#oneaday, Day 348: End of the Year Show

So, 2010. Here we are. Your last day with us. You have a lot to answer for.

Actually, let me start.

Fuck you. I remember at the start of 2010 thinking "2009 sucked. 2010 will kick ass." I can't even remember why 2009 sucked so much now, such was the order of magnitude that your suckiness dwarfed it by.

Let's keep score, shall we?

I started the year in a job that I wasn't sure I wanted to do—an ill-advised return to school teaching on the suggestion of several people who thought I'd be good at primary school teaching, and that it might be less stressful than the horrors of secondary education.

They were wrong.

Given that the school I worked at was in what can politely be termed a "difficult area", there were plenty of what can politely be termed "challenging pupils". Most notable among them were a child who decided to spend one early morning Guided Reading session lying face-down on the floor screaming "PLEASE STOP THE PAKISTANI INVASION! PLEASE STOP THE PAKISTANI INVASION!" in a school that was probably made up of a good 60-70% of ethnic minority children, and the kid who liked to tear down wall displays, run out of the classroom and climb trees. It's amusing now. It was less amusing at the time, and it should be pretty obvious that those kids have no place in mainstream education.

Also at the school, I went through an OfSTED inspection, where the school was judged to be "failing". This is because it was judged on the same criteria as schools in affluent areas and therefore, unsurprisingly, came up somewhat short. I was referred to as "inadequate" by a person who had spent approximately ten minutes watching me teach, and I knew that I had to get out.

Fortunately, an ideal excuse for getting out came along in the form of PAX East in Boston, MA. I had never been to Boston, and I had never been to a video game convention. This was also going to be an opportunity to meet a huge number of the Squadron of Shame members face-to-face for the first time. I wasn't about to pass that up, so I bought a ticket even before I'd quit my job.

I quit said job just in time to avoid having to go on a residential trip with the kids I'd come to resent so much and spent a blissful few days amongst my fellow nerds at PAX East and can honestly say that there are few occasions that I've ever felt happier than when I was there with my "people". I wished it could go on forever, but sadly it couldn't. And things were only going to get worse from hereon.

I worked for a few scattered days doing supply teaching, but wasn't enjoying it at all, least of all the whole "get up early just in case there's any work" arrangement, where every day led to the weighing up of emotional wellbeing and financial stability.

In late April, I turned 29. I was not in a good place mentally, so I didn't feel much like celebrating at the time. I still don't. Then in early May, everything changed. The one thing I thought I could count on—my home life, my marriage, the love I had—went away. There were many reasons for this and at this point it doesn't do anyone any good to assign "blame" either way because things on both sides led to this point. I wish they hadn't, but it seems that some things are supposed to happen, however painful they are.

And painful it was. The experience damn near destroyed me. I had whole days where I was completely unable to function. I had plenty of times when I wished everything would just go away, that I wouldn't have to face these things any more. I went through all the however-many-stages-of-grief-there-are several times and am still jumping back and forth between them now. I resented everyone who told me that it would "just make me stronger" and put on a brave face for the public (and this blog, which I kept plugging away at even through those dark times) but appreciated those people who showed themselves to be true friends more than they could ever realise.

And all through this I was no closer to finding a job. I interviewed for a job I didn't want and did well (though didn't get it) and for a job I really did want and didn't get that either. Eventually, the money ran out and I found myself having to move back home, an act which however you dress it to me and however necessary it was still feels like a punch in the face every time I wake up of a morning.

The holiday season came, and I spent it in the States with my brother and the rest of my family. This turned out to be a positive move, as I had the opportunity to meet up with a bunch of people and do what is commonly referred to as "professional networking". I scored some freelance work out of the whole arrangement—freelance work that pays money, even.

Then I came home to discover a huge bill from the taxman thanks to some uncompleted self-assessment forms which I had no idea I was supposed to do and a podcast to edit whose audio files were ruined beyond repair. A final slap in the face from a shitty year? Let's hope so.

During 2010, despite all this, I made some great friends through the #oneaday initiative, through Kombo.com, through The Big Pixels and through Twitter. I also successfully completed the Couch 2 5K running challenge, and have posted every day since the 19th of January on this blog. Those parts of the year I wouldn't change. The rest can go F itself in the B.

2011 has a lot for me to look forward to. More freelance work, which I really enjoy, even the rewrites. The all-new One A Day Project, which I'm doing my best to co-ordinate. Hopefully a full-time job. And I'm praying for a lift out of the black pit that I've been sporadically stuck in since May. Can you be sporadically stuck in something?

Tonight I'm going down to Southampton to spend New Year's Eve with one of those true friends I mentioned earlier. 2010, I shan't be sorry to see you leave. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Actually, do. I've installed a spike on it, at just about ass-level. I hope you enjoy it. You cunt.

#oneaday, Day 200: Day 200

And it is with something of a sense of anticlimax that I reach my 200th daily entry on this blog. It's ten to midnight, I'm sitting in my pants in a stuffy study wondering if I should go and get a glass of milk, play the three Words With Friends games I've got on the go at present, stare at Twitter in the hope some revelation might come my way or simply go to bed.

Today didn't start particularly well, though I managed to get out of bed early for once. Something which I won't go into right now got me feeling not-particularly-good early on. Downright depressed, in fact. As such, I spent the vast majority of the morning not achieving very much at all. It's difficult to focus when there's nothing to really focus on.

That said, the day did improve somewhat later on. I have a second interview for a job I actually want on Tuesday. This is a Good Thing, and brings me on to my next point.

Some time back, I promised that by Day 200 on this blog, I would have made a decision on what I'd be doing. Now, as it happens, said decisions have been pretty much made for me by circumstances beyond my control. But here, for those who give a damn, is what's happening to me over the next few… I don't know how long.

I am soon to leave Southampton. In the words of my good buddy Kalam, who just skipped town to live in London and is having mixed feeling about the whole thing, "I've got all I can out of this town". There's certainly no jobs here that I want to do. If you're not an accountant, a lawyer or a docker here, there doesn't appear to be much in the way of work. And I refuse to apply for a job I don't understand the description for on principle.

I don't know exactly when I'll be leaving Southampton. But it will be some time before September 10, which is when the contract on my flat is up and is also, ironically, the birthday of my estranged wife. I will probably be out of here sooner than that, depending on how this interview goes and how soon I'd be able to start at this new position which I'm not going to talk about for fear of jinxing it.

Those of you who are still in Southampton: this town has been a big part of my life ever since I first came here in 1999. Even in the years I didn't live here, it was still "home". I have emotional ties and attachments here. And as such, I don't want to leave it quietly. My time with this town may be coming to an end, but I'm determined that I give myself a proper send-off. So please: if and when I announce I'm doing something to say goodbye, it would mean a hell of a lot to me if as many of you as possible could attend. I know this isn't "the end" and I'll doubtless see many of you again. But I'm going to Cambridge, which is a pretty long way away. So I'd like to say a proper goodbye to those I won't be seeing again for some time. This is a heartfelt request. I'll try and give as much notice as possible. Keep an eye on Twitter, Facebook and here. And, as arrogant as it sounds, make sure I have a send-off I won't forget in a hurry.

Beyond this isn't yet clear. The outcome of Tuesday will impact the details of what happens next. In an ideal world (which I know far too well we don't live in) I'd get this job, be able to start pretty soon, move back up to Cambridge to stay with my folks for a little while, earn some money, get back on my feet and then the world is my generic clamshell laptop computer.

I have mixed feelings about all this still. The circumstances of everything suck. There's no changing that. And it's going to be tough to leave behind this city that's been home for so long. But at the same time, a new start might just give a fresh outlook on anything. And being back at work will actually be nice. It's tough to fill the days sometimes, and that's what can lead to depression and not dealing with things very well.

So in summary: I'm not out of the woods yet. But I'm at least on the path.

Apologies this has been such a melancholy entry for such a milestone in the whole #oneaday project. Let's hope the next 165 days mark a new beginning. I'm past the halfway point now. Should be smooth sailing downhill from now.

Right?

#oneaday, Day 170: The Pile

Ever have one of those days where every little thing that is bothering you builds up into a mountainous heap and eventually ends up collapsing on your head? Today was one of those days. Every little and big thing that's been stressing me out attacked me all at once and beat me down until I really felt like I couldn't take any more. I had what could probably be scientifically-inaccurately-described as a mini-breakdown earlier. Pretty much a solid half an hour of really, really not being able to deal with anything. It's not a nice feeling. Half an hour isn't a huge amount out of a day. But it feels like a lifetime while it's happening. Thoughts flit in and out of your head, images of things that are going to happen, things that have happened, things you fear. Then they're gone before you can grasp them and deal with them, replaced by something else. The mental noise is awful, and relentless.

Eventually, it passes, of course, and you're left with a feeling of "what the fuck was that for?" It doesn't make experiencing it any easier. If anything, it leads to residual feelings of self-doubt, guilt and of course it does nothing for the self-esteem to know that you're the person who lets himself get beaten down by all the things that are happening.

That's stupid. Anyone undergoing a difficult situation that they've never been through before is sure to feel at least some of these things. So why feel guilty about it? Why feel doubt? Why think it makes you a worse person for letting go at the wrong minute and thinking "whoa… shit, I can't actually handle this"? No-one has infinite strength, however much they might want it, however much they might try, however much they might try punching the Konami code into various parts of their body.

It has to get easier… right?

I certainly hope so. Because right now, I don't feel like I'm making any progress. I'm no nearer getting a job than I was months ago. I'm alone. I'm in a place I can't afford to live in. I don't know where to move to because I don't have a job. And it turns out I am not dealing all that well with residual feelings of bitterness, resentment and anger. I don't like the person that these feelings make me into. He's weak, angry and cries a lot. He comes and goes. But he's always back again at some point, triggered by some stupid little thing. And it's getting to be too much.

I want these feelings to stop. I want my life back.

No. I want a new life. One that involves the important people from this life, and discards those things which have dragged me down into the mud time and time again.

I'm trying to make it happen. I'm trying.

It's got to start working soon. Right?

#oneaday, Day 121: Janet Street-Porter Is A Dickhead

"Well sure, Captain Obvious," I hear you say. "What else is new? Gordon Ramsay swears a lot? Brian Blessed is a bit shouty? Graham Norton is gay?"

Wait, Graham Norton is gay? Seriously?

Stop it, ethereal readers who aren't there really. I'm trying to make a point here. And my point is that, yes, Janet Street-Porter is a dickhead. Why do I say this with such authority though? Because of this.

For those of you too lazy to click on that link, or indeed those of you who are terrified of clicking on any sort of link that leads to the Daily Mail for fear of aspiring middle-class racist viruses infecting their otherwise happily multicultural computer, she wrote an article about depression under the title "Depression? It's just the new trendy illness!"

Not a good start. As someone who has suffered depression and stress to varying degrees throughout the years (with right now being one of the "more" rather than "less" periods) I found the title by itself offensive. But I clicked on anyway, just in case she had anything enlightening to say on the subject.

The misery movement has rapidly gathered momentum and in recent months it's become apparent that, along with the Sam Cam handbag, the latest must-have accessory is a big dose of depression.

Oh no. No no no. Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Depression is not a fashion accessory. Whether or not it's been diagnosed and/or treated (mine isn't and hasn't, for the record) it's serious business, and to put it in the same category as a bleeding Samantha Cameron handbag? That's just the tip of the bell-end poking through her forehead right there. She continues:

I am not denying that clinical depression is a real mental illness, or that it can be debilitating for sufferers. But let's take a moment to consider whether depression is common among the poor or the working class?

Oh, she doesn't deny it's a real, debilitating illness? How big of her. Is it common among the poor or the working class? Well, I don't know, Janet, you'd better get the SCIENCE! out and let us know.

If you're a black South African woman growing up in a township, or a mum in a slum favela in Rio, or a supermarket shelf-stacker in Croydon, or one of the band of low-paid female workers who go to work at 3am to clean the offices of the wealthiest and most powerful people in Britain in the City of London, you probably aren't afflicted by depression. What you're more likely to be suffering from is poverty, exhaustion and a deficient diet. You will have bills you can't pay and a struggle to feed and clothe your kids.

Right. Because you can't have depression and poverty. That would just be ridiculous! Hah! Look at the poor black people. Don't even have enough money to have a debilitating mental illness! How pathetic they are! PATHETIC, I SAY!

The death of my own sister reduced me to rage and despair, and the sudden death recently of a close personal friend rekindled the same feelings of hopelessness.

But my life goes on, I haven't retreated under the duvet with a bottle of pills. I refuse to accept this notion that a whole generation of women are being laid low by an unexplained epidemic of depression.

Ahh! "Life goes on!" Of course! All these people who are suffering with depression should just get up and get on with their lives! Silly me.

Of course, she does sort of have a point, albeit one expressed in the most obnoxious manner possible. The worst thing to do when suffering depression is to sit and wallow in it. That just makes it worse and worse and worse until you get to the stage where there's seemingly no way out of it. For some people, that leads to seeking professional help. For others, an intervention by the people who love them. And tragically, for some that ends in the taking of their own life.

But different people deal with things differently. We can't all be as strong as she apparently is, and for her to put down the efforts of those who are genuinely struggling with the condition as being somehow weak is both repulsive and wrong.

The truth is, we've got fatter and flabbier. Obesity is a medical condition too many of us are suffering from – but you can't claim time off work because you're fat. You can, however, suddenly find you can't 'cope' – and stress has become, in our work-orientated society, almost a badge of honour.

If you're stressed, it implies you are a busy person with plenty to do. Nowadays, women who've never been in a war zone or experienced an act of terrorism are claiming they are suffering from stress, when all they do is run a home and get the bus to work.

Stress has become so acceptable, the last government decided that the NHS would make counselling available for a whole variety of mental illnesses, from stress to depression to panic attacks and low self-esteem, totally gratis.

Oh, keep going, Janet! Have a dig at the fatties too! Go on! Especially if they're black! And poor! Poor black fatties! I bet they're gay too!

I've been stressed – reduced to midnight panic attacks with it, in fact. It's not pleasant. And I certainly didn't wear it as a badge of honour. I was ashamed of it. I was terrified on the one occasion I got myself signed off sick with stress. I dropped in the doctor's note when no-one was around and then got out of the door as fast as possible so no-one could witness my shame. It was an awful experience, and I'm by no means proud of it, as Janet seems to suggest I am. You don't have to have been in a warzone or have experienced an act of terrorism to suffer from stress. It depends on the sort of person you are. If you're someone with self-esteem issues like me, one single hurtful comment can trigger a depressive episode.

Needless to say, the article continues in a similar vein for a considerable number of words, with a particular highlight being Janet's "laughing out loud" at the prospect of men having low self-esteem. Her justification? Men have been in charge of everything for so long, so it's "karmic revenge". Well, as a man with low self-esteem, I say again, Janet, fuck you. And may the men in the white coats never come for you.

Of course, by posting this I'm probably doing exactly what was intended by the article – drawing attention to the Mail and it's "Oooh! Controversial!" columnists. Does Janet Street-Porter really hold such objectionable opinions? I don't know and right now I don't care. The Mail has long had a reputation as a filthy rag barely fit to wipe the arse of the country with. Every article like this that appears in it is a little worrying, because there are people out there who will read that and believe it. And that's a problem.

[UPDATE: The comments on that post are remarkably coherent for Mail readers, with all of the visible ones expressing concern or outrage over JSP's article. The Mail have closed comments on the article.]

'Tis the season to be miserable

So what's the deal with winter anyway?

Trite opening I know but it bears some discussion. Exactly what is it about those winter months that makes an already-curmudgeonly old git like myself into a regular Sad Sack? I refuse to believe there's not an answer beyond "it's cold" because I'm not the only one it happens to.

Case study number one: my very good friend, who we'll just call "E" in case she minds being used as a case study, cited the example to me that every bad breakup she's ever had took place in the month of December, almost without fail. Is this a symptom of the winter blues or just a coincidence? Whatever it is, it's made her just as distrustful of the month of Our Lord's birth than I am.

Who knows. All I know is that it's dark in the morning when I go to work, often dark in the evening when I return. The general public are in that irritatingly frenzied state of "panic buying" – because some people still aren't aware that most shops are shut on Christmas Day after all – and all those little annoyances about the general public that you already notice more than the average man in the street when you work in retail suddenly become ten to fifteen times worse. (I have no scientific basis for quoting that figure, I just thought I'd channel the arseholes who come up with make-up "fake science" adverts for a moment – they're gone now, don't worry.)

Last year I had the most miserable Christmas of my life. My wife-to-be had departed for Bolton to spend Christmas with her family (duty calls and all that) and I was scheduled to work.

But I had 'flu (and don't even get me started on that "man flu" bollocks that is such an unfunny running joke in this country), so I was confined to bed, unable even to go to work and spend time with the few buddies who were still here. Nope, instead I lay in bed on Christmas Day until about 3pm, only rising to make a Beechams Hot Lemon drink when the banging headaches and joint pains were getting a bit much.

I know there's people out there who have far more miserable Christmases than that, but this is my rant and god-dammit if I'm not going to be a bit selfish! (I also hate how political correctness dictates the necessity of a paragraph like this one, but that's another post all of its own)

Anyway. This Christmas is fortunately shaping up to be a lot better, as my now-wife Jane and I are spending our first Christmas on our own as a married couple.

It's not that I don't like spending time with people, you understand.

Actually, that's a lie. It's EXACTLY that I don't like spending time with people. Especially stressed-out people which, it often seems to me, is becoming more and more a part of the holiday season. The clue's in the name, people! A holiday should be a break, not an excuse to panic over a fat-ass turkey and whether or not you've got enough bloody vol-au-vents to feed Uncle Boggart.

Breathe.

So, there you have it.

I hope you, if you're reading this, have a better experience in the wintertime than either I or several of my friends have had or, in some cases, are having.

And if you do have friends who are having a tough winter, give them a hug. Sometimes it's all you need to let someone know you care, and it immediately makes things feel that much better.

I know, I'm a big girl, but I don't care.

Merry Christmas.

HUMBUG!!!