Tuesday, 5 August 2014
Love like you've never known.
We never know the love of the parent til we become parents ourselves. Words by Henry Ward Beecher, some 150 years ago.
You see nothing really prepares you for that love. It's not a love you've felt before. If you're reading this and you're not a mum, or a dad, then you don't know. You can't. Because this love surpasses any love you have ever felt in your entire life. Nobody can describe the feeling when you first hold your child in your arms, nobody can explain the sense of love, pride, amazement and bewilderment you feel when you look into the eyes of the thing, you created, and are now responsible for. This tiny thing, sat there staring at you, admiring you.
And that's just the first day. For as each day goes by, that love becomes exponential, rhapsodical, and gets into your heart so deep that you can't see or hear anything else. It's as if the whole world is an incidental and nothing else, not even your own sense of who you are, is important.
Our children steal us. They steal our hearts, our time, our sleep and they steal what we once were. Whatever person you were before you brought a child into this world, you are no longer. As time goes by you learn what sacrifice is. You learn a love that's so strong, you would give up every last breath to bring that person happiness.
Money, recognition, status, they all mean nothing. For in the eyes of a baby, you're the best dad in the world if you can sing row row row the boat. That's where our children differ from us. They do not base their love on pride, they do not base their love on your secular success, they base their love on you being you; mum or dad. You being there, and giving them the attention and love that they desire is the beginning and end of your job description. Don't expect pay, holidays, recognition, or any repayment. If you do, you simply cannot love. But if you succeed in loving your children, they will give you a degree of love back that's greater than any love you have ever experienced in your whole life.
A smile, a touch, a glance - that's all they need to do for you to feel so cherished, so important, so needed that you feel nothing else in the world matters.
My children are 14, 4 and 2 now. It brings me some sadness that I will never experience the gurgles, the whimpers, and the gummy giggles ever again. In this world, anyway. See, unlike our slow paced adult life, a new chapter begins every few months with your little one. They learn to stand up, then walk, then talk, and before you know it they've grown up. I cherish this time. I cherish being there - watching - learning - observing what were once these tiny bundles become emotionally complex individuals. It's hard, for sure - but no amount of hard work could ever make it not worth while.
Friday, 14 June 2013
It's downhill now, right? Or is it...
Answering the Question: “What Is Enlightenment?”
Kant answers the question quite succinctly in the first sentence of the essay:
“Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-incurred immaturity.”
He argues that the immaturity is self-inflicted not from a lack of understanding, but from the lack of courage to use one’s reason, intellect, and wisdom without the guidance of another. Our fear of thinking for ourselves.
He exclaims that the motto of enlightenment is “Sapere aude”! – Dare to be wise!
I turn 31 in a few weeks (or twenty eleven as I heard it described the other day, which is a joyous way to express it,) and the signs of receding youth fill me with a kind of disquietude as pieces of my body slowly fall away like wet cake. My hair has become grey and wiry, like a darker, aged version of Mattel's finest, and my once bounding energy akin to a cbeebies presenter on haribo has been replaced with a plodding, almost supine, state of consciousness. Perhaps I can blame parenting on that one.
My point is, such self-denigration is a backlash to the inevitable realisation that I am indeed no longer a child. This is something that, as a man, one resists and impugns like a toddler refusing to give up his favourite action man figure. It's scary and shuddersome. The mere acceptance of the fact one is no longer a child lays out before it rows of responsibility and accountability. Odd, you may think, that this should only dawn on me some seven years after getting married, and 3 since fathering my first child, but it's not about knowing, it's about accepting.
Kant made a salient point, that for a man to accept maturity, is to dare to be wise. And wisdom is something that creeps up on us, like the grey hairs on our head, or in my case, the hairs on our toes. Take that for a mental image. I am truly sorry!
As a new parent, I always rooted myself in self-incurred immaturity and an aspect of that was a determination to be a 'cool' dad. Not an older parent such as I had grown up with, but a hip, youthful father who would have fashion sense and not embarrass their children at the school gates, but rather be admired and respected and thought highly of by the other children. I longed that such phrases as "Your dad is so cool!" Would be uttered at the school gates. This, I was sure, would make my children blissfully content and overjoyed.
Now, three years down the line, I realise that this is not what my children want or need. What they do need, and what I had, is not a hip and trendy dad, but a wise one. A role model that can extol the virtues of hard work, the importance of spirituality, doing what's right because it's the right thing to do, and most of all simply someone to whom they can show love and have love shown back.
Olivia turns three in a few weeks, and starts nursery a few weeks after that. A terrifying prospect for me, but a joyous beginning for her. I shall resolve to be wise and mature at the school gates, and not wear an ed hardy tshirt in a desperate effort to be the coolest dad there. Or maybe I'm not ready to let that side of me go completely yet.
P x
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Kant answers the question quite succinctly in the first sentence of the essay:
“Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-incurred immaturity.”
He argues that the immaturity is self-inflicted not from a lack of understanding, but from the lack of courage to use one’s reason, intellect, and wisdom without the guidance of another. Our fear of thinking for ourselves.
He exclaims that the motto of enlightenment is “Sapere aude”! – Dare to be wise!
I turn 31 in a few weeks (or twenty eleven as I heard it described the other day, which is a joyous way to express it,) and the signs of receding youth fill me with a kind of disquietude as pieces of my body slowly fall away like wet cake. My hair has become grey and wiry, like a darker, aged version of Mattel's finest, and my once bounding energy akin to a cbeebies presenter on haribo has been replaced with a plodding, almost supine, state of consciousness. Perhaps I can blame parenting on that one.
My point is, such self-denigration is a backlash to the inevitable realisation that I am indeed no longer a child. This is something that, as a man, one resists and impugns like a toddler refusing to give up his favourite action man figure. It's scary and shuddersome. The mere acceptance of the fact one is no longer a child lays out before it rows of responsibility and accountability. Odd, you may think, that this should only dawn on me some seven years after getting married, and 3 since fathering my first child, but it's not about knowing, it's about accepting.
Kant made a salient point, that for a man to accept maturity, is to dare to be wise. And wisdom is something that creeps up on us, like the grey hairs on our head, or in my case, the hairs on our toes. Take that for a mental image. I am truly sorry!
As a new parent, I always rooted myself in self-incurred immaturity and an aspect of that was a determination to be a 'cool' dad. Not an older parent such as I had grown up with, but a hip, youthful father who would have fashion sense and not embarrass their children at the school gates, but rather be admired and respected and thought highly of by the other children. I longed that such phrases as "Your dad is so cool!" Would be uttered at the school gates. This, I was sure, would make my children blissfully content and overjoyed.
Now, three years down the line, I realise that this is not what my children want or need. What they do need, and what I had, is not a hip and trendy dad, but a wise one. A role model that can extol the virtues of hard work, the importance of spirituality, doing what's right because it's the right thing to do, and most of all simply someone to whom they can show love and have love shown back.
Olivia turns three in a few weeks, and starts nursery a few weeks after that. A terrifying prospect for me, but a joyous beginning for her. I shall resolve to be wise and mature at the school gates, and not wear an ed hardy tshirt in a desperate effort to be the coolest dad there. Or maybe I'm not ready to let that side of me go completely yet.
P x
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Let us not forget the true heroes
"You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” A.A Milne, and Pooh no less. Words I heard paraphrased on a TV Program I watched this evening baring the delightfully simple title, "Midwives." A program detailing the journey of 6 midwives who's work sees them trace a path through Manchester City, both in a pre and post natal capacity.
I have cried my tiny little eyes out every single episode so far. And not just at the sentiments of new arrivals into this world, but more at seeing a portrayal of the emotional path I myself went through. The shock, the terror, the elation. One particular dad, who had seemingly abandoned the mother-to-be, wore the same 'my-life-just-changed-for-good' expression as I did, over two years ago when Olivia was born.
But I digress. This post is not about me, my experiences, or my girlie tears. I'd like to talk about some true heroes of this world; midwives.
You hear talk of help for heroes, honouring heroes, respect for heroes, but this attention is aimed at those who, to all intents and purposes, end lives. The heroes we don't hear much about are the ones who bring us into this world.
When you become expectant mum and dads, your midwife becomes the most important person in the world to you. She's there to calm the freak-outs, to give answers to the neurotic questions you have, and most importantly to actually get your baby out. She makes you feel like you're the only people having a baby in the 9 months that you patiently wait for yours, when in reality, you're just a number in a hat that's picked out. And what a huge hat that is! I'm led to believe midwives can see 20-30 expecting mums every single day. That's 30 people to advise, 30 people to counsel, 30 people to correct in some way (your mums advice is usually to be ignored!)
These woman deal with not only the emotional roller coaster of child birth, which is enough in itself, but they also bare the brunt of people's anger, abuse, selfishness, ignorance and stupidity. Of course not everyone hurls this their way at once, but to be subjected to any of this at all is not, I'm sure, what they signed up for.
So here's a nod, if you will, to some true heroes of this world. The ones that probably made it possible for you to be reading this.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I have cried my tiny little eyes out every single episode so far. And not just at the sentiments of new arrivals into this world, but more at seeing a portrayal of the emotional path I myself went through. The shock, the terror, the elation. One particular dad, who had seemingly abandoned the mother-to-be, wore the same 'my-life-just-changed-for-good' expression as I did, over two years ago when Olivia was born.
But I digress. This post is not about me, my experiences, or my girlie tears. I'd like to talk about some true heroes of this world; midwives.
You hear talk of help for heroes, honouring heroes, respect for heroes, but this attention is aimed at those who, to all intents and purposes, end lives. The heroes we don't hear much about are the ones who bring us into this world.
When you become expectant mum and dads, your midwife becomes the most important person in the world to you. She's there to calm the freak-outs, to give answers to the neurotic questions you have, and most importantly to actually get your baby out. She makes you feel like you're the only people having a baby in the 9 months that you patiently wait for yours, when in reality, you're just a number in a hat that's picked out. And what a huge hat that is! I'm led to believe midwives can see 20-30 expecting mums every single day. That's 30 people to advise, 30 people to counsel, 30 people to correct in some way (your mums advice is usually to be ignored!)
These woman deal with not only the emotional roller coaster of child birth, which is enough in itself, but they also bare the brunt of people's anger, abuse, selfishness, ignorance and stupidity. Of course not everyone hurls this their way at once, but to be subjected to any of this at all is not, I'm sure, what they signed up for.
So here's a nod, if you will, to some true heroes of this world. The ones that probably made it possible for you to be reading this.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, 8 April 2012
The French say, accouchement
I must start this blog with a disclaimer that some of you may find portions of this blog entry a little upsetting. I can assure you that the outcome is a positive one though, so if you don't know me and are reading this, fear not too much.
I suppose a felicitous way to begin this would be at the beginning, a mere 60 hours ago. To set the scene, Suzanne was 3 days overdue and was booked in that day to have a sweep. If you don't what a sweep is, dare I suggest don't attempt to find out. I truly wish I hadn't been so curious as to find out the brass tacks so to speak. Needless to say, this sweep induced labor within 4 hours. Labor, if you've never experienced it, is a very long drawn-out experience, far removed from the depiction on your TV screens. There is usually no immediate panic, no rushing to hospital, rather the process tends to begin some 12 or more hours before the actual delivery. Armed with this knowledge, Suzanne retired to bed that night with a knowledge that our daughter was imminent but not feeling a sense of instancy.
A mere 10 hours later, the mood could not possibly have been any more diametrically opposed.
Suz awoke with contractions that were a mere 15 minutes apart. We corralled the kids into the car and headed to her parents house. Within a matter of minutes the contraction pain began to intensify to agonising. I knew the display of this level of pain well. It was present when we had Olivia and if my memory served me was there at what marked the final stages. By this point last time round Suz was in hospital, undressed, and ready to give birth. This time she was at her mums house, fully clothed, and some 35 minutes away from hospital. It wasn't a difficult decision to make to leave there and then.
About ten minutes into the journey the sense of urgency rapidly increased. Suzanne was beginning to writhe around in pain. I constantly checked the clock on my dashboard and could see the contractions getting closer and closer. I stopped looking when this hit two minutes because I was aware this was the delivery stage of labor and she needed to get to hospital fast! I began at this point to drive faster than I have ever driven in my life. I tried my best to maintain composure and appear calm for the sake of Suzanne. In some ways I thought in my mind I could somehow disguise the fact I was driving so fast. This proved somewhat difficult when my car chimed every time we hit a certain speed, a chime that I've never heard before. I shan't say what that speed was, but sufficient to say it got us there in time. Just.
As we entered the hospital Suzanne bent over double with the pain. I kept asking her if she wanted me to get a wheelchair. She didn't respond. There was a sense of relief we had made made it to hospital, immediately replaced with a realisation this this baby was well on the way and we still weren't in a delivery suite. We made it upstairs. Suzanne was 8cm dilated.
We had booked a birthing pool as research had shown water births to be an effective natural pain killer. Our suite was a large room with a bed at one side and what can only be described as a hot tub without bubbles in the corner. The midwife began running the pool. Within 5 minutes she turned off the taps. "This baby is coming whether we like it or not." We were at the point now where any kind of pain relief would be fruitless. This was to be a natural birth whether we wanted it to be or not.
I can't recall if I discussed this in detail on here when we had Olivia, but her delivery was a very drawn out process. I spent hours at the head of Suzanne's bed, rubbing her back, stroking her hair. The wait seemed never-ending and Suzanne was so fed up by the time Olivia did head out that she practically gave up mid way through (when the head was out, as I recall, which we look back at and laugh about.)
Suzanne felt the need to push. I was asked to press the call button and about a minute later the second midwife appeared. The all too familiar sterile packs were set out and delivery began.
In Sports Psychology there's a technique called imaging. Ever seen Formula 1 drivers or down hill skiers with their eyes closed before an event? They are planning the entire race/course in their mind and how they will react to every possible outcome. Doing this ensures they are fully prepared for what is about to happen. I wanted to key into this method a little in order to help Suzanne with the delivery. I kept reassuring her that there were only a few contractions left and the baby's head would appear. I knew that importance of appearing calm but deep down my heart was racing and I was nothing short of petrified. Then something happened that brought to the fore all the fears I'd reminded myself were foolish to possess. As the baby's head came out I could see her skin going purple. A sign that oxygen isn't flowing properly. I looked at the midwives and I saw them glance at each other with a pressing sense of urgency look. The baby was stuck and she was in serious danger. Whilst one midwife pushed down on her head, the other put her entire weight down on Suzanne's leg in order to create more space for the baby. I kept reassuring Suzanne she was doing well but at this point it was obvious she had realised the gravitas of the situation. She summoned up more strength than I suspect she has ever needed in her whole life and she pushed. The baby was quite literally yanked from inside her and put up onto her stomach. She was dark purple at this point and still hadn't drawn a breath. My heart began to race. I could feel Suzanne's hand clutching mine harden than it had when she was in pain. Then after some massaging she took in a lungful of air and let out a scream. A baby's scream I've never, ever, been so happy to hear. I leant forward and carefully cut the umbilical cord. And there she was, lay before us, Daisy Errington Reed. A truly beautiful gift and I feel the most blessed person in the world right now.
The below picture was taken right after I cut the cord.
P xx
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I suppose a felicitous way to begin this would be at the beginning, a mere 60 hours ago. To set the scene, Suzanne was 3 days overdue and was booked in that day to have a sweep. If you don't what a sweep is, dare I suggest don't attempt to find out. I truly wish I hadn't been so curious as to find out the brass tacks so to speak. Needless to say, this sweep induced labor within 4 hours. Labor, if you've never experienced it, is a very long drawn-out experience, far removed from the depiction on your TV screens. There is usually no immediate panic, no rushing to hospital, rather the process tends to begin some 12 or more hours before the actual delivery. Armed with this knowledge, Suzanne retired to bed that night with a knowledge that our daughter was imminent but not feeling a sense of instancy.
A mere 10 hours later, the mood could not possibly have been any more diametrically opposed.
Suz awoke with contractions that were a mere 15 minutes apart. We corralled the kids into the car and headed to her parents house. Within a matter of minutes the contraction pain began to intensify to agonising. I knew the display of this level of pain well. It was present when we had Olivia and if my memory served me was there at what marked the final stages. By this point last time round Suz was in hospital, undressed, and ready to give birth. This time she was at her mums house, fully clothed, and some 35 minutes away from hospital. It wasn't a difficult decision to make to leave there and then.
About ten minutes into the journey the sense of urgency rapidly increased. Suzanne was beginning to writhe around in pain. I constantly checked the clock on my dashboard and could see the contractions getting closer and closer. I stopped looking when this hit two minutes because I was aware this was the delivery stage of labor and she needed to get to hospital fast! I began at this point to drive faster than I have ever driven in my life. I tried my best to maintain composure and appear calm for the sake of Suzanne. In some ways I thought in my mind I could somehow disguise the fact I was driving so fast. This proved somewhat difficult when my car chimed every time we hit a certain speed, a chime that I've never heard before. I shan't say what that speed was, but sufficient to say it got us there in time. Just.
As we entered the hospital Suzanne bent over double with the pain. I kept asking her if she wanted me to get a wheelchair. She didn't respond. There was a sense of relief we had made made it to hospital, immediately replaced with a realisation this this baby was well on the way and we still weren't in a delivery suite. We made it upstairs. Suzanne was 8cm dilated.
We had booked a birthing pool as research had shown water births to be an effective natural pain killer. Our suite was a large room with a bed at one side and what can only be described as a hot tub without bubbles in the corner. The midwife began running the pool. Within 5 minutes she turned off the taps. "This baby is coming whether we like it or not." We were at the point now where any kind of pain relief would be fruitless. This was to be a natural birth whether we wanted it to be or not.
I can't recall if I discussed this in detail on here when we had Olivia, but her delivery was a very drawn out process. I spent hours at the head of Suzanne's bed, rubbing her back, stroking her hair. The wait seemed never-ending and Suzanne was so fed up by the time Olivia did head out that she practically gave up mid way through (when the head was out, as I recall, which we look back at and laugh about.)
Suzanne felt the need to push. I was asked to press the call button and about a minute later the second midwife appeared. The all too familiar sterile packs were set out and delivery began.
In Sports Psychology there's a technique called imaging. Ever seen Formula 1 drivers or down hill skiers with their eyes closed before an event? They are planning the entire race/course in their mind and how they will react to every possible outcome. Doing this ensures they are fully prepared for what is about to happen. I wanted to key into this method a little in order to help Suzanne with the delivery. I kept reassuring her that there were only a few contractions left and the baby's head would appear. I knew that importance of appearing calm but deep down my heart was racing and I was nothing short of petrified. Then something happened that brought to the fore all the fears I'd reminded myself were foolish to possess. As the baby's head came out I could see her skin going purple. A sign that oxygen isn't flowing properly. I looked at the midwives and I saw them glance at each other with a pressing sense of urgency look. The baby was stuck and she was in serious danger. Whilst one midwife pushed down on her head, the other put her entire weight down on Suzanne's leg in order to create more space for the baby. I kept reassuring Suzanne she was doing well but at this point it was obvious she had realised the gravitas of the situation. She summoned up more strength than I suspect she has ever needed in her whole life and she pushed. The baby was quite literally yanked from inside her and put up onto her stomach. She was dark purple at this point and still hadn't drawn a breath. My heart began to race. I could feel Suzanne's hand clutching mine harden than it had when she was in pain. Then after some massaging she took in a lungful of air and let out a scream. A baby's scream I've never, ever, been so happy to hear. I leant forward and carefully cut the umbilical cord. And there she was, lay before us, Daisy Errington Reed. A truly beautiful gift and I feel the most blessed person in the world right now.
The below picture was taken right after I cut the cord.
P xx
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Monday, 26 March 2012
A road to parenthood repeated
I am stunned to see the last time I blogged was an entire year ago!
I have news, which if you are reading this is probably not new, that my road to parenthood is about to begin all over again. We are due a new baby in just over two weeks.
Sadly my praxis of blogging is somewhat patchy and for the paucity of entertained readers I have, I can only apologise for such procrastinating and sheer laziness on my part.
This, second round, is to be our swan song, spelling out the final chapter of pregnancy, child birth, breast feeding and everything that ensues. After a transitory thought process we decided this is to be our last baby, although I do appreciate these can be famous last words and somehow, and I'm still to this day unsure how, more children can come along 'quite by accident.' I always felt that stating a child was an accident is akin to saying one accidentally got ones car wet whilst washing it. I jest, of course. I know there can be preventative measure failures. I just hope such doesn't happen to me, because frankly, I really don't want to buy a Vauxhall Zafira.
This time round has been an altogether different experience. It has brought a clarity of understanding to me with regards to people with 4 or more children and how they seem to almost forget they are there. It seems true that as the number of children increases, the sense of urgency and in some ways the whimsical nostalgia fades a little. At this stage in Olivia's term, we were frantically creating nursery lists, planning rooms, cars, and making sure our entire household was correctly geared. This time round I can safely say we've done nothing. Perhaps this is aplomb derived from the knowledge that raising children isn't actually that hard. Gasp, I hear you, but bare with me. The fundamentals of child rearing are feed it, change it, wind it, put it to sleep. Animals do it (save for the changing) and they have but a paucity of brain cells in comparison to us. But you see it's only hindsight that imparts you with this realisation. If you go back to the beginning of my blog you'll see my tales of anxiety and a general sense of being in trepidation. Non of these feelings are present as I type this. Well, maybe a little.
Being spared of most of the disquietude has in some ways taken the excitement out of having a baby. No rushing around buying things, no militaristic planning, in fact it almost feels like we're planning to pick something up from the hospital. Although I'm sure, faced with the newborn, it will all coming flooding back. Oh, and I'm sure Suzanne will have differing opinions on the matter, but this is my blog, so ner.
I promise to blog when the baby arrives. Might need a bit of reminding.
Paulie x
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I have news, which if you are reading this is probably not new, that my road to parenthood is about to begin all over again. We are due a new baby in just over two weeks.
Sadly my praxis of blogging is somewhat patchy and for the paucity of entertained readers I have, I can only apologise for such procrastinating and sheer laziness on my part.
This, second round, is to be our swan song, spelling out the final chapter of pregnancy, child birth, breast feeding and everything that ensues. After a transitory thought process we decided this is to be our last baby, although I do appreciate these can be famous last words and somehow, and I'm still to this day unsure how, more children can come along 'quite by accident.' I always felt that stating a child was an accident is akin to saying one accidentally got ones car wet whilst washing it. I jest, of course. I know there can be preventative measure failures. I just hope such doesn't happen to me, because frankly, I really don't want to buy a Vauxhall Zafira.
This time round has been an altogether different experience. It has brought a clarity of understanding to me with regards to people with 4 or more children and how they seem to almost forget they are there. It seems true that as the number of children increases, the sense of urgency and in some ways the whimsical nostalgia fades a little. At this stage in Olivia's term, we were frantically creating nursery lists, planning rooms, cars, and making sure our entire household was correctly geared. This time round I can safely say we've done nothing. Perhaps this is aplomb derived from the knowledge that raising children isn't actually that hard. Gasp, I hear you, but bare with me. The fundamentals of child rearing are feed it, change it, wind it, put it to sleep. Animals do it (save for the changing) and they have but a paucity of brain cells in comparison to us. But you see it's only hindsight that imparts you with this realisation. If you go back to the beginning of my blog you'll see my tales of anxiety and a general sense of being in trepidation. Non of these feelings are present as I type this. Well, maybe a little.
Being spared of most of the disquietude has in some ways taken the excitement out of having a baby. No rushing around buying things, no militaristic planning, in fact it almost feels like we're planning to pick something up from the hospital. Although I'm sure, faced with the newborn, it will all coming flooding back. Oh, and I'm sure Suzanne will have differing opinions on the matter, but this is my blog, so ner.
I promise to blog when the baby arrives. Might need a bit of reminding.
Paulie x
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Do we all live in glass houses?
I find myself arriving at this page every so often, be it via my iPhone or the rare chance I get to spend some time in the office in front of the computer, when the mood takes me to write. Sometimes I feel compelled to convey emotions, opinions or present a tale of general malaise. A vast proportion of these visits result in the inevitable retraction of thoughts, deeming them too personal or confessional than is good for me. However, I hold close to the adage that a problem shared is a problem halved. By the very nature of that aphorism, the said problem should be granulated to such a degree it becomes non existent if shared enough times. What better way to do it than a blog. I'm unsure as I write this if the publish button will be clicked, if the thoughts will be shared, but I gain solace in the fact that perhaps by just writing them I will have halved the problem.
Those who know me well, and perhaps those that don't, will probably be aware of the fact I very much wear my heart on my sleeve. But the truth is, I don't. I developed from a very young age the ability to create a sort of pseudo candor, a trick to make it appear I was bearing all when in fact, I was doing nothing of the sort. I grew up in an environment where strength was a necessity, a requirement to support those around me. The notion of showing weakness, sadness, an inability to cope, was simply not in the option list. However, beneath this affectation I suffered in a world of deep depression. Where there appeared strength, there was weakness. As my life progressed I settled into this semblance, allowing how I wanted people to see me to take over how I was actually feeling. In truth, I maintain this dissimilation to this day, and still suffer depression to a great degree. It writhes me with guilt to feel the way I do because I have so much good in my life; so many aspects of positivity. But that's where rational thought prevails, and anyone that has suffered with depression knows that rational thought may as well be pieces of string for all good it does. It's painstakingly difficult to remove ones self from the irate, irrational, borderline paranoid thought process. I live a life of almost incessant worrying that I have upset someone, or done something to incite disapproval from them. I end most days wishing I hadn't said half of the things I said and often feel that as a result of my daily words or actions, the people close to me will want nothing more to do with me. Self-loathing is very symptomatic of depression and it's something I pursue a daily battle with. And the problem with self-loathing is that it becomes an endless spiral of feeling bad about how you are as a person, act, look, and how people perceive you and then feeling bad for feeling bad, and so forth.
This year has seen nothing but positivity in terms of my surroundings and I am working hard on a clarity of focus on these things, and I have set myself as many attainable goals as I can think of. I just hope I can reach them...
Those who know me well, and perhaps those that don't, will probably be aware of the fact I very much wear my heart on my sleeve. But the truth is, I don't. I developed from a very young age the ability to create a sort of pseudo candor, a trick to make it appear I was bearing all when in fact, I was doing nothing of the sort. I grew up in an environment where strength was a necessity, a requirement to support those around me. The notion of showing weakness, sadness, an inability to cope, was simply not in the option list. However, beneath this affectation I suffered in a world of deep depression. Where there appeared strength, there was weakness. As my life progressed I settled into this semblance, allowing how I wanted people to see me to take over how I was actually feeling. In truth, I maintain this dissimilation to this day, and still suffer depression to a great degree. It writhes me with guilt to feel the way I do because I have so much good in my life; so many aspects of positivity. But that's where rational thought prevails, and anyone that has suffered with depression knows that rational thought may as well be pieces of string for all good it does. It's painstakingly difficult to remove ones self from the irate, irrational, borderline paranoid thought process. I live a life of almost incessant worrying that I have upset someone, or done something to incite disapproval from them. I end most days wishing I hadn't said half of the things I said and often feel that as a result of my daily words or actions, the people close to me will want nothing more to do with me. Self-loathing is very symptomatic of depression and it's something I pursue a daily battle with. And the problem with self-loathing is that it becomes an endless spiral of feeling bad about how you are as a person, act, look, and how people perceive you and then feeling bad for feeling bad, and so forth.
This year has seen nothing but positivity in terms of my surroundings and I am working hard on a clarity of focus on these things, and I have set myself as many attainable goals as I can think of. I just hope I can reach them...
La vita nova
It was once said that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. Tonight was one of those life changing moments that took my breath away to as prodigious a degree as the announcement that I was to be a father. Two of my dearest friends sat before Suzanne and I and confessed something they had been hiding for a number of weeks; that they were to bring a newborn into this world in little over 6 months. The news was completely, totally and utterly unexpected. Hearing this news took me back to the elation I experienced some 15 months ago. I felt a warmness in my heart and a realisation that this news was to spell out, I hope, a future carved out in a stone shared by all of us for many years to come.
To Si and Jo - congratulations to you both. I can't wait to meet Baby Tate.
To Si and Jo - congratulations to you both. I can't wait to meet Baby Tate.
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