brothers, and on the 24-hour Music Marathon for charity. I enjoyed introducing a hitherto-unexplored aspect of music technology into the classrooms of the school, and I enjoyed running groups such as the choir and the jazz band. I even quite enjoyed being a group tutor; although I didn’t teach my tutor group for any classes, we built up a reasonable rapport over the course of the two years I was with them just from registration and tutorial periods.

Unfortunately, this job nearly killed me. I had been aware of my stress levels rising for some time, but I thought I could handle it. I couldn’t. The theft of an £80 microphone from out of my locked desk in my locked classroom flipped a switch in my head, and I knew I didn’t want to do this any more, but intended to stick it out for as long as I could.

“As long as I could” turned out to not be very long at all. A particularly obnoxious year 9 class were outright refusing to sit down, be quiet and listen to the activities I had planned for them, and this turned out to be the tipping point. I ran out of the classroom, into the department’s walk-in storage cupboard — which was a bombsite after the year 9 class had, once again, failed to treat anything with any respect whatsoever — and just started crying.

I couldn’t stop. The tears kept flowing, the sobs made me gasp to a point where I could barely breathe. I collapsed to my knees, no longer caring if anyone saw or heard me. I don’t remember who did see or hear me, but someone did, because before long I was finding myself ushered into the drama department’s office — the drama room was presently vacant, and it was adjacent to my classroom. I found myself confronted with a couple concerned-looking faces; my head of department, whom I’d lashed out at over my frustration with the microphone theft a little while ago (and subsequently felt awful about) and the head of drama, a woman of considerable dry wit whom I’d always found a bit intimidating, but was now showing a softer side I hadn’t expected.

“This isn’t me,” I wheezed, gasping and gulping for air as I continued to sob. “I can’t do this. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am.”

I don’t remember how the conversation went from there, but before long I was at home making an appointment with the doctor. I related my experiences to him and, without asking any further details or examining me, he signed me off work until the end of the term. I snuck into the school when I knew no-one would be around but it would still be open and left the doctor’s note on the reception desk; it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I didn’t want to ever set foot in that school ever again; I felt like I had disgraced myself and that I would be mercilessly abused and mocked if I was ever seen again.

I ended up only going back in there once; after I went back to the doctors as my note was nearing its expiration, I explained that I didn’t feel like I could go back, and again without hesitation, he signed me off until the end of the school year. Evidently I wasn’t the first teacher to come to him in this state. My final visit to that school was on the last day of the year, after all the kids had gone home, and I had to pick up my things. The campus was deserted; I didn’t even see any of my colleagues. I collected my things, walked out of the door and didn’t look back, swearing never to return to teaching.

Except, of course, I did. As I was coming to the end of a period working in retail, I found myself with the opportunity to try my hand at primary school teaching; my previous experience had been with secondary school teaching, and too many people had said to me that they’d thought I’d be good at primary school teaching for me to ignore. So I spent some time with a friend of mine who taught in the local area, and found the experience both enjoyable and less stressful. So I pursued it, eventually netting the maternity cover position I had when I started writing this blog every day.

Primary school teaching was, without a doubt, a better experience than secondary school teaching for the most part, even in as shitty a school as I was working in. The lessons were varied and fun to teach, and they challenged me as well as the kids; I had to flex mathematical brain muscles I hadn’t worked out in years, for example, and I enjoyed things like reading them stories and suchlike. It was also cool to be in education just at the time when new technologies like interactive whiteboards and suchlike were starting to be incorporated into classrooms, and it gave me a feeling of actually being somewhat worthwhile by being The Guy Who Knew About Computers, compared to my middle-aged female colleagues, most of whom knew how to log on to Facebook and little else.

I knew it wouldn’t last, though. I still had difficulty with behaviour management, particularly with a couple of notorious kids in my class, one of whom had a somewhat turbulent homelife that manifested itself in some seriously unpleasant tendencies. Despite the support of my long-suffering teaching assistant in the classroom — whose help I will forever be grateful for, particularly as having support in the secondary school classroom was incredibly rare — I just didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know how to make this child do what I wanted him to do, and I didn’t know how to get through to him.

I could feel the tell-tale signs of stress creeping up on me again, and I knew I didn’t want to have another experience like the last time. So I got ahead of the game; I quit. I explained to the acting headteacher of the school what was happening with me and why I needed to get out, then I got out. Then I went to PAX in Boston to meet some friends who had previously only been usernames on the Internet. Then my then-wife left me and my life fell to pieces. But that’s a story for another day — or, more specifically, one that I’ve already told on these pages if you know where to look, and one that I can’t help but feel is still going on right now, and that is yet to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

2031: Delayed Contact

How would you get along with your sibling(s), parent(s), or any other person you’ve known for a long time — if you only met them for the first time today?

WordPress Daily Post, August 12, 2015

This is an interesting question! What it’s really asking, I guess, is how I’ve changed over the years. And I’m certainly not going to deny that I’ve changed over the years — in some ways for the better, in other ways for the worse.

Let’s consider the “big things” first. The first thing I’d want to address is my depression and anxiety. As anyone who has had a depressed or anxious friend will know, we can be a handful: prone to bouts of irrational emotion, having a tendency to back out of appointments and commitments because we’re not feeling up to dealing with people, in some cases full of seething rage or unbearable grief at nothing in particular, which is difficult for anyone not living it to truly understand.

Now, I address this because I tend to think of my depression and anxiety as a “recent” thing, though on reflection it’s something I’ve clearly been carrying around with me for a lot longer than I might have initially thought. It probably stretches all the way back to primary school, to be honest, when I was, yes, full of seething rage at nothing in particular and would often get into trouble at lunchtimes and breaktimes for the 10 year old equivalent of casting “Provoke” on a dinner lady or school bully.

Actually, to say said seething rage was at nothing in particular isn’t quite accurate. It was something of a vicious cycle. I wasn’t comfortable in who I was, and kids being kids would pick on me, sensing weakness. I’d then be upset — particularly when, as often happened, my friends abandoned me and sided with the “cool” kids (who were often also the bullies of the playground) rather than with me.

But this isn’t specifically about my history with depression, it’s about whether people I’ve known for a long time would get along with me — or if I’d get along with them — if we happened to meet for the first time today. And the depression and anxiety side of things is interesting to consider; these days, I’m a lot more open and honest about talking about it in most circumstances — sometimes needing a bit of a prompt or leading question — whereas in my childhood and adolescence, when, in retrospect, I was clearly suffering from both of these issues, I didn’t recognise them for what they were and consequently didn’t know how to deal with them. My first girlfriend even left me because she “couldn’t take my moods” — though she did also cheat on me at the school prom, so fuck her, basically.

I digress, but the point, I guess, is that anyone I met for the first time now would have to be able to deal with someone who is aware of their own mental defects, be willing to support them when necessary and be willing to leave them the fuck alone when they need to be alone.

Now, onto other matters also worthy of consideration. Let’s keep things self-deprecating and consider my personal appearance. At school I was fairly unremarkable-looking, though I had terrible hair (still do), bad skin (still do) and zits (thankfully long gone). I felt like I was a bit fat at school compared to some of my friends, but looking back at some old photographs, I really, really wasn’t. I steadily gained weight over the course of my time at university and beyond until I got to the point where I was so uncomfortable I needed to do something about it — hence my joining Slimming World back in February. (As of tonight, I’ve lost 4.5 stone in total, incidentally.)

Let’s be realistic: people judge each other on appearances, like it or not, and six months ago I was absolutely ashamed of my appearance. I didn’t like going out because people would see me; I didn’t like walking past windows because I could catch a glimpse of myself; I didn’t like wearing any of my clothes because none of them really fit properly any more; and mirrors, well, no. Just no. I’ve always had something of a lack of self-confidence — again, this can be traced in part back to my school days; at primary school I was taunted on a daily basis for having “big ears”, while at secondary school the aforementioned crap hair, bad skin and zits were picked on — but this was the absolute lowest point I’ve ever been.

Today, though, some 4.5 stone lighter, I know I still have some way to go, but I’m much more comfortable in myself and, when depression and anxiety aren’t laying me low, I can actually notice myself being more open, confident and less embarrassed to be myself. Just yesterday I successfully made some small talk with the store clerk in Game when I was buying Splatoon and didn’t come away from the experience thinking “they hate me” or “they think I’m disgusting”, which are things I’d thought following a passing interaction in the past. And while this may not sound like much, with everything I deal with in my head, this felt like a noticeable and significant victory, and worth celebrating.

I’m conscious I’m talking generally while the question implies I should be thinking about specific people, but I feel these points are relevant; self-confidence is something that is important in your interactions with anyone, and while I’m certainly not in a position where I’d call myself “confident” or “outgoing” — I’m still an introvert at heart — I am in a position now where yes, I feel like I could meet someone new, have a conversation with them and not make them never want to see me ever again.

Finally, then, there’s the matter of changing interests. My interests actually haven’t changed all that significantly over the years; I’ve always been into video games, board games, computers, music, reading and writing. Perhaps the biggest change is in the “subgenres” of certain aspects, specifically my enjoyment of Japanese games, anime and other popular media. As many of you will know, a lot of this sort of thing is enormously polarising and very much an acquired taste, so if there’s anywhere I think I’d struggle with if I were meeting an old friend for the first time today, it’d be with regard to these niche interests, and particularly a lot of the mainstream popular assumptions about what people who like that sort of thing are into. (That’s a rant for another day, of course.)

There are people I’ve drifted away from due to diverging interests. There are also new friends I’ve made as a result of these diverging interests, that happen to converge in different places. That’s how life goes; as much as we’d like to believe certain things last forever, sometimes we move on, we grow, we change, we become different people.

Ultimately I like to believe that I’m a decent person, and that anyone I’ve known for a long time I’d be able to at least get along with today. We became friends for a reason, after all, and in many cases friendships are struck up over that simple, indescribable “click” you get when you start interacting and realise that the person you’re talking to is someone absolutely on your wavelength. It’s difficult (though, sadly, not impossible) to get rid of that “click” once you’ve had it, and so, to finally answer the original question: I do think I’d get along with people I’ve known for a long time if I only met them for the first time today. Our relationship might develop differently to how it did in reality, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing; true friendships allow you to get along regardless of circumstances and regardless of differences.

2028: Obstacle Course

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Obstacle Course.”

In yesterday’s look at the sad archive that Plinky.com has become, I stumbled across the fact that WordPress.com now has a “Daily Post” writing prompt. I’m not hugely involved with the overall WordPress community, really, but thought this might be an interesting means of finding some new people — or at the very least, providing myself with some inspiration on what to write day in, day out.

This is today’s prompt, then:

Think about what you wanted to accomplish last week. Did you? What are the things that hold you back from doing everything you’d like to do?

Well, this is going to be a fairly bleak post as I’m in a fairly bleak mood today, but as regular readers will know, sometimes the act of getting those thoughts and feelings out onto the page can prove to be a form of “therapy” in their own right. So we’ll see. Expect honesty.

No, I did not accomplish what I wanted to accomplish last week, though this is partly due to the fact that I didn’t really have anything I wanted to accomplish last week. The trouble I have at the moment is that I’m just sort of “drifting” with occasional freelance work and nothing concrete to occupy my time and thoughts day after day.

In some ways, this is pleasant. Not having any “commitments” as such means that I can essentially do what I want to do, though it’s not long before anxieties over things like money start creeping in and making me feel that I should be doing “more”. More what, I’m not exactly sure, to be honest; the feeling that overtakes me at these times is always simply “you should be doing more” without any specifics attached.

Let’s ponder the things I did achieve, at least: since the Slimming World job I mentioned a few posts back isn’t going to happen for the moment (I need to be a bit closer to my target before I’ll be considered, which is fair enough) I applied to another job. Just a part-time job in retail, so nothing particularly exciting, special or indeed well-paid, but if I’m successful it will be something that provides at least a bit of reasonably predictable income each month that I can use to support the sporadic freelancing I’ve been doing. From there I can decide if I want to pursue that in more depth and attempt to make a career out of it — probably not, but we’ll see — or if I simply want to keep it as one of several things I have on the go at once. I’m inclined to think that the way I can be “happiest” (for want of a better term) is to have a number of different things to do rather than getting bored and frustrated with just one thing — or, worse, getting bored and frustrated with nothing.

One of the awkward things, though, is the fact that I’ve picked up some piano pupils and have been enjoying teaching them so far — and both they and their parents seem to like me, too. This in itself isn’t awkward, of course, but with the current timing of the lessons I have with them, it would make a “regular” job on “normal” hours a little tricky on the day of the week when I teach them. This is proving to be a bit of a mental block for me, to be honest; the prospect of either having to tell a prospective employer that I can’t work on a specific day after a specific time is anxiety-inducing, and at the other end of the spectrum, the prospect of having to juggle around commitments that I’ve already made is also anxiety-inducing. Still, it’s a bridge I will no doubt cross if I ever reach it.

Other achievements? Well, I lost another pound. Slow and steady wins the race, as they say; some people in our Slimming World group aren’t particularly satisfied if they “only” lose a pound in a week, but me? Having not been able to lose any weight for years and now consistently losing at least one pound every week, I’m happy with that. It’s one of the very few things I feel that is going right at the moment, so I cling onto these small victories for all they’re worth.

To answer the second part of the question, then, I think it’s probably pretty clear from what I’ve already written above that the thing holding me back the most from achieving things is anxiety. I had been taking anti-anxiety meds for a little while, though I don’t feel like they’d been having much effect. On reflection, though, now I’ve run out, it’s quite possible that the way I’m feeling today is proof that they had been doing at least something; if not alleviating the anxiety altogether, then at least keeping it at bay somewhat. I’m going to attempt to make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning and refresh my supply to see if that helps. I would look into proper therapy, too, but while I don’t have a stable income the prospect of having to pay up for that, ironically, fills me with further anxiety.

So all in all, then, things are a bit fucked at the moment. My “obstacle course” doesn’t feel like it’s altogether fair; it feels like I’m surrounded on all sides by impassable objects, and the only way past them is to do something difficult, unpleasant or outright painful. It’s a rubbish feeling and I sincerely hope it passes soon.

For now, though, it’s an evening of stewing in my own bleakness, I guess; it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Thanks, as always, for giving ear to my problems, and I hope that one day — preferably soon — I have something a bit more positive to share with you all.

1850: All Wound Up

The last couple of weeks have been shit. And they are likely to continue being shit. Particularly tomorrow which, without going into details, promises to be a real humdinger of a never-ending, toilet bowl-splattering, sloppy half-digested poo of a day.

I shan’t go into details for various reasons, but suffice to say I am Not Having a Good Time. I feel marginally better now than I did earlier today — more on that in a moment — but for the most part I am reaching one of those “troughs” with regard to my emotional state and mental health. And oh boy, it’s a deep one. I’d go so far as to say that there have been times in the last couple of weeks when I have been feeling pretty much as bad as I did when I hit my previous lowest ever ebb back in 2010 when my then-wife and I parted ways. That’s not a record I particularly want to try and beat.

There was one positive amid all the crap, though, and that was that at Slimming World this evening I had successfully shed another 3lbs, even amid all the stress, anxiety and depression that the last couple of weeks have caused me. I candidly admitted during the group session that my ongoing success — I’ve now lost over a stone in total — was one much-needed positive thing in the middle of a horrible period in my life, and that I was thankful for the support the group sessions — and the overall structure and targets of the programme — were providing me in this difficult time. I walked away with the “Slimmer of the Week” award, which was somewhat unexpected, and which netted me a bag full of (healthy, “Free Food”) goodies. So that’s good.

Almost everything else is shit though. And it looks like continuing to be shit for the foreseeable future right now.

I could be pleasantly surprised. But I’m not holding my breath.

Perhaps I should. Shit stinks, after all.

1845: Bleak House

I’ve been “up and down” mental health-wise all week. This evening is one of those occasions where I’m feeling a little bit bleak. I shan’t go into the reasons, as they’re not really important and don’t really concern me directly for the most part, but it strikes me that at the moment, things seem to be a bit shit for quite a few people, if the timelines of people I follow on social media are anything to go by.

February is regarded by some as one of the more depressing months. It’s the very heart of winter — it’s bitterly cold outside at the moment, even more so with the windchill, though of course it’s nothing compared to something like a Canadian winter — and there’s not a whole lot of anything going on. Christmas is over, New Year’s is over and the only vaguely celebratory occasion people have to look forward to in the immediate future is Valentine’s Day, and even that isn’t universally loved: I don’t mind admitting that in my single days, Valentine’s Day was an occasion where I pretty much wanted to hide under the covers lamenting the fact that I’d probably never find anyone willing to put on the sort of saucy lingerie that tends to get advertised around this time of year and then [CENSORED]. (Thankfully, given that Andie and I got together around Valentine’s Day, I now associate it with positive things in general, not just saucy lingerie and boffing. But I, as ever, digress.)

There was some sort of half-hearted “mental health awareness” thing at my place of work this week, but no-one really engaged with it, despite the fact that I suspect a few people might have benefited from the opportunity to be completely open and honest about a few things. The trouble with marking off a period like that specifically for Let’s Talk About Feeling Suicidal!! (or similar topics) is that the people who genuinely do want to talk about this sort of thing but don’t know quite how to go about it end up feeling somewhat pressured and consequently say nothing; meanwhile, the people who know nothing about depression, anxiety and all those other wonderful things the human mind does to fuck us up just sort of sit around uncomfortably saying things like “So…” and “Anyway…” until everyone just gives up on the whole thing.

There are quite a few contributing factors to how I’m feeling right now; as I say, I won’t bore you with all of them, but one thing I will talk about a little is the feeling of isolation. Feeling like you’re alone in the world is a horrible thing, and while I’m lucky enough to have Andie around all the time, there are still periods when I feel very cut off from people that I like, love and care about. And this feeds into a vicious cycle where it gets harder and harder to interact, and you start worrying about bothering people too much, even though you desperately want to see them, to talk to them, to just be with them. It kind of sucks. And that’s kind of where I am right now.

Still, sitting around in self-loathing isn’t going to help matters at all. It’s Friday night, so I should be relaxing. So I’m off to do just that. Have a pleasant weekend, dear reader.

1841: Lock Me Away

I’m having something of a low ebb at the moment.

Anyone unfortunate enough to be intimately acquainted with the Black Dog as I am will be well aware of the fact that depression comes and goes; things can seem absolutely peachy for weeks, months, even years, and yet all it takes sometimes to bring that house of seemingly happy cards tumbling down is an unkind, harsh or simply insensitive word or two.

I shan’t get into the specific triggers for my current episode right now, but I have a feeling it was coming anyway, regardless of whether or not I was given a shove back into the darkness or not. Either way, I’m there now, and I’m reminded of what a bleak place it is: a chilling, numbing, isolating sort of feeling that makes you feel cut off from the rest of the world, even if you’re sitting right there in the middle of the world with all sorts of things going on around you.

My current episode is manifesting itself as a combination of bleak thoughts and (literally) stomach-churning anxiety. It took some time to get off to sleep last night, even after a pleasant evening of raiding with my Final Fantasy XIV buddies; once I was there in the dark, waiting for slumber to finally claim me, that was when the anxiousness began. It was — is — a lurking feeling of discomfort; not pain, per se, but rather the sensation that you can’t get away from something unpleasant that might happen to you at any moment; the feeling that, against your will, you’re going to have to do something you don’t want to do, be it something as mundane as talking to someone you don’t want to talk to, or something as outlandish and improbable as getting involved in some sort of violent incident.

The unifying factor between all those possibilities is the nagging sensation — fear, paranoia, call it what you will — that everyone and everything is somehow “out to get you”. It makes it difficult to truly trust, and it’s not exactly conducive to functioning in an entirely normal manner in polite society. Still, I muddle through just as I’ve always done; I keep my head down, I get on with the things I need to do, then I excuse myself and try to relax in a situation where I feel more comfortable.

This post is turning out rather more candid than I perhaps intended when I sat down to write this evening, but frankly, given that this is one of the more difficult depressive episodes that I’ve dealt with in recent memory, I felt the need to express myself somewhat and to try and articulate these feelings. By doing so, I feel I can confront them a little more effectively and hopefully drag myself out of the abyss I’ve been slipping into for a few days.

Thankfully, as with any time this happens, I at least know that I’m not alone; it pains me that so many people I know, trust, like and love have been afflicted similarly, but at the same time it gives me strength to know that I’m not the only one who has faced such mental trials. Some have it far worse than me, even, and I’m not for a second attempting to compare the validity of different people’s experiences with depression; it simply helps me a little to know that no, I am not the only person who has ever felt like this, and no, it’s not the be-all and end-all of existence.

These things pass. Eventually. In the meantime you just have to ride out the storm.

Now I’m going to go spend some time in Akihabara pulling the trousers off vampires. Here’s to a hopefully more positive day tomorrow.

1806: Resolute

My friend Dan (aka “utterbiblio”) wrote a heartfelt and eye-opening post earlier. And I related to it one hell of a lot.

Dan has been through a lot over the last few years, most notably a horrendous family tragedy that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. This, thankfully, isn’t something I can directly relate to — though I can at least empathise and sympathise with him — but the other things he talks about in that post, some of which stem directly from that awful happening and others of which have always been present in his life, are the parts where I felt like I could have written that very post.

Depression is, as I’ve commented on here on numerous occasions, a terrible thing. It destroys lives — quite literally, in all too many cases. And for those who hang on in there trying to survive day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, little by little, it can feel like a pointless journey with no end in sight. Or, perhaps more accurately, it can feel like a journey with two possible destinations: the one that’s worth getting to, the one that’s hard work and far away, feels like it’s way beyond the horizon and perpetually moving away from your current position, while the other destination is just a short hop off the cliff that is forever to one side of you. Just jump, and you’re there; the end, that’s it, nothing more to worry about.

Dan describes in his post how he has contemplated taking his own life. On a number of occasions throughout my time on this earth, similar thoughts have entered my mind. They’ve never stuck around long enough for me to seriously feel like I’d ever act on them, but they’ve been there nonetheless, offering me that easy-to-get-to destination during the darkest periods of my journey. I’ve wondered what it might be like; I’ve even written a private piece of creative writing contemplating what it might be like to go through with ending one’s own life, but even then my own mind stopped me from truly going through with it: the character in the short tale (who might as well have been me) was saved at the last second by a fictional character of my own creation who has always brought me great comfort ever since I first dreamed her up back in high school. Even in fiction, it was clear I didn’t want to go through with it.

My life’s not in a terrible place. I can’t complain too much. But still the darkness comes from time to time; feelings of bleakness and hopelessness — and no-one around to go and hunt Odin with (there’s a reference only FFXIV players will get) — that eventually dissipate into the wind, but which occasionally, from time to time, drift back, sometimes as the result of a careless word, sometimes due to something silly happening, sometimes just… because.

It’s an unfortunate reality of life. And it’s one that, over the years, I’ve come to know a significant proportion of people carry the burden of — even those who may seem bright, chipper and upbeat when you see them face-to-face. That public face isn’t always the true face; inside, there might be unrest, pain, suffering, even the desire to end it all. You can never really know what someone is feeling unless they’re feeling strong and safe enough to spell it out for you, like Dan did with the post I linked to above, and like I’ve done a few times here on this blog.

2014 has been a year of ups and downs for many of us. Here’s hoping that 2015, which is just around the corner, errs on the side of “up” rather than “down”.

1769: Knackered

To be perfectly frank with you, dear reader, I’m not at all sure what I should write about today, so I’ve come to the oft-reached conclusion that I should just start typing and see what spews forth from my brain onto the page, like a violent eruption of creative vomit into the toilet of online publication.

I’m tired. I may have had Monday off from work thanks to our holiday, but it’s still been a long week. It hasn’t been the best week either, frankly, not because of any real specific happenings, but just from a mental health perspective. I don’t know whether it’s a sort of “comedown” from the nice time we had away or if it’s something a bit more deep-seated, but I’ve been feeling thoroughly miserable this week for a variety of reasons, which has probably been pretty clear from at least a couple of my recent posts.

Still, no matter, I guess, because the weekend is here, and that’s time to rest, relax, recharge and… something else beginning with R. (No, not that. Honestly.) Andie is away for most of tomorrow for a friend’s birthday party celebration drinks type thing, so I’m taking the rare opportunity to go spend some time with one of my local friends (and regular board gaming buddies) at the weekend. We’re going to play some Wii U and possibly some board games, and he’s going to experiment with cooking things that sound far too ambitious but which will hopefully be tasty if they come out all right.

We shall see, I guess.

The onset of winter isn’t helping with the whole “feeling a bit low” thing. It’s got to that point in the year where it’s dark when I leave the house in the morning, and by the time I get out of work it’s dark, too, making me feel like I live in perpetual night-time. (The fact my office doesn’t have a whole lot of natural light going on doesn’t help, either, and hours of fluorescent lights and computer screens every day isn’t particularly restful on the eyes. It’s no surprise that I feel like I need some new glasses, but after the opticians I went to last got my prescription wrong not once but twice I’ve been hesitant to waste more time on eye tests and getting glasses made.)

It’s cold, too. Not cold enough for snow and ice, thankfully — there’s only been one morning so far where I’ve had to chip frost off my car, though naturally this occurred before I’d actually remembered to purchase an ice-scraper — but still uncomfortably chilly. We have at least figured out both how to turn on the gas fire in our living room (which I’m still convinced works through black magic, since the stuff in it looks like it’s burning but actually isn’t) and how to turn on the heating in the rest of our house using the old-ass combination of dodgy thermostat and rattly electric timer. We thought for a while that the heating wasn’t working, but — my Grandad would be proud of me — a bit of wiggling the valve thing in the airing cupboard seemed to make it start working again without too much difficulty. That saved an expensive call to a heating engineer, anyway.

So that’s been my day and my week, then. Quite looking forward to tomorrow, it should be fun to get out of the house and do some stuff for a while. As of right now, though, I feel very much like curling up in bed with my Vita is the right thing to do, so I think that’s what I’m going to go and do.

1758: Those Winter Nights

I’m beginning to think that there’s not really any part of the year that is what I’d call “ideal” conditions in this country. The summer months are far too hot, and the winter months we’re moving into now are far too cold, wet, windy and just generally irritating.

There’s a special kind of unpleasantness about winter, though. As I sit here typing this, the weather outside can probably be best described as sounding “hostile”. The wind is blowing, picking up and howling through the streets and alleyways; the rain is falling, drenching everything and turning anything that isn’t concreted over into a swampy mire of brown gunge; there’s a draught coming in from somewhere around the window that I haven’t managed to identify as yet.

Not only that, but we’re at that time of year where, assuming you go out to work, you’re probably leaving your house when it’s dark and not getting back until it’s dark either. All in all, it’s a fairly bleak time of the year, and it’s unsurprising that it puts some people in dark moods.

I’m not sure what changed my outlook. When I was young, I used to quite like winter. I used to enjoy the early darkness and the necessity to carry a torch around — I must confess I still do have an odd liking for wielding a torch, even if it’s only an improvised one using my phone’s flash — and I used to like wrapping up in layers to be immune to the waves of cold in the air. I used to enjoy the run-up to the Christmas period, complete with village carol singing and the inevitability of being invited in for brandy and mince pies at least once or twice during our nightly tours of the mean streets of Great Gransden. I never used to really notice the bleakness.

So what changed? I wonder. Perhaps it’s just the fact that my life is very different to how it was when I was younger; the fact that now, rather than living the carefree life of a child, I have my own responsibilities and anxieties to worry about, including the necessity of getting up and going out — often in horrible weather — to get to work on time, then getting home in often equally horrible weather only to slump down, pretty tired out and not really desirous of doing anything other than something that doesn’t require a huge amount of mental activity.

Perhaps I’m just not quite in the rhythm of the full-time job set just yet. I’ve been doing pretty well, though; I’ve managed to maintain my routine of getting up earlier than I was, leaving earlier than I was and usually missing the bulk of the traffic of a morning and sometimes in the evening too. This puts me in a somewhat more positive frame of mind, even if the weather is as hostile as it sounds like it is as I type this. There’s still that ever-present feeling of tiredness, of slogging on towards some as-yet unknown destination. But that’s just how life works for the vast majority of the population; I should probably get used to it.

I have an away-day for work tomorrow. Not really relishing the prospect of having to stay overnight, but at least the accommodation is paid for (albeit in boardings described by one reviewer on TripAdvisor as “like a prison camp, only dirtier”) and we’re getting fed. And then at the end of this week Andie and I are taking a short break at Center Parcs over in Longleat for her birthday treat. I’m looking forward to that, so I guess there’s the objective for this week, if nothing else.

On that note, then, it’s time to wrap up warm, snuggle down under the duvet and get some sleep for a horrendously even-earlier-than-the-new-usual start tomorrow morning. Expect a grumpy post from my phone tomorrow evening, and the comics will be back the day after assuming I don’t just collapse from exhaustion the moment I get back in.