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The Lawes Disorder.
by Andrew Lawes
Copyright © 2014 by Paul Andrew Lawes
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United Kingdom.
First Printing, 2014
This Second Edition published February 2015
Lawes & Disorder Productions,
14 Castle Drive,
Penrith,
Cumbria,
CA11 7DW,
United Kingdom.
www.LawesDisorder.com
lawesdisorder@gmail.com
Contents
Dedication. ...................................................................................5
Depression. ................................................................................. 6
Loving Someone With Depression. ........................................... 15
Understanding Self-Harm. ........................................................ 18
Children Remember. .................................................................. 21
The Scandal of Male Suicide. .....................................................25
If You Are Struggling With Depression And Thoughts of
Suicide: ...................................................................................... 29
Miscarriage................................................................................ 34
Can I Overcome Depression? ................................................... 38
Back From The Brink – a poem. ................................................ 41
The Impact Of Absentee Parents. ............................................. 43
Passion, Depression, Fear and Love. .........................................47
Confronting fear and rediscovering life.................................... 50
Dealing with a relationship break-up. .......................................53
Fighting back against depression. ............................................. 57
A short note of affirmation. ....................................................... 61
Deeper into depression, self-harm and suicide. ....................... 62
The effect of capital punishment on the victim’s psyche. ........ 66
The feeling of liberation. ........................................................... 68
Cannabis, depression and legalisation. .................................... 70
Remembering a moment of support when I needed help. ........ 72
Heaven, hell and the misuse of religion. ...................................74
“My name is Andrew Lawes, and I am afflicted with a condition
definable only as the Lawes Disorder.” .................................... 78
“I am a man with a mental disorder”. ....................................... 81
Reflections written after Robin Williams passed away. ........... 83
The butterfly effect of a smile. .................................................. 86
With regards the whole 'suicide is selfish' thing: ..................... 87
Can understanding of autism be related to depression support?
................................................................................................... 88
Game of Thrones, the Scottish Referendum and The Chief...... 91
Can understanding autism be beneficial in relating the lessons
of religion? ................................................................................ 95
The importance of asking why. ................................................. 98
Supporting someone to open up emotionally. ......................... 99
If you are in an abusive relationship: ...................................... 103
Supporting someone who self-harms. ..................................... 107
The cancer of depression. ......................................................... 111
The Lawes Disorder, The Reaction and Disorderville. ........... 114
Bonus Content: throwaway thoughts on random topics. ........ 122
Dedication.
This book is dedicated to the six people whose love, guidance,
support and example gave me the strength to fight my way
back from my personal hell.
I smell like smoke because I have walked through the fire.
Jeeves, Ella, Dinga and Darren, without you, that fire would
have turned me to ash. I will never be able to find the words to
explain what you all mean to me; I hope to spend many years
showing you through my actions and hope that I do it well
enough.
Daisy and Olivia, your Daddy is the best dad I’ve ever known.
I don’t know how to be a good uncle, but I just hope to be the
person you need me to be whenever you need it. You’ve both
done more for me than I could ever repay, but I’ll try my best.
I believe you choose your purpose in life. Living my life by
your standards seems a good one to me. Thank you for loving
me.
Andrew xxx
“There is nothing that eats at the soul more than to live a lie,
Have strength enough to follow your heart,
For wherever it may take you
Will be where you are meant to be.”
The Chief
♦◊♦
Depression.
De-pres-sion [dih-presh-uh n]
Noun:
1.
The act of depressing.
2.
The state of being depressed.
3. A depressed or sunken place or part; an area lower than
the surrounding surface.
4.
Sadness; gloom; dejection.
5. Psychiatry. A condition of general emotional dejection
and withdrawal; sadness greater and more prolonged than
that warranted by any objective reason.
The dictionary has five ways to describe depression. Here’s
another:
The toughest, scariest, most misunderstood illness you will
ever come across.
Depression always seemed so easy to understand … until the
day it turned my life upside down.
A therapist once suggested that mild-grade depression has been
present since the age of four. It’s an opinion with merit, one
backed up by my being a messed-up kid. Binge-drinking. Drug
and solvent abuse. Self-harm. Razorblades and cigarette burns
were my thing; the scars adorn my body today. Smoking
cannabis was the only way to medicate my disorder enough to
function in the world. The legality doesn’t matter – it’s the only
medication that stops me self-harming, and the only one that
negates my suicidal thoughts. You do what you have to do to
stay alive.
It was at the age of 25 that depression truly took control of my
mind.
♦◊♦
On the walk to work, the acidic taste filled my mouth. That
strange ache in the teeth that you get made me aware what was
happening. The dry-heaves; the bile in my throat … the back of
my mouth … palms cold and clammy, bent double on the grass,
the vomit left my mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Putting it
down to a hangover, my excuses were made with work. It was
only one day, it didn’t matter really.
One day turned into two; three days turned into a week. Every
day it got harder to wake up. My energy levels were depleting
rapidly. It was a struggle just to stay awake, never mind get out
of bed. Talking to people was out of the question – far too
draining. The doctors suggested it could be stress-related
burnout. That made sense: working in a care home, with all the
pressure to work overtime, the lack of support for staff and the
nature of the challenging behaviour; it must have got too much.
A few days off would do me good. Except it was now two weeks
off and counting. An antidepressant called Citalopram was
prescribed; the doctor said this would make things better.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Over the next few weeks, the prescribed medication sent me
insane. Throughout the days, the Citalopram detached me from
everything. It felt like my mind was a step behind my body;
everything felt almost dream-like, but not in a nice way. To look
in the mirror was to stare at a stranger; a gaunt, prescription-
drugged-up shell of a man. It wasn’t me in the mirror. It felt like
there was no way back to the pre-illness Andrew – he’d gone,
and there was no way to find him again.
Yet the days were a blessing compared to the nights.
Sleep was impossible because of the endless stream of thoughts.
Not just suicidal thoughts, but worse; thoughts so dark and
obtrusive that they seemed to be coming from a mind that
wasn’t my own. The thoughts of suicide were, in a strange way,
a blessing. They were the only thing that made me feel like
there was some escape from the madness enveloping me. It was
the thoughts of living; the thoughts of impending insanity and
institutionalisation; those were the thoughts that terrified me.
At times it felt almost schizophrenic; my thinking patterns
seemed so alien that it felt like it must be someone else’s
thoughts. The doctors had warned that the Citalopram could
take up to 6 weeks to work, but this was destroying me, not
helping me.
♦◊♦
It all culminated one night in October, where the strongest urge
overcame me. It was time to meet my old friend, to go back to
the only thing that made sense in times of emotional
breakdown. It had been seven years since the blade last
penetrated my skin, but at this moment, it was the only thing
that offered any semblance of sense, of control. There was no
other way to feel something real … to know this wasn’t a
nightmare ... there was no other way to feel alive.
The kitchen knife was used this time. Slowly and deliberately,
the blade cut into my left forearm. Not too deep, never too
deep. It was never about scarring or injury with me. It was
always about the blood. The warm, comforting sensation of
feeling alive. As it ran freely, the thoughts in my head slowed. A
dark calmness crept over my body. It was nice. Placing the
blade against my skin, the process was repeated. One cut
became two; two cuts became four. The kitchen knife, more
commonly used for cutting chicken or beef, instead cut me open
again. And again. And again. By the end of the thirty minutes of
sanity disguised as madness, my arms were covered with
shallow cuts, from forearm to shoulder. The blood streamed
down both limbs, dripping from my hands until it covered the
kitchen floor. If my parents had come downstairs, they would
have witnessed a scene to grace a Stephen King novel, but they
slept soundly.
For the first time in months, amidst all the chaos, my mind felt
relaxed. My soul was at peace. It was a nice feeling.
♦◊♦
A few cigarettes later, I realised that what was going on was
pretty messed-up. I’d always thought that insanity would feel
like chaos, but it doesn’t. It feels more like a calm clarity. Being
insane isn’t something you are, it’s something other people
perceive you as. You’ve got the answers. The only thing insane
is that nobody else thinks like you do. I’d thought of suicide
before, and I thought of it now. I can’t keep living like this. I
can’t keep being the freak.
I needed to get through until morning, and I didn’t want to risk
being alone. I rang The Chief, a man more like a brother to me
than a friend. I explained the situation as calmly as I’d discuss
the weather. I asked if he fancied a coffee. At 3.30am, despite
starting work at 6am, he drove into town and picked me up. We
went and parked at the railway station. The Chief had brought a
flask of coffee in, along with a tray, a sugar bowl and two mugs.
It was preposterous, but The Chief knows the value of a cheap
laugh to ease tension.
As we drank our coffees, we chatted away about the same daft
stuff we always talked about – women, music and football. We
went over the arrangements for his band The Revolution’s next
gig, what time I’d be picked up, where it was – despite the
madness, I was still the Head Roadie for the band. I gave myself
a fortnight to plan everything and I figured I may as well enjoy
a great band one last time.
I was pleased with how normal everything appeared. Two old
mates, smoking a spliff and shooting the shit like we’d done a
thousand times before. To an outsider, nothing would seem
awry. The now-dried, flaky blood, the multitude of surface
wounds, safely hidden beneath my sleeves. We both knew it was
there but it was never mentioned. There would be no point.
He’d never be able to empathise with the urge to feel the blood
flow. He’d never embraced the sweet sting of the razorblades’
kiss.
As we talked my adrenaline eased, and the anxiety started to
return. The temporary respite from the mental warfare had left.
I silently considered what had transpired that night – what I
had done, how I felt, how the world would react if they knew.
I threw away the Citalopram. My theory is that anything that
makes you feel like you are losing your mind is never going to
help. Over the next few weeks, things started getting better. I
agreed to try Fluoxetine, or, as it is more commonly known,
Prozac. The difference was startling. Rather than feeling insane,
the dream-like state I’d been living in began to lift. It wasn’t
easy, but I fought like Daisy had. I took to writing things in a
notebook and carrying it everywhere; little phrases like “you’re
going to be OK Andrew” or “Remember, you are getting better”.
Finally, after two months of hell, I felt strong enough to return
to work.
♦◊♦
The anxieties began before I even walked through the door. I
set off half an hour earlier than normal; I wanted to be able to
rest on the way if my fatigue became a factor, and I needed time
to psyche myself up. The thought of entering the home I worked
in was daunting – I was a support worker who could barely
support himself. It wasn’t the job itself that I was scared of, but
my colleagues. They hadn’t known what was wrong with me.
How could they, when I didn’t even know what was going on?
All they knew was that, for eight weeks, I’d been showing up
once a fortnight to drop off a sick-note. They saw there was
nothing physically wrong with me, apart from the incessant
tiredness, yet I’d been away for two months with only the
vaguest of explanations.
Yes, I’d been unwell. I know now it was the power of depression
attacking me at full-force, but back then, I couldn’t fathom what
was going on. I couldn’t explain to my colleagues about the
madness that overcame me at night; about the thoughts of
suicide, the fear of being committed to an asylum. Nowadays
they call them Secure Units, but the ‘official’ name means
nothing when it comes to the wider world. The wider public still
think of them as insane asylums, where the ‘lunatics’ go. Was I
becoming one of those lunatics? It certainly felt so, and when I
walked into the home where I worked, it felt as though my
colleagues believed I was too.
I walked to the back of the office, mumbled a “hello” and then
sat in the corner, keeping my eyes on the floor. I avoided all eye
contact, focusing only on my heart pounding at what seemed
like a thousand beats a minute. I heard the conversation, but I
didn’t take it in. I mumbled a few replies, but I was desperate to
leave the office – it was so claustrophobic, and I felt like I was
on display, the freak they’d all been gossiping about for weeks.
I kept myself to myself for much of the day, trying to ease
myself back into the job. I was pleased to see the people I
supported – I knew they didn’t care where I had been; to them,
I had just come back to work after some time off. They didn’t
ask any questions of me, they just got on with their day. The
routines they had were comforting, enabling me to work on
autopilot, without having to think too hard or exert myself too
much, and I got through the day without incident. The next
couple of shifts went by fine, and I was starting to feel a little
better. I was still avoiding the questions of my colleagues,
sidestepping anything too probing with a simple “I’m fine”, that
little white lie that makes everything easier. It was all going
fine. That is, until the fateful Saturday night that exposed the
truth of my illness.
It began just like any other shift; there was nothing particularly
unique about it. About two hours in, I was in the office when
the world began closing in. My heart started racing, the
hyperventilation began, and my vision narrowed. I realised I
was having a panic attack. It wasn’t the first time I’d
experienced one, but it was the first time it had struck me at
work. I knew I had to get out of there, so I ran into the garden. I
crumpled to the ground and lowered my head between my
knees. “Just breathe Andrew, just breathe” I told myself,
although lack of breath wasn’t the problem, it was the short,
sharp breaths I was taking.
In.
Out.
In. Out.
Inout Inout.
Inoutinoutinoutinout.
I had ceded control of my breathing to the beast of depression.
Thoughts racing. Vision blurring. Heart pounding.
I was taken home by a colleague, who sat with me in the car and
reassured me for a good half an hour. As much as I wanted to
reveal the true depths of the darkness flooding my mind, the
words wouldn’t come. The shame I associated with
vulnerability, the fear of asylum, they were too strong.
Compassion and support were being offered, but I could not
accept them. I shuffled upstairs and hid in my bed, listening to
Avenged Sevenfold as loud as I could get away with. Loud
enough to distract me from my thoughts; quiet enough so as to
not attract attention from people. Listening on my headphones
wasn’t an option – the silence to the outside world would have
been a giveaway that something was awry. Listening to M.
Shadows sing “I’m not insane,” I wondered if I could still make
the same claim.
♦◊♦
For the next six months it was hard. I felt like I had to re-learn a
job I’d been doing for four years. I didn’t know how to talk to
my colleagues, and I suffered from panic attacks on a regular
basis. I had to take days off from time to time, and when I was
there, it felt like everyone was talking about me, especially with
the panic attacks, and with leaving halfway through shifts. I was
lucky that my manager was so supportive, for all his faults,
without him I doubt I would have a job, and for that I’ll be
eternally grateful to him. It was so hard, but I made it.
I don’t know what I feel about religion, heaven and hell, all that
spiritual stuff. I probably never will know how I feel about it.
There is, however, one thing I believe in, and that is angels.
Throughout my nightmare, the one thing that kept me fighting
was my niece, Daisy Willow. At just days, weeks old, she served
as an inspiration. I promised her that however hard things got
for me, I’d keep fighting, just like she did, and I have.
Over the last month or two, I’ve felt like I was getting ill again,
but I think I’ve got through OK. I’m not the best at handling
stress, or pressure. I’m terrified of getting ill again. I over-react
sometimes. But I’m still here. However many mistakes I’ve
made, I’m still here. That, in itself, is worth celebrating.
I made a promise to a new-born baby girl, a promise that I’d
never give up. I’m going to keep that promise, no matter what.
♦◊♦
Loving Someone With Depression.
Depression is devastating. For someone afflicted with the
illness, life becomes a war; each day bringing another epic
battle, each hour a struggle just to survive. But the person
touched by darkness isn’t the only one who struggles. The
people who are often forgotten are the loved ones of a person
with depression. No-one tells them how to cope, no-one offers
them support, and because of the stigma that surrounds mental
differences, they are too scared to ask for help.
The situation leaves you feeling powerless. You search for the
right words, but there’s nothing anyone can say. You attempt to
create special moments, but there’s nothing anyone can do. You
try a gentle approach; you try a firm approach. You give them
space; you try to get them to open up. You suggest things that
might make a difference. You buy them presents. You say
encouraging things; you get frustrated and shout. You try
everything you can think of, but it’s all in vain. At least, that was
my experience. With hindsight, my mistake was to treat
depression as a mood. Depression isn’t a mood; it’s cancer of
the soul, and it eats away at the mind until all that remains is
fear, anxiety and pain.
Try to envision depression as like being alone in a dark tunnel,
bereft of even a hint of light. Every sound is amplified, every
fear is magnified. All the person wants to do is get out of the
tunnel, but they can’t see where to go, they don’t know what to
do. Your natural reaction is to lead them out of this dark tunnel,
back to the light, but this is the wrong approach. It may seem
the logical thing to do, but for the person with depression,
nothing makes sense. That’s the nature of the illness. Nobody
can be led out of the tunnel; the fear is too great, the darkness
too dark.
What you need to do is be there for them. If they talk, just
listen. Stay quiet, avoid offering opinions and just really listen.
During my depression, it felt like nobody wanted to listen; they
just wanted the problem to go away. Everybody seemed to have
ideas on how to make that happen but the only need of mine
was to verbalise my story. It was finding someone to listen, give
me a hug and reassure me that things would be ok that proved
impossible. Nobody listened. They talked, and they advised,
and they suggested, and they dictated, and they shouted, and
they cried, and they tried to help, but they didn’t listen. More
than anything else, that’s what you need to do. Sit with your
loved one and let them talk. However upsetting or shocking
what they say is, just listen. When they finish, hug them, tell
them you love them, and that however long it takes, you will be
there until they find the strength to get better.
♦◊♦
The dark tunnel is relative. What seems pitch black to someone
with depression may only seem slightly dull to someone
without. Of course there’s a likelihood that, whilst supporting
someone with depression, you’ll have some dark days. It’s
important to take time for yourself too. Remember, you can get
out of the tunnel. Just because you can’t make someone come
with you, doesn’t mean you can’t inspire them to leave through
your actions. Indeed, it is vital you take time for yourself to do
things you enjoy, because the last thing someone who is ill
needs is the feeling that they are spoiling a loved ones’ life.
You will never be able to lead someone out of the dark tunnel.
All you can do is stay in the tunnel with them until they feel
strong enough to lead themselves out. Yes, it’s hard. In many
ways, hearing my loved ones tell me about their darkness was
worse than living in my own. Yes, it’s often thankless. And yes,
at times, you will feel rejected. But don’t give up on them.
Support them, love them and be there for them until they find
the strength to get better.
But most of all, when they talk, just listen.
♦◊♦
Understanding Self-Harm.
Self-harm is one of the hardest things for anyone to
understand, and to be honest, if you've never cut, it's unlikely
you'll be able to empathise. I hope this helps a little towards
that situation changing.
It goes without saying that this may be triggering, so if you are
feeling the urge to self-harm, wait until the feeling passes
before reading this. It features graphic descriptions of selfharm.
♦◊♦
The mind of a self-harmer is hard to understand. With
depression being the complex, unpredictable illness it is, trying
to pin down a reason behind self-harm is difficult. The biggest
misconception surrounding self-harm is that it is an indication
of suicidal feelings. This may appear to make sense, but it is so
far from the truth.
Self-harm isn’t about dying. Self-harm is about living.
When you have been hurt so much that you have become numb
to the world, sometimes, you will try anything, just to feel
something. I still remember the first time I self-harmed. I was
14 years old. I don’t know where the thought to self-harm first
came from. No-one I was friends with self-harmed. It could well
have been some celebrity or other, it doesn’t really matter.
However it got there, the thought was in my head, and I
couldn’t let it go.
My father had died a year or so earlier. I have many, many
issues with him. He was a violent alcoholic, who chose drink
over me and my brother when we were children. He had never
been in my life since. The problem was, the bastard died before
I had an opportunity to confront him, to challenge him. I never
had any answers from my father, and now I never would.
Since his death, I had veered between having so much emotion
I couldn’t handle it, to being so numb I couldn’t feel anything. I
was tortured by his memory, and now I would never have the
chance to resolve my issues. I couldn’t cope, and even now, 15
years since his death, I still struggle. Nothing made any sense to
me at all.
I found myself in the bathroom. I used a pair of scissors to prise
the blades from the razor. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I
didn’t care. I’d been completely numb for days, and I had this
blade. I had a chance to feel something.
I rested the blade against the back of my left forearm. I felt the
coldness of the steel as it lay against my skin. Slowly,
deliberately, I dragged the razor widthways across my arm.
I didn’t know what I was doing. It was almost trance-like, as I
watched the blood form on my arm and slowly trickle
downwards towards my hand. I felt the wetness. I felt the
warmth. For the first time in days, I felt alive.
That night was the first time I cut, but by no means was it the
last. As my emotions, mixed with the onrush of puberty,
became more confusing and made less and less sense, cutting
became the only way to maintain any semblance of power over
myself. When my emotions were numbed, cutting reminded me
I was alive. When my emotions were out of control, cutting gave
me back the power. The bleeding was my breathing, watching
the blood flow was my meditation.
But it was never about suicide.
♦◊♦
When I was emotionally numb, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to
feel. I wanted to be alive. When I was emotionally overcome, I
wanted a way to calm down, to feel in control of the emotions
that I couldn’t understand. The razorblade provided the answer
to both problems. But, of course, it created many new ones.
Hiding cuts and scars isn’t easy at any time, but especially not
in high school. I played rugby. I played football. Both required
changing in a room with other people. After a while, people
noticed. Truth be told, over time, I started forgetting to hide it.
Maybe it had just become normalised behaviour in my world,
and it didn’t seem an issue. Maybe, deep down, I hoped
somebody would see. Maybe I wanted someone to talk to me, to
tell me they understood, but no-one did. So I continued.
I’ve since read that self-harm releases endorphins into the
body, and that this feeling can become addictive. Whether
that’s true or not, I don’t know. All that mattered was that when
I cut, I felt alive, I felt in control, I felt powerful. I didn’t care
what people thought. I didn’t care about understanding why I
hurt myself. All I cared about was that it helped me.
Apart from an episode 2 years ago, I haven’t hurt myself since
the age of 18. I was going through a bout of depression unlike
any I’ve ever known and I was flooded with suicidal thoughts.
The night I talk about, that was the first night in weeks I didn’t
want to die. Because, no matter what depression did to me, I
could control the bleeding. When I cut, it took away my
thoughts of suicide.
My body is adorned with the scars of self-harm. But they aren’t
scars of suicide attempts. They aren’t scars of wanting to die.
They are scars of wanting to feel alive, and feel in control of the
life I had. If I hadn’t self-harmed, I might not be here today. But
I did, and I am.
If you know of someone who is self-harming, don’t assume it is
because they are suicidal. Don’t assume it is attention seeking.
Talk to the person, and listen to them, really listen. Find out the
underlying causes of their desire to harm, and do what you can
to help. Don’t preach to them, listen to them. Support them, but
don’t judge them. Don’t try and assume you understand,
because unless you have cut, it is hard to empathise. But you
can help. Listen to them talk, and try to support them through
the process of understanding their emotions and connecting
with life. It may take time, but with support, they can get there,
and once they do, the urge to cut will fade.
Underneath it all, it isn’t about a flirtation with death. It’s about
a desperation to live.
♦◊♦
Children Remember.
One of the basic instincts as a child is the one of the infallible
parent. At that age, you don’t question your parents; it is
impossible to comprehend that they aren’t perfect. It is that
unerring belief, trust and innocence that defines the parentchild relationship.
I was 4 years old when my innocence was destroyed.
My dad was an alcoholic. He was never violent to me, but I saw
his violence first-hand. I used to sit there, cowering on the
stairs, watching it all. I was far too young to understand what
was going on, but I knew one thing – when my baby brother
tried to join me on the stairs, I had to get him back to bed. I
couldn’t let him see. I had to protect him. I only wish I could
have protected everybody else as well.
When my father no longer lived with me, I used to see him at
weekends. I remember two incidents vividly, both involving my
brother. One time, he refused to let us wear seatbelts in the car.
Apparently “only babies wear seatbelts”. He then went driving
around at 100 miles an hour. Aside from the blatant disregard
for his sons’ safety, the speed itself was terrifying to me as a
child. Yet he didn’t care. Only babies wear seatbelts.
♦◊♦
The second also involved my brother. We got in the car, and my
brother said to my father “Daddy, I’m going to be a Newcastle
fan”. My dad forced him to get out the car. He made him stand
outside, in tears, and refused to let him back in until my brother
swore to be a Sunderland supporter.
Watching a grown man bully a three year-old child, humiliating
him, over something as irrelevant as a sporting team was
disgusting. I was appalled by my father. Yet, I sat quietly in the
back, too scared to speak up to him. I was six at the time, an age
where life should be about fun, but when I look back all I feel is
guilt. I’m ashamed I did nothing. I can rationalise it in my head,
but deep down, I believe I was a coward for not standing up to
my father.
23 years later, I still haven’t come to terms with what went on.
What I experienced defines me as a person. When a therapist
told me that she believed I’ve had a mild-grade depression from
a young age, she says it is what I saw on the stairs that
instigated it. Maybe she’s right, I don’t know. But I do know
that I blamed myself for my dad’s actions and I can’t forgive
myself for not standing up to him.
My father died when I was 12. I saw him a month before he
passed. I don’t recall a lot of the meeting. I remember he gave
me lemon squash. I remember he took me to my Grandma’s,
and we ate garden peas by the back door. I remember getting
home, and receiving a phone call a few days later. He asked if I
would send a photograph of me and my brother. I told him I
would, but then, life got in the way. “I’ll do it tomorrow” I told
myself, only tomorrow never came.
I still feel guilty that I didn’t find the time to send him a
photograph. I felt like he had given up living because I didn’t
post a picture. It sounds irrational, and looking objectively, I
can see it is. All he had to do was stop drinking, and he would
have been able to see me. He would have had all the pictures he
wanted. But the bastard chose drink over his own sons, and
then he drank himself to death without ever holding his hands
up, without ever apologising, and without ever absolving me
from the guilt that defines every inch of my being.
The truth is, from the age of four, I have blamed myself for my
dad’s actions. If I had been a better son, he wouldn’t have felt
the need to drink so much. If I had said something in the car, he
would never have bullied my brother. If I had stepped off the
stairs, I could have stopped his violence. But I didn’t, and I can’t
forgive myself for that.
If you are a parent, please think about the impact your actions
have on children. Don’t use the old maxim that “they’re too
young to remember” because you can never know what will
imprint on a child’s mind. You are the example to your
children. Your actions will define them as people, and the way
you make them feel will affect every inter-personal relationship
they have. Children don’t understand nuances; everything is
black and white. Children may not understand why something
is happening, and they probably won’t remember
circumstances. But what they will always remember is the way
you make them feel.
I’m extremely lucky; I had one parent who did everything she
could for me, who tried every single day to make me feel loved,
who devoted her life to giving me the best she could. I can never
thank my Mam enough for loving me like she does; without my
Mam, I wouldn’t be here today. Sadly, I had one parent who I
was terrified of; who has scarred my very soul, and has left
wounds that will never fully heal. No child should ever be made
to feel like I felt, not by their own father.
To those that have been through much worse experiences than
me, I’m so sorry for what you have been through. Please know
that it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. You were a
child, and someone you loved should never have put you
through what they did. My father should never have made me
witness what I saw. Your parents should never have put you
through what they did.
♦◊♦
The Scandal of Male Suicide.
Suicide. Seven letters, three syllables. An act that affects so
many people. An event which leaves so many questions, never
to be answered. A word that so few are able to say. Emotions
that so few are willing to discuss openly.
Yesterday, I read an open letter from Kevin Betts to his father,
who died because of suicide. A young man who lost his father to
something that seems so preventable. In it, he talks of how
people reacted to his father taking his own life, and how, to
many people, “suicide appeared to be a dirty way to die.”
Typically, men are 3-4 times more likely to die through suicide
than women. Only one country in the entire world, China, has a
suicide rate for females that is higher than for males. In
America, males aged between 20 and 24 are seven times more
likely to die because of suicide than females of the same age.
But there’s one statistic in particular that jumped out at me.
Less than 20% of young men who die because of suicide have
any contact with either their GP or mental health services in the
year before they took their own life.
To put that statistic another way, out of every 5 young men that
dies through suicide, 4 of them feel unable to ask for
professional help. There could be various reasons for this. Men
are more likely to abuse drugs or alcohol when in a bout of
depression, which can both mask and exacerbate their feelings.
When depressed, men are more likely to display feelings of
anger, frustration and irritation than feelings of sadness, which
may leave them unable to realise that they are, in fact,
depressed. But for me, there is one reason, above all others,
that is at fault for this, and that is the image of the “Alpha
Male”.
♦◊♦
Throughout history, men have been taught that to be the
‘strong, silent’ type is a virtue. They have been told that “boys
don’t cry”. They don’t talk about ‘feelings’, because that is
something “only girls do”, and to do so lowers your status as a
man. These are lessons that have been bred for generations,
traits that are taught from childhood.
It’s time for men to realise that this is bullshit. There is nothing
brave about bottling up your emotions to the point where you
feel suicide is the only option. There is nothing manly about
shutting people who love you out from the truth of what you are
going through.
I read the excellent book “A Life Too Short” by Ronald Reng,
which is about the German footballer Robert Enke’s struggles
with depression, which ultimately ended with him dying
because of suicide. The saddest part of the book, for me, is that
the “Alpha Male” culture in football left him feeling unable to
seek the help he needed. He was scared of the reaction if he
revealed he suffered with mental health problems. The stigma
was too great for him to be honest about the help he needed.
Would things have been different if Enke had been open about
what he was going through? It’s a question that can never be
answered. But if it hadn’t have been for the stereotypical view of
what a man should be, maybe he could have received more help
and support, and maybe his wife wouldn’t be a widow.
Nowadays, there is so much support available for people with
suicidal thoughts. Confidentiality laws mean that you can seek
help without fear of it becoming public knowledge. The internet
enables you to talk to people completely anonymously, to seek
support without anybody ever knowing who you are. There
should be no reason for anybody to take their own life without
seeking help first. But you have to seek the help. You have to be
open. There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
♦◊♦
It isn’t easy to be open about how you feel. But to those men
who think bottling it all up is brave, you need to realise that
being open about your feelings is a thousand times braver.
However bad life seems, right now, you are still alive. There is
still the chance it can get better. Whatever has happened in
your life, be proud of the fact you are still here fighting, when so
many have given up. Be proud that you have made it this far. If
you are feeling suicidal, don’t lock it away inside yourself. Talk
to your friends, to your partner, to your doctor. Any fight is
easier when you fight it with others by your side.
You don’t have to go through this by yourself. However isolated
you feel, however much you are convinced nobody will
understand, let me tell you now, you are not alone. You are
never alone. Even if you are scared, be honest about your
feelings. Seek help, because the alternative isn’t worth thinking
about.
As for the “Alpha Male” culture, it’s time it was cast aside like
the relic it is. The bravest thing I have ever done was admitting
how scared I was of the thoughts that went through my head.
The manliest thing that I have ever done is ask for help, because
I can’t handle the world without it. Be a man. Get help.
♦◊♦
I know that making yourself vulnerable can lead to lack of
respect, belittling, and other negative reactions from people,
but it shouldn’t, and that’s what I hope to convey. I know how
hard it is to open up and make yourself vulnerable. I’m lucky to
have a support network that helps me immensely. Others feel
they can’t open up, and that’s so damn wrong. But until people
consistently challenge the attitudes of those who mock and
belittle us, nothing will change. I hope to challenge those
attitudes, and maybe help others realise they aren’t alone, and
they can open up knowing there are people to support them.
It may take time, and it won’t be easy, but one day, the attitudes
of those who mock people with mental health issues will be
seen as being as offensive and ignorant as racists are seen
nowadays.
Open up and ask for help from someone, whether that be
family, a loved one, a therapist or even just a doctor. If you feel
suicidal, keeping your feelings to yourself is a dangerous
strategy. They may not get everything right, but on the whole,
doctors do try to help, if they know the extent of your situation.
That’s where the openness comes in.
The bravest thing I ever did was casting aside all ridiculous
notions of what "being a man" was all about, and admitting I
can't handle the world without support. I wish society enabled
more men to be honest about their feelings and seek help.
♦◊♦
If You Are Struggling With Depression And Thoughts
of Suicide:
I once wrote a letter for TheRecoveryLetters.com, a blog which
asks people who have suffered from depression to write to
someone else going through the illness. My original letter can
be seen on their website, but this is a new version, written two
years after the first.
♦◊♦
You may not know me, but the chances are that your life has
been affected by depression and suicide and those are two
things close to my heart. If you are fighting depression and
suicidal thoughts, you probably feel alone right now. If you’re
anything like me, you probably feel scared, everything
probably seems confusing and it probably seems like there is
no hope of recovery. Maybe you feel lost, as if you don’t know
who you are or where you fit in the world. There’s probably a
part of you that feels angry at the illness and maybe even at
yourself. Those same thoughts run through my head every
time the bastard illness attacks.
Nobody can really understand the series of events that has led
to you feeling the way you do, but for whatever reason, right
now you are struggling. The thought of living each day is too
hard, the idea of waking up tomorrow and going through it all
again seems unbearable. There have been times where there
seemed to be no escape, where suicide seemed the only option
left, but we’re both still here. We’re still alive, we’re still
fighting, and we’re still trying to make things better. Many
people haven’t had the strength that you have shown just to
still be here, but you have. It feels too much sometimes, and
sometimes it feels like we can’t keep going, but we have,
despite the darkness invading our minds.
Listen to me: You’ve made it to today. You should be incredibly
proud of that.
◊♦◊
Most fear is based on not knowing what is to come. There’s no
sugar-coating what you may go through. It will be hard at
times, damn hard. Sometimes you will feel like you just want
to give up. On some days, you may feel unable to get out of
bed. Maybe you’ll feel like it is all too much, and that you can’t
cope with the illness. Here’s the truth: no-one knows how to
get better. The illness affects everyone differently; it's so
personal that there are no real answers. For some people,
depression occurs as a result of external factors: grief, stress,
the end of a relationship, the loss of a job … those with this type
of depression may only experience it once or twice. For others,
it can be a case of managing the illness for the rest of their life.
Medication can help with that, but whether you take it is a
decision only you can make. The right medication can negate
the illness. The wrong medication can be damaging and make
things worse. Taking medication is a decision that requires
considered thought, and you should seek the advice of medical
professionals before making that decision. Always remember,
it’s your choice.
When suicidal thoughts enter my head, they bring with them
immense feelings of guilt and shame. You might look around
at other people, other situations from across the world, and
you might think “what have I got to feel bad about? All these
other people have it so much worse than me, yet they can cope,
they can be happy”. That’s what it was like for me, and that’s
where the guilt and shame came from.
You have to stop comparing yourself with how you think other
people are. It’s hard when everyone seems happy, but you
never know what people feel like in private. Comparing
yourself to others is the worst thing you can do. Your situation
is unique to you. It is NOT your fault that you haven’t
developed the ability to cope with particular situations. It is
NOT your fault that you feel the way you feel. This whole
situation is NOT your fault. You are poorly, that’s all, and with
support you will get well again, I promise.
Be aware that even when you start to get better you will have
bad days, and from time to time you will have dark thoughts,
maybe even thoughts of self-harm or suicide. Having a
thought is different to acting upon it. Acknowledge them for
what they are – thoughts – and then let them go. Thinking
about something doesn’t mean you have to do it. In time, these
thoughts will fade and they will become easier to manage. All
you have to do is get through the next minute. Once you do,
just get through the next minute after that. Just focus on
surviving that next minute.
Just keep breathing.
◊♦◊
Depression left me feeling weak, both physically and mentally.
It made me feel like a failure, but the truth is that nothing
could be further from the truth. To have these thoughts, to be
fighting against yourself and the urges depression makes you
feel, to make it through the day whilst dealing with this illness,
it’s the strongest thing anybody can do, and you should be
damn proud that you are here. You have strength and bravery
beyond what you realise, and you demonstrate that every day,
just by getting through to tomorrow.
It is time to make it easier on yourself. Get help. Talk to
someone. Whether you talk to a doctor, a family member, a
friend or even an anonymous stranger on the internet, stop
trying to do this alone. You have been strong enough for long
enough. It is time to allow someone else to share the strain and
help you through. The support is there, but you have to let
people know that you need it. My life has shown me that there
are people that do care, but you have to give them a chance to.
You have to let them in. We may feel lonely, but we are never
alone.
You can get better. You will get better.
If you had the flu, you’d go to the doctors. Please remember
that depression is another illness, albeit a much scarier one.
That may seem obvious, but to many people it isn’t. Depression
isn’t a mood; you aren’t going to “snap out of it”. It could take
a long time to get better. You will have bad days. You may
start to get better, and then regress. But you can overcome
this. You will overcome this.
One day, you will look back on this time and realise just how
amazing you are right now, for continuing to fight, for
continuing to try, for continuing to breathe. Because that is all
you have to do.
Just keep breathing.
◊♦◊
If there’s one thing you need to know, it’s that you are not
alone. You are never alone. You may think you are, but it’s the
illness telling you that, and it is lying to you. The truth is there
are millions of us, all suffering variants of the same illness.
The nature of that illness makes it harder to talk about it, but
when we do, we strike the first blow to the demon of
depression. It’s understandable why you feel you can’t talk to
people. There’s still a stigma around depression and suicide
that makes you scared of being judged, of friends, family and
work colleagues treating you differently, of people never
seeing past the illness. It’s understandable, but that stigma is
being broken down further every day.
There are so many people who will talk to you, but you have to
let them know what you are going through. You can’t try and
deal with it alone, because sometimes it can be just too hard.
You have to get help. Whether that’s from a doctor, from a
therapist or from mental health support networks, that’s up to
you, but get some support. Stop allowing the illness make you
feel ashamed, or embarrassed. You have nothing to be
ashamed of. You’re not a freak, or a drama queen, or a weirdo,
or a lunatic, or a psychopath, or any of the other bullshit terms
that ignorant people use. You’re just poorly, that’s all.
Please talk to someone. You deserve to get better. You deserve
to be happy, and one day you will be. Take that first step
towards happiness, and get support from somewhere. So
many people are desperate to help you. Let them.
I believe you can get through this. I believe you will get
through this. I believe in you.
◊♦◊
Miscarriage.
Miscarriage is one of the most traumatic experiences any
woman can go through. Knowing that a baby has passed away
inside of you is something most men just can’t comprehend. I
can only imagine the agony that must come with it, the guilt
that can arise from your body, for whatever reason, being
unable to carry a pregnancy to term. Any woman that has
endured this trauma deserves every bit of sympathy she gets
and more.
Unfortunately, and perhaps inevitably, the would-be fathers’
feelings often get forgotten about during the aftermath of
miscarriage. It isn’t anybody’s fault; it’s natural to focus
sympathy on the woman at such a time. After all, they are the
person who has suffered both emotionally and physically. The
male himself will, primarily, be focussing his energy on
supporting his partner through the period after miscarriage.
However, in doing so, many people forget that the man has lost
something too.
◊♦◊
I was 18 when my then-partner got pregnant. It was at the 12week scan that we discovered our child had no heartbeat. Sadly,
this isn’t unusual – it is estimated 80% of miscarriages occur in
the first trimester. The statistic didn’t stop it hurting like hell
though.
At 18 I didn’t have anywhere near the maturity needed to
handle the situation, and, inevitably, I made mistakes.
However, I tried my best, and that’s all I could do. What I forgot
to do was grieve myself. In my desire to ensure my partner
received the support she needed, I neglected to seek any of my
own. If anyone asked me how I was, I gave answers designed to
divert the attention to the person who I felt needed the support
more. “I’m fine; it wasn’t really real for me to be honest. It’s (my
then-partner) who’s struggling, not me” was what I told people.
After saying it for so long, I almost started to believe it myself.
I hold no blame to anyone for the situation; I wanted my
girlfriend to receive the support. She genuinely needed it, and,
as a man, I felt I had no right to focus on my feelings, given
what she had been through. I shunned the support, because I
felt it would have been selfish, and wrong, to accept it.
In the near-decade that has passed, I have realised how foolish
that was. When I reflect on that period in my life, the support
was there for me. It wouldn’t have diminished my partners’
support; indeed, talking about it openly may have brought us
closer together. With the benefit of hindsight, I would have
accepted the support, and I urge any man going through
something similar to do so.
I have never really talked about how miscarriage affected me.
The truth is it broke my heart. Ten years on, it still hurts now. I
don’t think about it a lot, but every now and then, something
will happen that brings home just how different my life could
be. Sometimes, I’ll be playing with my niece, Daisy, when I’m
reminded of what could have been. I might be watching the
television, and a particular storyline might bring the subject to
the forefront of my mind. Occasionally, it just strikes me out of
the blue. The only constant is the pain, when the realisation hits
me about how different my life could be.
◊♦◊
I’ve always believed my child would have been a boy. My
partner wanted Connor for a boy, but I would have talked her
out of it before he was born. I don’t know what his name would
have been, but he would have been a boy, I’m sure of that. He
would have had jet black hair, and probably have been cursed
with the same widows’ peak that I’ve always had. I think he
would have had blue eyes, dimples, and a sprinkling of freckles.
He would have enjoyed sports, like his father, and we would
have gone to the match together. I would have given him a
guitar at a young age, and by now he’d be able to play in a way
I’ve never been able to.
I can imagine him being selective with his friends; he’d talk to
anyone, but only hold a few people close to his heart. Certainly,
he’d be doting over Daisy, and teaching her all sorts of
mischievous tricks. He’d be getting excited about his ninth
birthday, and the party I’d have thrown for him. I’d be spending
far too much money on his presents, and as I watched him open
them, I’d forget all about the cost, and I’d bask in his joy and
happiness.
Except none of that will ever happen, because my son died
during the first trimester, and I was never lucky enough to meet
him.
When I look back at the situation rationally, I can see that
becoming a father at 18 wouldn’t have been ideal. At the time, I
was hopelessly immature, I didn’t have a steady income, and I
was afflicted with personal problems. Every day would have
been a struggle, and there was no way I would have been able to
provide the kind of life that I would have wanted to give him.
Yet I’d have made it work, somehow.
In the past, I’ve had it put to me that it was a blessing in
disguise. In my desire to divert attention off the subject, I’ve
even suggested it myself. The truth is, when a pregnancy ends,
there is no blessing. However rationally you look at it, love isn’t
rational. It hurts, even now.
I should have talked openly about my emotions years ago. I can
only speculate what impact it had on the depression I would
later endure, but there’s no doubt that blanking out my pain
contributed to it.
To any man that finds himself in a similar situation, I say this:
Talk. Don’t bottle it up. Share your grief. Support your partner,
because, trust me, she’ll need it. But don’t neglect yourself,
whatever you do. What you need to realise is talking to your
partner, exposing your most private thoughts, will bring you
both closer together. It will make the grieving process slightly
more bearable, for both of you.
I wish I’d had the chance to meet my son. I would have been a
good dad. One day, hopefully I’ll be lucky enough to be blessed
with a child, and if that day comes, I’ll cherish every moment,
and I’ll be the best father I can possibly be, showering my child
with love and affection. But I’ll always remember the son I was
never lucky enough to meet.
◊♦◊
Can I Overcome Depression?
Since I’ve began writing about my experiences, I’ve had many
people ask me questions about it. The one question I get asked
the most is this: How do you get over depression? The truth is
simply this—I don’t know.
Depression isn’t some sort of puzzle, where if you put the pieces
in the correct order, you’ll be cured. It is a serious illness, one
that changes the fundamental basics of who you are as a person.
Trying to be the person you were beforehand is futile, and
attempting to do so will just lead to frustration. You can’t go
back to being who you were before depression, because, like any
major experience in life, you can’t just erase it from your
memory. It’s always going to be there.
What you have to do is learn how to manage it. Winston
Churchill famously referred to depression as his “Black Dog”,
but personally, I’m not a fan of this metaphor. I prefer to
compare it to a sunny day. Whereas most people can relax and
enjoy the sunshine, my focus is on the dark raincloud looming
on the horizon. Most people can accept that it might rain in the
future, but the thought of the raincloud is terrifying to me.
Sometimes it’s far away; other times it fills the sky to the point
where a storm seems inevitable.
The key to living with depression is not to avoid the storm, but
learning how to manage it. The rain will come, you can’t control
that. What you can do is influence your reaction to it.
Medication, therapy, family and friends can be the overcoat you
wrap around yourself until the rain eases off, and you feel you
can go without it.
Developing an understanding of what works for you isn’t easy.
It has been two years since my most severe depressive episode,
and I’m still learning now. Some days, my anxiety almost
overwhelms me. There are still days when I’m drenched in
sweat when I get to work, because of what seems like an
irrational fear. There are still times when I get overwhelmed,
when I feel like the weight of the world is too much. Those are
the days where having a support network is crucial. That is why
talking is so important.
The hardest part of it all is the fear. Every day, I have to deal
with the fear of the depression coming back stronger, more
severe and more damaging than ever. It isn’t easy, not by any
means. Every time my energy levels are low, I worry it is
because of depression, not because I’m tired. Normal
nervousness doesn’t exist for me anymore, because suffering
from panic attacks has left me hyper-sensitive to anxiety.
◊♦◊
People say “I’m so glad you got through it”, but I haven’t. It may
not be as severe as it was two years ago, but it’s always there.
It’s been there since I was a child. It’s all I know, but I’m
learning to manage it. On the occasions I stopped taking my
medication, the depression and anxiety came flooding back.
Every now and then, I’ll have a week or so where I really
struggle; where I’m on the verge of tears all the time, for no
reason, and where everything seems so pointless.
When you are having extreme emotions, suicidal thoughts and
suchlike, part of you can still grasp that they are extreme, and
as such, unusual emotions. The subtlety of apathy is much more
difficult to overcome. It’s not so dramatic an emotion that you
are aware something is wrong; it’s just a loss of interest, a
feeling that things aren’t worth doing. Things get put off until
tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes.
I’ve said this before, but it can’t be said enough: Depression
isn’t a mood. It isn’t something you “snap out of.” It’s a very
dangerous illness, one that changes the very core of who you
are. It’s like the ocean; sometimes the tide is out, far in the
distance. Other times it’s lapping at your feet, teasing you with
its wetness, yet almost comforting. But if you aren’t careful, the
tide can come rushing in, enveloping you completely. It sucks
you under, you can’t breathe. The shore seems so far away, you
feel like you could never reach it.
Me? I’m swimming for my life. I hope to reach the shore.
Sometimes the tide goes out, and I’m closer to the beach. Then
the tide comes in, and it seems as far away as ever. All I can do
is keep swimming, keep fighting. That’s all anybody can do. If
your lifeboat comes along, please get on it. It may come as
medication, or as a loved one. It could be anything, everybody is
different. But please keep swimming. The ocean is vast, but
there are millions of us in it. We can keep each other afloat. We
are never alone.
◊♦◊
Back From The Brink – a poem.
His world, forever bathed in dark light,
Shades of black define his heart.
Inside his soul, always midnight,
At the coast of the Styx, waiting to depart.
Swept out by the ocean of misery,
Dragged further away by the tormented tide.
All he wants is to be free
From his mind, from his anger, from all of the pain inside.
The stormy sea pulls him under,
Its current so strong, his body so frail
The fight so hard, he wonders
If it’s easier to die, if it’s better to fail?
Suddenly, the darkness is broken
From a far-off land, the angel appears
‘Take my hand, you won’t die this night
Let me give you the love to overcome your fears.’
She leads him back from the brink,
Keeps him safe as the tempest crashes around,
Wrapped up in love, he begins to think
That a purpose for living had finally been found.
So close to the final action,
Saved from hell by that which should not be,
Now it’s time for the reaction
One last chance to finally be free
One last chance to finally be me.
◊♦◊
The Impact Of Absentee Parents.
For a young boy, the most important relationship is that of a
father and son. The offspring looks up to his creator; he learns
from his example and hangs on his every word. Many young
boys see their fathers as heroes; they care not for their flaws. To
a young male, the father is the very person he aspires to be.
Though no man is perfect, a father who sets a terrible example
makes it so much harder for his young son to be a good man.
The basic notions of what it takes to be a man are imprinted on
the child from his experiences with his father. My father was a
drunk, and his alcoholism led to our estrangement in the last
years of his life. He chose drink over his son and drowned
himself in a sea of alcohol. All the courts asked of him - to earn
the right to be in contact with me, his family - was that he
became sober.
Sadly, his addiction to alcohol was stronger than his devotion to
his child, and he died just before my 13th birthday.
◊♦◊
Despite experiencing first-hand the damage alcohol causes,
through both my father’s violence and his absence from my life,
whenever I’m faced with a stressful situation, my first instinct is
to have a drink. My father impressed on me that men handle
stress through alcohol, and that basic instinctual reaction is
extremely difficult to overcome. Some fathers beat their sons.
Others display a stoic lack of emotion, reducing the father-son
relationship to a never-ending chase for approval on the part of
the son. Patterns of behaviour are learned and often repeated;
however poorly the example is set, it defines the son’s life.
It is equally as dangerous to insist on taking on what’s
mistakenly perceived as the “positive” or “good” antithesis of
such unambiguously poor parenting. A father who’d been
denied freedom and choice as a child may easily give too much
freedom and choice to their children, thus neglecting the
importance of boundaries. The direct opposite of an extreme
behaviour is another extreme behaviour—and thus equally
damaging.
The thing, however, is that despite how poor an example my
father was, I still needed him in my life. My adolescence was a
troubled time, as it is for many people. At a stage where I was
discovering who I was as a person, the lack of knowledge of my
father made understanding my own self that much harder.
Every child is biologically equal parts of their parents; when
half of that is missing, it becomes very difficult to comprehend
yourself and the development you are undergoing.
It’s not just the psychological aspects that are important. My
father never saw me play sports; he never felt the pride of
knowing his son had been made captain of his school rugby
team. The sad irony is that the period when I became a leader
amongst my peers was when I needed my fathers’ guidance the
most. My saddest memory of adolescence is something that
may seem insignificant: I had to teach myself to shave. In
perhaps the most prominent aspect of transforming from boy to
man, I was alone because my father had neglected his duty to
his son.
◊♦◊
With single-parent families becoming more common, the
traditional family unit is harder to find. As courts generally
keep children with the mother in custody cases, it is imperative
that the father strives to maintain access to his child or
children, however limited. Although there are extreme
situations where the child benefits from no contact, it is my
opinion that having a relationship with both parents is crucial.
Even if one parent is a poor example, in the long-term, it is
better for the child to have discovered this for themselves, as
unanswered questions and biased perceptions impair the
youngster’s development through adolescence and selfdiscovery.
The onus is on parents to maintain these relationships, in
whatever format is deemed both safe and acceptable to every
party. When parents use children as weapons in custody
battles, or allow their own opinions of each other to cloud their
parental judgement, it is the child who suffers the most. Parents
need to remember that, just because somebody is a bad partner,
it does not make him or her a bad mother or father. A child
needs to know who their parents are.
There are always going to be situations where the parents are
absent through no fault of their own; they may be sent to war,
or they may pass away from an illness, or a tragic accident.
Sometimes, absence is unavoidable. Addiction, laziness, or
personal disputes among parents aren’t acceptable excuses, and
they will damage their children—in ways they would never have
envisaged.
I will never know who my father truly was. His family and
friends will always eulogise him while those he hurt will always
have an understandable bias against him. I wish I had known
him, as there are parts of me I will never truly understand. I
know he must have had good traits, just as I know how
destructive his negative aspects were. With his passing, I will
never discover for myself what they were.
Becoming a parent isn’t something that should be taken lightly.
It is a lifelong commitment, and as a parent, your duty is to do
your very best by your child. Your own wants and desires are
secondary to the development and nurturing of your offspring.
If, for instance, you have an addiction as in the case of my
father, you need to seek the help that is available. Not
tomorrow, not after “one last binge”—you need to get the help
now. If you are in a dispute with your ex-partner, resolve it. If
you are scared your child will reject you, you still have to try.
Stop being an absentee parent. However long it has been,
whatever mistakes you have made, pick up the phone and make
the call. You owe that to your child.
◊♦◊
Passion, Depression, Fear and Love.
Passion can be the greatest feeling in the world. The allencompassing desire for something that takes over your heart
and soul, when it hits you, is unbelievable. It can strike in so
many ways; the early stages of a new relationship, when
everything is new and you just want to know everything about
the person; discovering a new band and devouring every piece
of music they've ever recorded; the rush when your favourite
sports team grabs a last-gasp winner; passion can arise from
anywhere, with such power.
One of the worst aspects of depression is the way it takes away
passion, replacing it with the emptiness of apathy. It makes this
change with such subtlety that you barely notice it until it
envelopes you completely; until your love for life and the things
in it has vanished, replaced by a void of emptiness that you
don't even care about filling.
Often, it's the things you love the most that you withdraw from
first. You find yourself caring less and less about your sports
team, their results make no difference to you and, before you
know it, you stop watching altogether. Your creative exploits
grind to a halt; the guitar remains in the corner, gathering dust;
your paintings or writings seem meaningless and pointless, so
you put them to one side, intending to resume them at a later
date, yet the day never comes.
Then there are relationships. When depression reduces your
passion for life, it is the relationship that suffers the most. You
do less social activities, because they seem unnecessary and you
just want to stay inside. You get in from work, and you are too
tired to do anything, so you sit watching the television. You
don't even realise the damage it's doing to the relationship, so
focussed are you on how you feel. You become so wrapped up
with the thoughts in your head that you neglect the very person
who is trying to help you through the situation.
The insecurities that arise with depression eat away at you. "I'm
not good enough for them", "They're going to find someone
better", "Why would they want to be with me?" and countless
other phrases run through your head, none of them
complimentary, all of them attacking yourself, damaging both
you and your relationship, often in ways you don't realise until
the day your loved one tells you they are leaving.
◊♦◊
Given the stigma surrounding mental illness, to be diagnosed
with depression is extremely scary. However, it is at that
moment that we have a decision to make - to sit and hope we
get better, or to fight, scratch and claw to improve our situation.
There's no denying it is difficult to live as you have been when
you become ill, but you have to try, for the sake of your
relationship and, most importantly, for yourself. You have to go
out into the world. You have to do things you enjoy, even if it
seems pointless. You have to fight against becoming insular.
You have to fight for your passion.
Depression makes us focus on ourselves, and that is why it is so
hard to be in a relationship when you have the illness. When
your passion for life fades, eventually your partners' passion
fades too. That is why it is so important to fight for your
passions, for the people and things you love. Ask yourself this what is scarier, fighting the illness, facing your fears and going
out into the world, or losing your partner?
Every time you challenge your fear, every time you force
yourself to do something that depression tries to tell you that
you don't want to do, you come one step closer to overcoming
the illness. With every step you take, your passion will return,
and your depression will fade. It isn't easy, but nothing worth
having in life is. If you love somebody, then you have to face the
difficult situations. You have to treat yourself with respect, even
when the illness tries to convince you that you don’t deserve it.
Don’t listen to the voice of depression, an illness designed to
break you, when it tells you that you aren’t worthy of love.
Listen to the words of your loved one when they say that you
are.
◊♦◊
Confronting fear and rediscovering life.
Playing daft games with my 2 year old niece tonight, pretending
to be scared of something that wasn't even there. Daisy goes
"Andoo, there's nothing to be scared of, come on!" and I goes
"Daisy makes Uncle Andoo brave". It was just a daft game, but
it reminded me of how she saved my life when she was born,
giving me strength to overcome my fears and fight my illness.
Everyone has fears. For many, the feeling of fear is a minor
hurdle, an inconvenient moment or two that passes as quickly
as it arrives. For others though, fear can be paralyzing, causing
people to retreat into themselves, hiding away from the world.
In extreme cases, leaving the house is too difficult.
It doesn’t need to be this way. All fears are learnt behaviours,
developed over the course of life. When we are born, we are
filled with an innocent wonder. As we grow and encounter the
different situations and experiences that life presents, we
absorb coping strategies from the people around us. We watch
how they confront problems and what we see defines how we
adapt to the world around us. When what we see is panic, we
assume that to be the normal reaction. If you are taught that a
spider is something scary, then you become scared of spiders.
Left unchecked, this can develop into full-blown
arachnophobia.
One of the biggest difficulties with mental illness is the
amplification of fear. Rather than the world being full of
wonder, it becomes a haven of horrors. You don’t want to go to
the supermarket because you feel people are judging you. You
struggle to go to work because you believe you aren’t good
enough at your job, and your colleagues would be better off if
you weren’t there. You become so scared of what people think
of you that you isolate yourself, withdrawing from social contact
as a means of self-preservation.
I speak from bitter experience. I remember the days I would
shuffle around town, hood pulled up, hat down low and
headphones turned up to maximum volume, just so that I didn’t
have to interact with people. I may have been out in the world,
but I wasn’t a part of it. I recall the time that I woke up and the
decorator was downstairs, and I pulled the quilt over my head
and hid in my bed until they left. I’ve fled from work on several
occasions due to the overwhelming nature of panic attacks. I
know about fear, because I’ve lived it.
◊♦◊
I have learned that fear can be beaten, and replaced with
confidence. The beauty of it is that the solution is remarkably
simple. All you need to do is think of what it is you are scared
of, acknowledge that fear … and then do it anyway. It doesn’t
matter what it is you are scared of, if you visualise the fear in its
most extreme form, you make it so much harder to overcome.
You need to break it down, bit by bit. If having a conversation
with a stranger scares you, then just focus on saying “Hello” to
them. Scared of leaving the house? Accept the fear, and then
open the front door. All you have to do is take one step, one tiny
step. Maybe on the first occasion that one step is all you can
manage, maybe you go no further and you go back inside. But
when you have taken that step, you know that next time you can
take the step again. Only then you take one more step, maybe
two. Maybe you manage to go for a five minute walk, who
knows?
Two months ago, I was in a very dark place. I didn’t think I had
the strength to go on, and the fear of the future nearly dragged
me under. I was arguably as low as I’ve ever been. Hitting rockbottom, I looked at myself in the mirror, thought “I can’t
possibly get lower, so sod it, what have I got to lose?” and
decided to take a chance. I went on holiday, and I made a vow
to myself that if something scared me, rather than shying away
from it I went for it. I talked to people I would never have had
the confidence to speak to; I took part in activities I would
normally have been too embarrassed to. I sat topless around the
pool, despite feeling insecure about my beer belly. Whenever I
felt nervous about something, I made myself do it. Sometimes I
needed a bit of Dutch courage, but I did it, and I had the best
two weeks of my life.
Fear doesn’t have to destroy your life. You have the power
within yourself to overcome anything you are scared of.
Depression, anxiety disorders and other mental illnesses make
it more difficult, but it is not impossible. I know you may be
thinking that you don’t have the strength to overcome your
fears, but listen to me: you do. You may think you are weak, but
you are still here, you are still fighting and still living.
Sometimes, just making it to the end of the day is the bravest
thing anybody can do, and you have done that. Many haven’t
been able to, but you have. That, in itself, proves you are
stronger than you realised.
We all have our comfort zones. It is only when we challenge
ourselves, when we step outside of our self-imposed chains that
we can begin to experience the truly magical aspects of life.
Next time your instinctive reaction urges you to say no, say yes
instead. I’ve started to, and for the first time in my life I feel
love and respect for myself. It’s a bit of a strange feeling, but it’s
one I never want to lose.
Fear is only as powerful as we allow it to be. Take that first step
to eradicating it, and say yes. Do what scares you, because when
you do, it isn’t scary anymore. Throw off the shackles and start
living instead of just existing, because it is a truly invigorating
feeling, and one that you deserve to experience. Just don’t ask
me to go anywhere near those damn spiders!
◊♦◊
Dealing with a relationship break-up.
I remember when I found out my marriage was over. It sent me
into a downward spiral; a drink-and-drug-fuelled period of bad
memories and even worse situations. I didn’t care—the pain
inside me was too raw, too visceral to cope with. Blacking out
and forgetting was better than dealing with the crushing reality
that the woman I loved no longer shared the same emotions.
Maybe you are experiencing this situation right now. Maybe
you are also struggling to cope with the fallout of divorce, and
are engaging in some questionable activities. Maybe, like me,
your days have become about existing, rather than living. You
don’t know when the pain will end. All you want is for it to go
away.
There is no timescale for how long it takes a broken heart to
heal. Sometimes it can take days; other break-ups can take
months or even years to overcome. There is no secret cure; all
you can do is continue living.
As a man, my mentality is the same as most other men: there’s
a problem; how can I fix it? How can I save this relationship?
The truth is that, most likely, you can’t. Nobody walks away
from a marriage without an awful lot of thought. When the
conclusion they have come to is that it is over, there is very little
you can do.
◊♦◊
The Kübler-Ross model of the Five Stages of Grief can be
applied to the end of a relationship. Although nobody has
passed away, you still need to grieve. The death of a
relationship; the ending of a future you had planned out; in
many ways, it is harder to handle than death. At least there is
finality to death. With heartbreak, there is no finality. There is
no clean break. You can’t help but wonder “what if…?”
The five stages of the Kübler-Ross model are: Denial; Anger;
Bargaining; Depression and Acceptance. Each of them apply to
the end of a relationship equally as much as the grieving
process:
Denial – “This isn’t happening” “Don’t be silly, it’s just a row.
You’ll feel different in the morning”
Anger – “Why are you doing this to us?” “What have I ever done
that’s so bad?”
Bargaining – “I can change” “Please, let’s work through this”
Depression – “It’s all my fault” “I don’t blame them for leaving”
Acceptance – “It was over; it has been for a while, I just couldn’t
see it”
All phrases I’ve used during the period after a break-up, and I
suspect I am not alone in that. I have used them to highlight
how the Kübler-Ross model of grief relates to the end of a
relationship too. Now, it isn’t as clean-cut as I’ve perhaps made
it appear. You may get to the Bargaining stage and then slip
back to Denial. Depression and Anger often overlap; especially
in men, who generally display signs of depression differently to
women. Indeed, the first four stages can be a nightmare to work
through, and there will be times when you feel you will never
get past it.
You will.
◊♦◊
When you reach the stage of Acceptance, that is the moment
you will start to live again. The thing is, you can’t wait around
for the acceptance of the situation to come—that isn’t how it
works. Acceptance isn’t a moment when you suddenly become
fine with what’s happened, and waiting for that moment makes
it much more unlikely to come.
What you need to do is focus on yourself. Look at the aspects of
your own life that you are unhappy with. Maybe you feel like
you have let yourself go physically. Maybe you feel like your life
has become mundane and routine. These are all things that you
have the power to change, so do it! Sign up to a gym; take up
jogging, work on your physique. If your life has become boring,
make more time for the things you enjoy, and take up new
hobbies. Become the man you’ve always wanted to be, and
you’ll find that acceptance of the divorce comes so much
quicker.
It is important to reflect on why the marriage ended. In the
immediate aftermath, people always tend to blame the other
party, but there is always fault on both sides. If you can begin to
understand why the relationship failed, then it will leave you in
good stead for the future. Hard as it may be to believe right
now, one day, you will love again. When that day comes, be the
man you’ve always wanted to be. Learn from the mistakes of
relationships past.
You may think you can’t get through this time, but you will.
Sometimes, good things have to fall apart so better things can
fall into place. Focus on yourself, and improving your life, and I
promise you will be happy again.
◊♦◊
Fighting back against depression.
Life really is worth fighting for.
On August 30th, 2012, I made the decision to write about what
it was like for me living with depression. I made this decision
after reading Ronald Reng’s excellent book “A Life Too Short”,
the biography of the German goalkeeper Robert Enke, a man
who couldn’t go on living with this horrific illness and,
tragically, ended his life on November 10th, 2009.
I’d struggled with depressive feelings and self-harm since my
early teens, yet when I was struck down with full-on depression
in August 2010, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I
couldn’t leave the house. I could barely leave my bed. My mind,
always slightly dark, became a cesspit of horrific thoughts and
emotions and I couldn’t handle them. I was a shell of a man,
and I didn’t recognise myself. I didn’t know who I was. I flirted
with the idea of suicide on several occasions; not because I
wanted to die, but because I couldn’t see any other end to the
madness. It was during this time that I realised how devastating
mental illness truly is.
Reading “A Life Too Short”, I realised, for the first time, that I
wasn’t alone in suffering from this horrific illness. Reng’s
powerful writing conveyed the emotions (or lack of them) that
Enke suffered from with such vividness; at times it felt like he
was in my head, rather than Enke’s.
One thing from the book stuck with me. It was Enke’s desire to,
one day, tell his story. At the time, he felt he couldn’t, due to a
myriad of reasons – being in the public eye; the “alpha male”
culture of football dressing rooms; his adoption of his second
daughter Leila – and with his untimely passing, he would never
get the chance to tell his story in his own words. I made a vow
to myself that I would learn from Enke and tell my story, and I
did.
◊♦◊
I didn’t expect anybody to be interested in what I wrote, but the
reaction was overwhelming, and led to me writing my second
piece, “Loving Someone With Depression”. Celebrities shared
my story on social media. Duff McKagan from Guns ‘N’ Roses
wrote about me in his Seattle Weekly column. Several local
newspapers wrote articles about me, and I recorded a
conversation for BBC Radio 4′s The Listening Project. The best
part about what happened was the people it introduced me to,
people who I have had the chance to talk to about mental health
on a one-to-one basis. It has given me great pride to know that I
have had a direct influence upon people in similar situations,
and that my writing empowered them to seek help for their own
issues. Whatever else I have done in my life, whatever mistakes
I have made, I am proud to know that I have done some good in
the world.
A year has passed since I published my story, and my life has
changed immeasurably since then. Depression returned with a
vengeance in early 2013, triggered by the end of a relationship,
among other things. The difference this time was that, in
addition to my friends and family, I had support from some
amazing people from all corners of the world, people I have
never met in the flesh. When I needed support, they were there;
a community of people brought together through the shared
experiences of mental illness.
For all the criticism social media receives, it has been invaluable
to me and to the one-in-four who suffer from mental health
issues. People who suffer from social anxiety or agoraphobia
are able to connect with others from a place they feel safe, and
by talking they are able to learn they are not alone. Sometimes,
just knowing that can make all the difference. There are people
I’ve talked to for months without ever knowing their real
names; yet they have helped me so much. When used correctly,
the internet is incredible.
◊♦◊
A lot of people said I was brave for writing my story, but it’s a
tag I’ve never been happy with. I wrote about my experiences
because I felt I was getting ill again, and I was scared of what
would happen if I did. It was a pre-emptive cry for help, not
because I felt brave, but because I was scared. At the time I felt
that the strong people, the truly brave ones, were those that
suffered in silence because they didn’t feel able to ask for help. I
didn’t have the strength to cope alone; those that did were the
ones I felt were brave.
What I’ve learned the most is that bravery comes in many
forms. Everyone is different, and everybody handles situations
differently. When you suffer from a mental illness, continuing
to fight, continuing to try, that is the bravest thing you can do.
Whether you choose to do that alone or you seek help, you
deserve to be classed as brave. I’m no braver than anybody else;
I’m just lucky to have a network of family and friends that made
me feel it would be ok to tell my story. Like Buffy Summers
said, “The hardest thing in this world… is to live in it. Be brave.
Live.” I did, even though there were many times I didn’t want
to, and I’m so thankful that I did.
Nowadays, I’m in a good place. I’m wary of saying that I’ve
‘beaten’ depression, but I certainly feel I’ve kicked its arse for
now. I look to the future with excitement and anticipation, and
whilst I’m always aware my old enemy depression could return,
I know that if it does, I’ll kick its arse again. I know this,
because the last year has taught me that I am never alone, and
neither are you. The beauty of the internet is that we can be
anonymous and still talk about our situations. None of us are,
because we have each other, and we can get each other through.
None of us are alone, I promise you.
◊♦◊
A short note of affirmation.
When in recovery from depression or self-harm, or when you
are working to try to stop harming being the response to
stressful and upsetting situations, it’s important to remember
that you will always have good and bad days. Sometimes the
good days can seem few and far between, but they will come.
Everyone has good and bad days – you did before depression
and self-harm, and you will in the future too. All you can do is
take each day at a time and do your best to get through each
one. Sometimes, in order to do that, you may hurt yourself. If
you do, try not to feel guilty. You’re doing your best, and that’s
all you can do. As long as you’re still here, still fighting, you still
have that chance at happiness.
Life can turn in an instant. Often, when it does, you never see it
coming, but when it does, it’s incredible. Maybe you have done
some things that seem extreme to the rest of the world, maybe
you have done some things you regret, I don’t know. What I do
know is that you are still here, still fighting, and you should be
incredibly proud of that. I’m proud of you for still being here,
and for having the courage to live in this world.
If you're reading this and you're having a shit day, just
remember that your current life record at getting through shit
days is 100%. You can do this.
I believe it will get better for you. I believe you will experience a
happier life. I believe in you.
“No-one is tough enough to walk this earth alone. People
should remember that both in judgement of others and in selfreflection.” – The Chief.
◊♦◊
Deeper into depression, self-harm and suicide.
**** Trigger warning: explicit descriptions of self-harm ****
I’ll never forget the darkest night of my depression. I’d been off
work for months due to the state of my mental health. The
medication I was taking, rather than helping, was contributing
to the growing feeling that I was losing any control I had over
my mind. Night after night I’d go to bed and lie there, unable to
sleep, while my mind raced along at a mile a minute. I couldn’t
even form a narrative to my thoughts. It was as if I had two or
three minds, each thinking about different things, thoughts
forming too fast to begin to comprehend each one in isolation.
Trying to sleep only exacerbated the situation, as with no
outside stimulus there was nothing to distract my mind,
allowing my thoughts free reign over my consciousness. I’d
open my eyes in the hope of some respite, but that didn’t help.
Now, in addition to the thoughts in my head, I had the shadows
to contend with too. Each dark shape that was cast onto my
bedroom wall had a life of its own, moving, taking up new
forms, almost at will. They seemed less like shadows and more
like entities, not just a mere absence of light, but some form of
dark power swarming around my room, preparing to envelop
me at any moment. When I closed my eyes to block them out, it
just led back to the rampaging thoughts that were impossible to
tame.
It’s hard to truly describe how this happening night after night
affects your psyche, but it left me a broken man. After weeks of
this horrific cycle, I reached a point where I was desperate for
some control, some sort of power over the situation. I’d talked
to people, I’d taken medication I was told would help, I’d even
stopped smoking. Anything that had been advised to me I had
attempted, and all of it had been in vain. I went into my kitchen
and I picked up the biggest knife I could find. I placed the edge
against my skin, applied pressure and slowly, deliberately,
pulled the knife inwards. As the blood began to flow, the
thoughts in my head slowed. I felt a dark calmness creep over
my body. I placed the blade against my skin and repeated the
process. One cut became two; two cuts became four; eventually
both my arms were covered with shallow cuts, blood streaming
down my arms. A scene straight from a horror film, yet for the
first time in months, I was at peace.
◊♦◊
It would be easy to look back at such a night with a sense of
shame or embarrassment. It would be easy to paint me as
someone who had lost his mind. The truth is the complete
opposite. That night, those acts of self-harm, was me taking
some form of control over what was happening to me. It was an
extreme solution, but it had been an extreme problem that I
was trying to overcome. That night was the culmination of
weeks of mental torture of which there seemed no escape. Aside
from hurting myself, there was only one other way I could think
of to end the insanity festering inside me, and I’d promised my
new-born niece I would not turn to such an act of finality.
When people think of those who make the decision to end their
own life, they often use words such as “stupid”, “selfish” and
“cowardly”. To do so is to completely fail to understand the
sheer terror and desperation that depression leads you to feel.
Every thought we have, every action we take is governed by our
mind, and when you feel like your mind is working against you,
when you feel like your thoughts are no longer your own and
everything you try in an attempt to get better only makes you
worse, it is no longer about living or dying. It is about ending
the madness, stopping the insanity, before it takes you over
completely.
I hear people refer to those who self-harm as “attention
seeking”, and I wish they would take a few minutes to attempt
to understand the persons’ side of things and the reason why
they choose to self-harm. Instead of judging, mocking or getting
angry, try to take a few minutes to think of the reasons behind
it. People who self-harm aren’t, as a rule, doing so to gain
attention; they are doing so either to feel some form of control
over one aspect of their lives, or to feel something, anything, at
all. Maybe, instead of dismissing someone as “attentionseeking”, people should interpret it as “control-seeking” or even
simply “help-seeking”, and try to support them through the
situation.
For somebody to get to the point where they are self-harming,
something is going wrong, either in their thought processes or
in their life. Instead of judging, mocking or getting angry, try to
think of why somebody may be feeling that way, why they feel
such an extreme solution is the only way of coping, and try to
show some empathy with the person. Ask if there is any way
you can help. Let them know you will listen if they want to talk.
Sometimes, when you feel so alone, just knowing that
somebody cares enough to listen can make all the difference.
◊♦◊
While self-harm and suicide are not always a result of
depression, the three are intrinsically linked. Depression affects
one in four people, which means it is likely it will enter your life
at some point, if not directly then through a friend or family
member. It is not a mood. It is a severely debilitating illness
that causes devastation to peoples’ lives, and anybody can be
struck down with it at any time. It cares not for money, social
class, race, gender or career – it can attack anybody, at any
time. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking it won’t affect
you, because any trauma, any unforeseen stressful incident
could trigger the illness.
It is not, however, a life sentence. It can be beaten. The sad part
is that it takes a lot of strength and energy to fight it and it
attacks you when you are at your weakest. It often does so
subtly, in a way that you barely even notice until one day you
just can’t cope anymore. It makes you feel ashamed of yourself,
too scared to talk to people about it for fear of labelling, of being
put in an institution and of being tarnished forever. At the very
moment you need help the most, it is the hardest time to ask for
it.
I talk of depression as a separate entity invading my mind,
because to me, that’s what it is. You are not your depression. It
does not define you. It is an illness. You are not “mad”. You are
not a “freak”. You are just poorly, and you will get better. It can
be a long, painful process – it has taken me many years to get to
the point where I can say I am happy, but I am. I’ve had
relapses since, I’ve freaked out, had spells where my anxieties
are through the roof, but I’ve made it through, and you will too.
It will take time, but you will get there. Don’t be scared to ask
for help. Don’t be scared to tell someone what you are going
through. I can’t promise that every person will be sympathetic,
but I do think you’ll be surprised at how many people
understand. I know I was.
If someone you know appears to be struggling, please offer
them support and understanding, and then listen if they talk,
Don’t interrupt, don’t offer advice unless it is asked for, just
listen. Be there for them. It could make all the difference.
◊♦◊
The effect of capital punishment on the victim’s
psyche.
The Ian Watkins case led me to seek The Chief’s advice. His
crimes led to me doubting my belief that capital punishment
should be eradicated from the world, and I needed support to
work through my emotions of the issue.
With regards harsh sentences being the only deterrent, I would
raise the point that America has the death penalty and has just
as many rapes, murders and child abuses cases as anywhere
else. Drugs have been illegal for years yet more and more
people do them every week. If people want to do something, if
they have that urge, then they will and the law won't stop them.
Personally, I think a lot more needs to be done to work with
people who have these feelings, as prevention is always better
than waiting until after the act.
I would also say that, while it makes it easier to imaging
paedophiles as these evil monsters, they are people. That,
perhaps, is the really scary thing. The majority of child abuse
cases involve someone close to the person, a family member or
close friend, someone you will probably have known for years.
It isn't as simple as "hang the bastards" because then you have
to apply that across the board. To kill a rapist or abuser is to
make a killer out of the person who kills them, and I don't agree
with it. It isn't the answer. Also, as horrific as it sounds, the only
way to learn about paedophiles, to understand how their minds
work and to use that knowledge in prevention is to work with
them and get them to talk about their thought processes.
◊♦◊
I think one way abuse could be prevented is by offering support
to people before they act. If I can use a comparison, for many
years people with depression, bipolar and other mental health
issues were very stigmatised, but now there is much more
acceptance and understanding of the illnesses behind them and
people feel more able to seek help before it gets to the stage of
suicide. If people felt they could seek help for these paedophilic
thoughts before they acted upon them, maybe they could also
be prevented. Obviously there is a massive, massive difference
between mental health issues and child abuse, that goes
without saying. But if deaths by suicide can be prevented due to
understanding of the thought processes and working with the
individuals before it gets to that stage, the same can be true of
people with urges to abuse children.
Another point I would make is that killing somebody in the
name of a child could also add to the burden and feelings of
guilt that the child may experience, even accidentally, and that
needs to be avoided also. Killing someone or torturing someone
may make us feel better temporarily, but does it help the child,
or ease feelings of guilt that we may have at being unable to
prevent the child being harmed?
A lot of child abuse has occurred in the Catholic Church.
Catholic's, most religious people in fact, are indoctrinated into
religion from birth. Most religion teaches about the sanctity of
life, respect your elders, to act with forgiveness etc. In that
particular example, killing someone in the name of the child,
even with the most honourable of intentions, could actually
increase the levels of guilt dramatically.
◊♦◊
The feeling of liberation.
For 29 years I lived with no purpose, consigned to my fate of a
life encased in shadows, fear in the driving seat, existing but not
living. Too scared to be the man I wanted to be. Too much selfdoubt to confront the issues in the world. Too little faith in my
own opinion. Those days are gone.
My destiny is not depression. The only fate we have is that
which we allow ourselves to have. If we want something badly
enough, if we are prepared to risk everything to have something
truly worth having, then nobody can keep it from us. We may
have to claw and scratch our way to it, we may have to take
paths we didn’t anticipate taking and we may have to sacrifice
things that seem too important to lose, but the only limits to life
are those we set ourselves.
We all have the pieces of the puzzle that is life, we just need to
learn how to put them together.
◊♦◊
The only person whose opinion ever matters is your own. The
only person whose can stop you being who you want to be is the
person in the mirror. There is nothing more dangerous than a
damaged person who knows they can survive believing that
they have a purpose in the world. If the fire burns badly
enough, if you believe in yourself enough, you can achieve any
goddamn thing you want.
Nothing on this planet will ever stop me trying to make the
world better. Nothing anyone can say will ever hurt me as much
as the thoughts I lived with when I had depression. Nothing
anyone can say will ever cause me to doubt myself. The beast
that is depression had me on the ropes, but I Hulked-up and
kicked its arse. If the beast comes back for another round, I’ll
kick its arse again, because that’s what I do. And if the beast of
depression can’t defeat me, nothing can.
◊♦◊
We are born into a prison constructed by society. None of us are
born free. From the moment we are born our parents, societies
and governments tell us what to do, how to act, who to be. The
reason so many people don’t know who they are is they have
never been free to make the discovery.
This planet we live on is viewed differently by every single
person on it. The world is unique to everybody, because it is
shaped by our experiences, our knowledge, by us. We are the
gods of our world. You are bloody special, because you are the
only person who can ever see the world the way you do.
The only authorities people have over us are those we allow
them to have. You can be behind bars, in a dead-end job or a
loveless marriage, but you still have the power to shape your
world the way you want to. It’s your world. Fuck anyone who
tells you how it should be. Believe in yourself and your values,
not those imposed upon you by the world. It’s all anyone can
do.
◊♦◊
Cannabis, depression and legalisation.
In my opinion, which is based only on personal experience and
limited research …
Cannabis doesn't cause mental health issues. It may highlight
and emphasise issues already there, but it doesn't cause them,
not in my opinion. From my experience of Citalopram,
Fluoxetine, Zopiclone and cannabis, the illegal drug is the one
that, used correctly, is the best medical aid to alleviate
depression symptoms.
I believe the statistics around cannabis and mental health
issues are misleading. In my experience, people with mental
health issues often use cannabis to treat them, as opposed to
acknowledging their issues – that’s if they even realise they
have any.
Another point to remember is that the drug statistics are
researched and created by people who have a vested interest in
ensuring people are on antidepressants. It's a regular income
for them and it is taxable. Don't just accept the "facts", question
who supplies them and the motivation behind it. Their opinion
from their studies is that antidepressants are the best; my
opinion, based on years of first-hand experience, is that
marijuana is the best antidepressant, at least for me.
Even if my experience is not representative, the cold, hard fact
is that cannabis helps my mental health issues more than any
antidepressant. Why should I have to put my job, my criminal
record and my freedom at risk just because I find a natural
remedy works much better than tablet that has wildly different
impacts on each individual? Where is my freedom of choice?
◊♦◊
I do think age should come into it - smoking it too young can be
detrimental. Just like drinking alcohol. I also think focusing
police work towards violent criminals, as opposed to people
making a personal choice for themselves that hurts no-one else,
would benefit society. I also imagine there would be less people
out committing crime if they were able to smoke weed in their
own homes, purely based on the effects. Sherlock wouldn't get
involved in "The Case of the Giggling Stoner"; he prevents real
criminals from committing crimes.
Finally, the way addiction is treat in this country needs a
massive overhaul. Don't make criminals out of people with
addictions – it makes recovery harder and prison is an
environment where drugs are plentiful. Treat people with
addictions like the unwell people they are.
People have the right to be lazy and stupid if they wish. They
also have the right to decide whether or not the risks associated
with cannabis are worth it, on a personal level. We are meant to
live in a free world. It would be nice if an option that worked for
me was legal for other people to decide for themselves too.
"To live in accordance with how one thinks. Be yourself and
don't try to impose your criteria on the rest. I don't expect
others to live like me. I want to respect people's freedom, but I
defend my freedom. And that comes with the courage to say
what you think, even if sometimes others don't share those
views." – Uruguay President Jose Mojica, on the key to
happiness.
◊♦◊
Remembering a moment of support when I needed
help.
It was May 2009 – I remember it because it was about three
days before Newcastle got relegated. I’d gone down to that
newsagents next to Bargain Booze, and as I was walking out, I
heard this fluttering. I looked around and noticed a pigeon with
a broken wing stuck behind the fridge.
I’ve no idea why I felt the need to help this pigeon – I’m not
very fond of birds, as a rule – but I carried the bird home and
rang Wetheriggs Animal Park, who said I would need to bring it
to them as they couldn’t send someone out.
For whatever reason, I’d become convinced that I had to save
this birds’ life, and I had about half an hour to do it. I don’t
know why, I was mentally ill at the time and I did a lot of
random things. Anyway, I rang around everyone I could think
of and nobody could help me.
Nobody, that is, until my aunt, Sandra, answered the phone. By
some fluke, she’d just started her lunch break. When I
explained the situation, she didn’t ask questions, she just
picked me up and took me and the pigeon to Wetheriggs. She
didn’t ask why it was so important, she didn’t complain about
giving up her lunch break, she didn’t make me feel silly or daft
for what was, most likely, a waste of time. All she knew was this
was important to me, for whatever the reason, and she could
help, so she did.
◊♦◊
To me, that was Sandra in a nutshell. Someone who would do
anything for anybody. Someone who made the lives of those
lucky enough to know her better, just by being in their lives.
Someone who welcomed me into her family with open arms as
a teenager, even though I was an arsey little bugger. Quite
simply, she was an absolute diamond.
I miss Sandra every day. Every time I walk past her house I
miss her. Others were closer to her, others miss her more and
others loved her more, but I’ll never forget the mark she has
made on me, and the difference knowing her has made to my
life, and I'll never stop being thankful for knowing her.
◊♦◊
Heaven, hell and the misuse of religion.
Religion has always ruled the world.
Man-made gods, deities designed to placate children and give
the masses direction, with the promise of an eternal paradise at
the end of it. People argue over religion. They discriminate over
religion. They go to war and kill over religion. For what? For
some vague notion that it pleases a divine creator who has
never shown themselves to anybody?
The books of the Bible were written by man. These men claim
that God spoke to them, relayed the information for these
books. Does that make it so? Not for me. I need more than
stories told thousands of years ago to believe.
If a god walked up to me and demonstrated their power, I’d be
impressed, and I’d enjoy a conversation with them, ask them
what is going on and why they aren’t doing more to improve the
world. I’d find out what they had to say and consider their
opinion. I'd show them respect, but there would be no bending
of the knee. Somebody having abilities I don’t does not make
them worthy of worship.
A god that demands undying faith with no evidence, and who
needs the threat of eternal torment as a punishment, is nothing
more than a bully. Anyone who force-feeds this message, with
the underlying oppression behind it, is out of order. I’m not
worshipping a bully, and nobody else should either, nor should
they be forced to by the society they belong to.
◊♦◊
I don’t believe the Bible is a literal text. The books of the bible
have ideas worth considering, but no more than the Harry
Potter books. Concepts of love, friendship, doing the ‘right’
thing, standing up for what you believe in, sacrifice and
martyrdom – these concepts are present right through Potter’s
adventures at Hogwarts, and lack the pretension and selfrighteousness that courses through the Bible.
If Moses had come down from the mountain with Half-Blood
Prince instead of the Ten Commandments, would he have been
taken seriously? Of course not. These are fictional tales
designed to enable us to question the concepts of morality and
what it means to be a ‘good’ person. The books of the Bible are
meant to be an idea on how to live a good life, not something
used to justify murder, oppression and genocide.
Some concepts of religion intrigue me, particularly those of
Heaven and Hell and the concept of an afterlife. I don’t believe
Heaven is a place where we go if we are good little servants. I
don’t believe that there is a judgement made by some being who
decides if we are worthy of entry to paradise. I certainly don’t
accept that by allowing Jesus into our heart we are absolved of
our sins.
I believe that no-one ever truly dies as long as they live on in the
memories of the people that knew them. I believe life is more
like Purgatory. We remain in this Purgatory for however long
we need to before moving on to ‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’.
◊♦◊
As we live, we tend to focus on the trivial, day-to-day events and
emotions that occupy us. It’s easy to overlook the bigger
picture, and next to impossible to see ourselves as others
perceive us. We do it to others too. Rather than focussing on the
overall entirety of a friendship or relationship, we remember
recent arguments, current stresses and we overlook the good
times shared with comrades.
This all changes with death. Upon passing away, people
eulogise the deceased. They no longer focus on the little details,
remembering the overall bigger picture of how that person was
and their impact upon the world. People don’t remember the
time someone lost their temper; they remember the person as
the placid, caring individual they generally were. Conversely,
sometimes people do things so bad that any good is overlooked.
Some crimes are so horrific that they tarnish someone’s
reputation forever.
These legacies we leave behind are what I consider heaven and
hell to be. Everybody makes mistakes in life. Everybody does
things they wouldn’t do again, says things in the heat of the
moment that they would refrain from uttering upon reflection.
There is ‘good’ and ‘evil’ in all of us.
I believe that, if our good deeds outweigh the evil, then people
remember us well. This, to me, is what heaven is. This is the
place we go, in the hearts of everyone who knew us, where we
live forever. If the bad outweighs the good, then we will be
remembered negatively, people will forget the ‘man’ and
remember the ‘monster’. This, to me, is Hell.
◊♦◊
I believe we are all gods of our own worlds. If two people were
placed in an identical situation, they would each perceive it
differently based on their own life and experiences. What some
would find enthralling, others would find monotonous. What
one would find liberating, another would find terrifying. Our
world is whatever we allow it to be in our minds. You could be
locked up for life, but if your mind is free, you are never
imprisoned.
We each create our own Heavens and Hells, and we place
people in them depending on the impact they have during their
time in the Purgatory of life. If I believe a person belongs in
heaven, then that is where they will be. If you think the same
person belongs in Hell, you will put them there. The rules for
entry depend entirely upon our own beliefs.
Stop being oppressed by the mythical gods created by man, and
stop being dictated to by deities that don’t exist and the
preachers of these concepts. Become the god of your own world.
It's what you were born to do.
◊♦◊
“My name is Andrew Lawes, and I am afflicted with a
condition definable only as the Lawes Disorder.”
When I first wrote that, I was trying to come up with a
catchphrase that would sound cool on my website. Something
that would make me stand out in your world. What I created
instead was the thing I’ve been searching my whole life for. A
purpose.
I used words that I rarely use in my everyday life. Afflicted.
Definable. Lawes. I admit it, I hate my name. Hate it. I hate it
when people call me Lawes. I hate it when people call me
Lawesy. All it does is remind me of the embodiment of Lawes,
my father, and every single ounce of hurt that I felt as a result of
my infantile understanding of his choices. I have to use that
name every day in your world. In your world, I am Lawes. In
my world, Lawes is evil. Every time you call me Lawes, you call
me evil. It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not, what matters
is that I believe it. It is true because I believe it to be true.
It doesn’t matter whether it is true or not in your world, what
matters is that in my world, the only world I can live in, Lawes
is evil.
But where there is evil, there must be good.
◊♦◊
My earliest memories, the ones which moulded me the most,
they are of unspeakable violence, both physical and
psychological, beyond anything I have seen in a horror film. I
have realised that it is time to stop blaming the memories on
the actions of other people.
Even at that age, I had a choice. I chose to go and watch. I chose
to immerse myself in the evil, because somehow, I knew I
needed to.
I’ve spent 29 years trying to figure out how to live in your world.
A world of rape. A world of Murder. A world of oppression. A
world where an elite cabal of people decide how to benefit
themselves and tell the people without a defence how to do it.
The thing people have never realised before is that all they ever
are is a reaction. People make these big claims – “We need to
take action. We need to be proactive” – without ever realising
that all we are is a reaction. A series of reactions. A compound
effect amalgamated over time to produce a reaction. All we are
is all we ever were. I am just a copy of a copy of a copy. An echo
of an echo of an echo.
Your world fears knowledge. It creates bullies and tyrants to
oppress the thinkers and the schemers. You come up with rules
to control and then criminalise those who think it is wrong. You
legalise the drugs that dull your senses whilst hiding away the
ones that open your mind.
Every choice in life is based on one of two things – love or fear.
◊♦◊
It’s all just a story. All of it. People spend their lives waging
wars over who is right and wrong. They cause genocide over
how the world began.
It doesn’t matter how it began. No-one will ever know, because
it’s all just a story. A theory. An idea.
Jesus was a man born in the Middle East. Yet your world has
told you he was white for so long that people believe he was.
Was he? No-one will ever know. All we hear are the stories.
We were never meant to find the answers. We were just meant
to ask questions. There are no answers, only ideas.
◊♦◊
“I am a man with a mental disorder”.
During a therapy session a few years back, I was asked "what
did you want to be as a child?" I remembered when I was five
years old, and we had to draw pictures of what we wanted to be
when we grew up. My picture was of a fireman, and it was
suggested that trying to achieve that dream would lead to the
inner peace I'd sought so long for. When I had a mental
breakdown in July, I remembered the advice of trying to
become what my inner child wanted me to be. This time, I
interpreted the picture differently. I realised that the child in
me didn't want to be a fireman - he wanted to be a hero. I drew
a fireman because, I imagine, that was the example of heroism
freshest in my mind. It could have been because I was sat next
to a lad called Michael Burns, but the hero reasoning is the one
that makes sense to me.
Experts claim my mental health issues date back to the first
night I sat on the stairs, watching the evil that lies within all of
us manifest first-hand. Like a coward, I sat and hid while
someone I loved was hurt by someone who was meant to be the
hero. Even at the age of four, I knew I should have tried to help,
but I didn't. I watched as my father revealed his true face to me
for the first time. It was terrifying, but still I returned to the
stairs whenever the opportunity arose. I used to think I did this
to protect my brother, who I would usher back to bed if he
awoke, but now I believe that, at four years old, I was already
addicted to the darkness.
In the quarter-century that followed, I have lived a life few
would envy. My mind has been ravaged by anxiety and suicidal
idealisation, I've slashed my own body to shreds and, like a
cancer, depression has devoured my soul. My breakdowns had
been increasing in frequency and severity over recent years, and
the one in July was devastating. It came at a time when my life
was, on paper, the best it had ever been, when I thought I had
created a safe environment for myself, and I realised that I'll
never be able to live an ordinary life. The fight for normality
was killing me, the evidence was too strong. I had to accept the
truth.
I am a man with a mental disorder.
◊♦◊
Reflections written after Robin Williams passed away.
It has been interesting to see the reaction to Robin Williams'
death. However, it has been incredibly predictable. What is also
easily predictable is that in a weeks' time, everyone will have
moved on.
What has changed since Gary Speed died? What has changed
since Kurt Cobain died? Very little.
Robin Williams made a choice, for himself. That is his right,
whatever our feelings on it. None of us are qualified to judge his
decision, because we only see snapshots of his life. He is the one
living it.
Any action, however extreme, is incidental. We can't control it.
Suicide is not an action. It is a reaction to living in a world that
has removed all semblance of hope for the individual.
Society needs to wake up to the reality that the suicide rate will
continue to grow, and it is something we are all choosing to
influence. Look at the news. War. Death. Illness. Abuse.
Genocide. It is a 24-hour advertisement and glorification of
evil. Where is the good news? Shoved away in an "And finally..."
segment. This breeds fear among people. People become so
scared that all they see is the negative, and this reflects in their
everyday lives.
As the societal focus on the evils of mankind grows, the hope
within people diminishes. The more hope a person tries to give,
the greater the impact when that hope is removed.
I've heard people describe Robin Williams' choice as 'tragic',
'selfish', 'heart-breaking' and 'cowardly', among others. I use
only one word to describe it.
Inevitable.
◊♦◊
Unless people make the active choice to change, the epidemic of
suicide will grow to a plague of epic proportions. Governments
need to stop focussing on the world and start focussing on
themselves and their countries. The media need to stop
glamourizing evil. Businesses need to focus less on money and
more on the people working their arses off to make ends meet.
Friends and family need to be more encouraging, more
supportive and less demanding. People need to stop
worshipping the only god that seems to matter nowadays, the
god of Money.
And we, individually, need to stop being so goddamn nasty to
each other. We need to stop judging people on what they've
done and support them in what they are trying to do. We,
individually, need to start being nicer to people we don't know.
You're having a bad day? So is the person you are being nasty
too. What makes your problems more important than theirs?
Nothing except ego and the vain belief that in a universe that
will exist forever, our personal feelings at any given moment
mean a damn thing.
The only reason I'm alive and Robin Williams isn't is because I
am lucky to have a group of amazing people that genuinely care
about me. They give me hope when the world scars my soul.
They are the reason I am alive.
The only world that matters is our own individual world. The
problems of the Middle East aren't in our world; they are in
another world that shares the same planet. All we can influence
is our world, and we need to stop concerning ourselves with the
worlds that share our planet.
My home town is my world. I can change that by being a nicer
person on a daily basis. Over time, the people that share my
world will become happier, just through me being happier. By
changing my world, I will change the wider world around me,
my home town.
People will say they never saw it coming, but Robin Williams
has been speaking about mental health for years. It's not his
fault not enough people were listening. It's ours, as a society,
and unless we change as individuals, the suicide rate will keep
on growing.
◊♦◊
The butterfly effect of a smile.
You never know what difference something as small as a smile
can make. To use an extreme example: Imagine if a surgeon
was stressed. Everything going wrong. They get more and more
worked up. They have no time for lunch, but go to get a coffee
before doing open-heart surgery. They rush into Costas, clearly
stressed, and bump into someone. Now, if the person they
bump into is understanding and friendly, that instantly destresses the surgeon, easing the tension and relaxing them.
They go into the surgery, perform it excellently because they
feel better, and the person operated on survives.
Now imagine if the person the surgeon bumps into is rude and
arsey. The already-highly stressed surgeon gets even more
agitated and tense. Maybe they get into a row, get all angry and
then they have to perform the surgery. Because of their tension,
frustration and anger, they can't operate at their usual level,
they make a mistake and the person being operated on dies.
Obviously, that's an extreme example, but it's very plausible.
None of us know what is going on in the lives of strangers.
However rude they appear, they'll be out of our lives in seconds.
That being the case, what is the point in being rude and arsey?
You may as well be polite and understanding, you'll feel better,
they'll feel better, the people you both subsequently interact
with will feel better and everything is just better. All because of
a smile.
◊♦◊
With regards the whole 'suicide is selfish' thing:
Expecting someone to live a life devoid of any hope or
optimism, constantly at war with their own mind, because it
would make YOU feel bad if they died, is more selfish than
anything somebody does when they are seriously bloody ill. If
people helped each other, instead of judging people when you
know fuck all about their circumstances, the suicide rate would
start to fall and we'd all be happier.
I am not angry about my depression. In a strange way, I'm
thankful for it. It was, and is, a difficult illness to manage, but I
have found a way to live with it. I was lucky enough to have a
core of people who have loved and supported me through my
darkest times, but I know many people don't have that. I want
to completely expose mental illness as a misconception, and if I
do, it will make such a massive difference to so many people. So
no, I'm not angry about depression.
What I am angry about is suicide. Every time someone's life
ends because of suicide, it reflects on us all, as a society, and I'm
angry that we, as a society, are not doing more to reverse the
increasing trend of suicide. I think drastic action is needed now,
and I'm angry that it isn't being taken as seriously as it should
be.
I believe that the only way to manage depression is by giving
the individual hope, and by helping them to realise how
important and special they are to the world just as they are.
Time, patience and support, that’s all most people need.
◊♦◊
Can understanding of autism be related to depression
support?
I have worked closely with adults with learning disabilities for
several years, and the disability that fascinated me the most was
Autism. If you are unfamiliar with Autism, the National Autistic
Society defines it as “a lifelong developmental disability that
affects how a person communicates with, and relates to, other
people. It also affects how they make sense of the world around
them.”
Stephen Wiltshire is diagnosed as being an autistic savant –
someone on the autistic spectrum who has demonstrated
extraordinary and unusual ability. He spent just 20 minutes
looking at New York before drawing it entirely from memory.
Every window, every building, every last detail is accurate.
Other high-profile people diagnosed as being on the autistic
spectrum include the actress Daryl Hannah, Courtney Love and
Susan Boyle, who has been diagnosed with Asperger’s
syndrome, a form of Autism. All of these individuals
demonstrate that a diagnosis does not have to hinder the
ambitions of a person, as long as the person is in an
environment conducive to a positive outcome.
◊♦◊
In my work, I tried to create that environment for the people I
supported. Occasionally, there was a communication
breakdown and, because I was unable to understand what the
person was trying to tell me, frustrations built and challenging
behaviour was exhibited. Sometimes I knew what the person
was communicating, but the trigger to the challenging
behaviour was an event beyond my control, and so my job was
to support the individual.
I would explain the situation beyond our control in a patient,
supportive and empathetic manner. I would support the person
through the ‘crisis’ period and any challenging behaviour they
exhibited, keeping them and the people around us safe. Then I
would attempt to rebuild the rapport between us, reassuring the
individual that I understood their frustrations, before finding
an alternative for them to focus their attention on. These
situations were stressful, but over time, they became easier to
manage. As my relationships with the individuals I supported
developed, I was able to look beyond the labels, the diagnoses
and the care plans and support them in my own individual way.
My style was unconventional; sometimes, I had to go against
the advice suggested in the person’s care plans, and
occasionally I frustrated my colleagues, but it was very rare that
anybody displayed challenging behaviour as a result of my
support, which was beneficial for me, the individual concerned
and everyone else involved in their life.
The best way to effectively support somebody on the Autistic
Spectrum is by understanding the difficulty of the individual to
relate to other people. It is our responsibility to support them to
live in their world whilst keeping them safe in ours, in the hope
that, when the two worlds collide, it creates a better world for
everyone. Stephen Wiltshire’s incredible ability may be an
exception, but he shows what can happen when someone is
supported to discover their talents and given the
encouragement and environment to develop their abilities. That
should be society’s aim for every single person.
◊♦◊
Understanding Autism is the key to solving the conundrums of
the mind. The biggest hindrance to effective mental health
support is the idea that we all live in the same world, and that
there is a ‘right’ way to do so. We accept that people on the
Autistic spectrum live in their own world. What we need to
accept is that we are all on that spectrum. In order for the
spectrum to exist, it must contain the most extreme case of
autism ever diagnosed. If ‘completely autistic’ is on the
spectrum, then the opposite must also be, in which case, we
must all be on the Autistic spectrum.
I believe the mistake mankind has made is in seeing Earth as a
planet. Earth is not a world, it is a universe comprising of over 7
billion individual worlds, each as valid and important as the
last.
◊♦◊
Game of Thrones, the Scottish Referendum and The
Chief.
I hoped Scotland voted No, and it's because of Game of
Thrones. Bear with me.
London is King's Landing. To overthrow the inbred fuckers who
run it, we need the North to band together. Ned Stark did what
he could, but he couldn't unite the North. His bastard son Jon
Snow is routinely mocked for his lack of knowledge, but in the
battle for The Wall, he was the only one to realise they needed
to stop fighting and start working together in order to have the
best chance of survival against the White Walkers. He walked
alone into the land of his enemy, in an attempt to unite the two
against the common evil.
Then, Stannis Baratheon showed up and killed most of them.
He did this because history told him it was the best way to
approach the situation. He then saw Jon Snow, and the three
men (in my head) appear to have agreed to work together. If
Stannis could have skipped straight to the end of the meeting, I
think he'd have let the men he slay live, because then his army
would be stronger.
◊♦◊
Scotland had a chance to exert its confidence and self-belief,
and to become independent. At first, I found the story of an
underdog saying "sod your rules, I'm doing it my way" so
empowering, I hoped they voted yes. With time to reflect, I
think that was wrong. Scotland, like Stannis, could have exerted
power and won a small battle that Thursday. The problem
would have been on Friday, with the realisation they had a
much smaller army to fight the war with. We all hate these
dickheads in Parliament, in this world's version of King's
Landing, but we need to work together on the common goal.
What Scotland and the North of England needs is a Jon Snow.
Someone to draw a line in the sand. We needed Scotland to be
the Wildlings. We needed them to realise if they won that
battle, they would have made the war harder. We still need a
Stannis Baratheon to step up with the power and numbers to
make a difference.
Maybe the zombies will kill the Northern and Scottish heroes.
Maybe the dragons from the Eastern lands will fly in and burn
us all to ashes. None of us know what would happen. But maybe
the North and Scotland comes together and they somehow,
against all odds, reclaim the Iron Throne of King's Landing.
It’ll probably never happen, but it’s a nice thought.
◊♦◊
“I don’t agree with national borders. It may not count for
much, and God knows I've not had any real success in my
musical career, but what I have had is the chance to travel
round and talk to people from all over. I don’t agree with
national borders, because when I go these places, the people
are all the same.
I’ve toured Scotland, I’ve played a couple of times in Wales,
I’ve played all over England too, and everywhere I have been,
the people I’ve met, there is no boundaries between us that are
caused because I am English and the other person has been
Welsh, or Scottish, or Northern Irish. When I play abroad,
although we can still connect on many levels, there are natural
barriers that exist between us, we don’t speak the same
language, we don’t grow up with the same influences, there
are things there that make us a little bit different.
Last week, the people of Scotland, despite being offered the
chance to virtually start a country from scratch, an
opportunity that would without doubt give them more
democratic say over the way they are governed. Instead of
taking that path, the people of Scotland decided instead to
stand side by side with the English people, the Welsh people,
and the Northern Irish people. I think that is important to
note.
In my opinion, it’s important because that victory for unity
was won not by Westminster; the victory was won despite of
Westminster. The victory was not achieved by politics at all,
but by the strengths of the bonds between us, the people.
I want the people of Scotland, and Wales, and even Northern
Ireland to know, that we are just as fed up of this way of
governing as you are, and that these false boundaries between
us, created to divide and rule us must be broken down now.
That is the next step.
We can build the nation we all desire, not just in Scotland, but
across the whole of Britain. The way we do that, is to harness
the only weapon that the common man has against power,
strength of unity.
So when Scotland turn round and say, we don't like this
politics, but we want to stand and fight against it together,
that's the spirit of Britain right there.
It’s almost a thousand years since we fought against each
other as nations, and for centuries we’ve fought side by side
and achieved so much more. We are one people, and we must
find the energy and unite in the face of division if we ever want
to take our country back” - The Chief, written after Scotland
voted to stay in the United Kingdom.
Can understanding autism be beneficial in relating the
lessons of religion?
If you are unfamiliar with Autism, the National Autistic Society
defines it as “a lifelong developmental disability that affects
how a person communicates with, and relates to, other people.
It also affects how they make sense of the world around them.”
As a support worker for adults with autism, I was trained that
the best way to effectively support somebody on the Autistic
Spectrum is through the understanding that they don’t live in
our world; They can only live in their own world within our
wider world. It is our responsibility to support them to live in
their world whilst keeping them safe in ours, in the hope that,
when the two worlds collide, it creates a better world for
everyone. This essay works from the basis that this is the
absolute truth of that approach. It also uses the example of the
Christian God, but this is transferable to other deities also.
If the support approach was the absolute truth, then the
mistake mankind is making is in seeing Earth as a world. Earth
is a universe comprising of over 7 billion individual worlds,
each as valid and important as the last. What this means, in
basic terms, is that the only world that exists to any of us is our
own. When you argue with a loved one, you are trying to prove
they are wrong about something. If they retaliate, they are
trying to prove that, in fact, it is you that is wrong. Who is right?
Both of them, because in their individual world, they are
correct.
The key to peace is realising the only reason we fight is to exert
our belief on what is right. Every war ever fought ultimately
breaks down to two people deciding their view of the world was
right. Both are right, but at the same time both are wrong,
because both people live in different worlds, sharing the same
planet.
The only world that ever exists to us is the one we believe to be
real. If it was absolute truth that people on the autistic
spectrum live in their own world, then we all live in our own
world, because we are all on that spectrum. If the "most autistic
person ever" is on the spectrum, then the "least autistic person
ever" must also be on the spectrum, because it's the only way
that the spectrum itself could exist. That would mean we all live
in our own world, and the only 'correct' world-view is our own.
◊♦◊
What this would mean when it comes to religion, is that if just
one person believes in the existence of God, then God exists.
And as every individual world is both as valid and invalid as
each other, the existence of God in that world is as real and as
proven as the device you are reading this on in your world.
The reason the world is at war over religion is because everyone
thinks they live in the same world. None of us live in the same
world. Every one of us is nothing more than a composite of
beliefs impressed on us throughout the course of our lives.
There are certain personality defects that affect behaviour, but
the vast majority of actions, reactions and emotions are learned
behaviours developed because of our experiences. What this
means, is that no two worlds can ever be the same, because no
two people are the same.
Everything comes back to belief. If you believe something, it is
true. Think about fear. Fear is something you can’t see, you
can’t touch. You can see the effects of fear – tense body
language, sweating, agitation – but you cannot see fear. You can
only feel fear. But fear exists, and nobody disputes that.
The only thing that exists are the things we believe exist. We all
live in our own worlds, and nobody else can possibly
understand what is real or false in those worlds, because we
exist in a constant flux of change. If you believe in God, he
exists, just like if you believe in fear it exists. If you don’t believe
in God, he doesn’t exist in your world, but he does in other
worlds, and our responsibility is to find a way for our individual
worlds to co-exist with the 7 billion other worlds in this
universe. Emotions are unprovable, yet we all believe they exist,
because we feel them. If we feel God, then he exists, just like
love, fear, hate and the rest. God is just emotion made into a
form we can relate to. All that is ever real to us is what we
believe to be real. It shouldn't matter if it is real to someone
else.
Right now, certain aspects of religion are at war with certain
elements of other religions. They are fighting because they
believe their view of the world is correct, but they both are,
because they live in separate worlds. It’s not about proving each
other wrong; it’s about co-existing in the universe of Earth
together. Earth co-exists in the universe of the Milky Way with
an infinite amount of planets, stars and other matter. The
problem with the universe of Earth is, the 7 billion human
planets occupying said universe are trying to be right, instead of
trying to orbit around each other. If Islam, Christianity,
Judaism and the rest, including the atheist community, realised
that they are all both right and wrong, they could start focusing
on ways to co-exist in our small universe instead of trying to
make each world bigger. Or not, who knows, but they might be
approaching it from a better starting point.
Seven billion worlds sharing one planet, all with unique
interpretations as to what is real and what exists. It’s about coexisting within the unique universe our individual world exists
in, not about being right or wrong.
◊♦◊
The importance of asking why.
When I was a kid, I used to ask "why?" incessantly. It was
irritating to those around me, because when I was bored, I used
to just keep saying it to whatever the answer was. People
thought I was being difficult, but I was just curious.
As time went on, I could sense the frustration over my
questioning, so I stopped doing it. It was easier to just accept
things are what they are. In the workplace, my bosses didn't like
me asking "why?" so much.
"Why do you let these people work for you when you know they
are abusing people?" was the question they didn't like the most.
It would have been easy for me to shut up and stop asking why,
but I couldn't. I had to know why they allowed such things to
happen, but nobody could give me an answer I found
acceptable.
"Why?” is the most powerful word in the English language. You
are entitled to ask why whenever you think something is wrong.
People will try to tell you that you shouldn't, but unless people
do, stuff just continues unaddressed. "Why?" forces people to
think about the reasons and causes of their actions and choices.
It forces people to consider the consequences of what they do,
and it prevents cultures of silence building up.
One word can change the world. That word is Why.
◊♦◊
Supporting someone to open up emotionally.
There are few things harder than knowing that someone you
love has been damaged by their past. Discovering they have
suffered traumas or abuses, or performed acts that they regret,
inspires the protective side in us, the need to find a solution for
the person we love. You can’t change what has happened, but
you hope you can support them to come to terms with it and
move on emotionally.
The difficulty is that such emotions are so hard to talk about for
the individual, and the wrong approach can lead to people
shutting down and blocking out their feelings instead. I hope
this advice can help you support your loved one to accept their
history and look to the future.
#1 – Be honest with your partner … and yourself.
In many cases, this conversation is held with a new romantic
partner. If that’s the case for you, then part of you will want to
know about their history, not just to support them, but to know
if their past is something you can cope with. If what the person
may tell you is likely to lead to the end of the relationship,
under no circumstances should you tell them that you’ll be
there “however bad the truth is”. Building up a level of trust,
only to find you can’t cope with the truth, is unfair on the
person opening up and could damage them further. Be honest
with yourself about your motives beforehand, and do not
promise anything you cannot honour.
Instead of saying “I’ll be there, no matter what”, tell them what
your boundaries are. If you couldn’t cope with a porn-star past,
for example, then admit that to your partner before they open
up. They’ve been through enough – the last thing they need is
condemnation.
#2 – Avoid adding pressure.
However pure your intentions are, if you pressure someone to
open up it will have long-lasting damage on the relationship.
Abuse and trauma are intensely personal things. Quite often,
people will have either confided in someone before, someone
who didn’t give the response the person needed, or they will
never have spoken a word of it. The memories of these abuses,
while just a part of the person you love, have shaped their very
being. They are the most intimate, personal experiences of their
life, and that far outweighs your desire to know what the
details.
What you need to do, instead of trying to find the right
combination of words that unlocks the secrets within the
person, focus on making the person feel comfortable enough to
talk about it in their own time. Explain that you are there for
the person if they wish to talk. Say that you would like to know
what they have been through so that you can know them more
completely and help them to overcome the issues, but that there
is no rush for them to open up. Reassure them that if they
confide in you, you will listen without judgement, and that no
matter what horror stories you hear, they will not change how
you feel towards the person.
#3 – Remember the goal.
The aim isn’t to get the person to open up. The aim is to make
the person feel safe enough with you that they open up
themselves. Even if it takes days, weeks or months, that’s ok.
This is a person you are hoping to build a future with, so there
is no rush.
So many people get hung up on the idea of “The Big Talk”, that
life-changing conversation where everything is revealed and
everything is different afterwards. Let’s get one thing clear:
“The Big Talk” is a construct of television and film, designed to
maximize dramatic and emotional effect whilst fitting in with a
schedule. Life has no end credits. There is no season finale.
After you have “The Big Talk”, there is no theme song to wrap
things up for the week. The day will go on, the week will go on
and life will go on.
“The Big Talk” doesn’t happen in reality. You may think you
are going to have it, but you won’t. If somebody is so guarded,
so vulnerable, they aren’t going to tell you everything at once,
not if there is a risk of losing you. They will only mention what
they think they can safely say without being rejected by you.
This is why patience is the key – it won’t be a big conversation,
but little bits and pieces revealed over time, at a pace the
confider is comfortable with. These are very personal
experiences being discussed, and nobody takes the risk of
revealing their truest selves unless they feel safe enough that
they won’t be rejected.
Being open isn’t about knowing every aspect of your partners’
history. It’s about developing a deeper bond between you both.
That is something that takes time and cannot be forced.
#4 – Be prepared for emotional transference.
Whilst confiding these traumatic memories in you, reliving the
horror will evoke the emotions they felt at the time, and the
person may subconsciously project onto you. Be prepared for
this. Don’t take it personally. Reassure and support the person.
Don’t tell them you are different to everyone else – show them
through your actions.
I have been guilty of transferring emotions from the past onto
innocent people. When you are used to people acting a certain
way, you tend to look for warning signs, and it is something that
happens subconsciously. Sometimes, it was something as small
as a throwaway phrase that reminded me of my past; the sense
of smell is also known to provoke flashbacks. The way I acted
was a reaction to the trigger, not to the person I was talking to,
so I imagine it would be similar for other people too.
#5 – Listen … then support.
I’ve spoken about the importance of listening to people with
depression, and I’ve explained how to listen effectively to
someone struggling with emotional issues, and in this situation
it is equally important. The only words you need to use are
words of reassurance and comfort – opinions and advice should
be available, but they should never be forced upon someone.
One of the constant themes with emotional issues is the lack of
control the victim had at the time. You need to give them
control of this situation. You aren’t there to break down the
barriers – you are there to support the person to overcome
them in their own time. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, not
if you intend to be there long-term. What they tell you, they
may not have told anyone before, or if they had, they may have
been rejected for it. It is the most personal thing they have, and
it will take a long time to truly trust someone enough to share
that with them. They will feel vulnerable, and it is your job to
make them feel safe, secure, valued and special. Treat them
with love, kindness, patience and respect. Listen without
judgement or interruption.
As important as their past may seem to you, it is far more
important to the other person. Never forget that.
◊♦◊
If you are in an abusive relationship:
Everybody has the right to feel safe in their own home, yet so
many people don’t. For them, tonight will be another night of
violence. Another night of watching what they say in case it
triggers an assault. Another night of cowering in a corner,
wishing the beating would stop, hoping the person they love
doesn’t go too far, praying that they’ll still be alive come
morning.
Domestic violence is such a painful experience to live through.
The physical pain, the visible scars, they are terrifying at the
time, but it’s not the physical abuse that ruins lives; it’s the
shattered psyche and the deep emotional wounds that leave the
real long-term damage. This is too often overlooked when
considering domestic violence – you don’t have to be struck to
be the victim of violence. Fracturing someone’s mind is
arguably the most violent thing an abuser can do to their
victim, and it can happen to anyone.
It’s so subtle, you barely even notice yourself being conditioned
to accept abuse as normal. Before any violence, the insults start
creeping in, imperceptibly undermining the victim’s confidence.
Insults disguised as jokes. Then it progresses – maybe they
demand to read your messages, justifying their actions with
phrases like “If you had nothing to hide, you wouldn’t care
about me reading them”. Over time, the situation develops to
the point where everything you do is wrong. Nothing is good
enough. You believe it is your fault because the abuser has
conditioned you to feel that way.
This is what they want. They don’t want you to be a strong
person. They need you to be broken. They need you to be
damaged, emotionally drained and devoid of self-belief. They
need you to feel dependent upon them. Once you reach this
stage, once they have you trapped, that’s when the violence
turns from psychological to physical.
◊♦◊
It often starts with a single blow. A one-off incident, which the
abuser claims is a “loss of control”. Maybe they say they blacked
out, that they don’t remember it. Maybe they blame it on
alcohol or drugs and promise to curb their intake. What they
always do is say that it won’t happen again, but it will. It always
does.
The abuser will be full of contrition … for a while. They’ll buy
you presents and take you to nice places. They’ll shower you
with compliments, and tell you how much they love you. You’ll
begin to trust them again as the memory of the attack fades.
You may even think that you’re happy … until the day it
happens again. And again. And again. Once becomes once a
month. Once a month becomes once a week. Somehow, they
always make you believe it is your fault.
You are innocent of blame – it is your abuser who is
responsible. You are a victim of abuse and you need support.
Talk to someone about what is happening. Domestic violence
isn’t normal, it isn’t “just what happens in a relationship”. It is
abuse, and you deserve better than to be a victim of abuse.
Outsiders looking in wonder why victims stay with their abuser,
why they don’t walk away after the first time. They stay because
the emotional violence inflicted removes hope. The abuser
convinces you that nobody else would want you, and that you
cannot survive on your own. They twist the situation in your
head to convince you that you need them, that it is your fault
what is happening. If only you hadn’t said that thing, or forgot
to do that other thing, none of this would have happened. The
psychological conditioning is so subtle that the victim grows to
believe the lies of the abuser. They make you dependent upon
them, so that you feel you have to stay with them, that you have
no option. They convince you that you need them to survive in
the world. It is this psychological damage that far outweighs
any physical injuries. It is this brainwashing that affects victims
for years after the relationship has ended.
Please try to understand that what the abuser tells you is lies.
They are taking falsehoods and interweaving them with the
truth to make them seem believable. Listen to me: It is them
nobody else would want, not you. It is them that cannot survive
on their own. It is their fault what is happening, not yours, and
you deserve so much more than what you are going through
right now.
However hard you try, however many tears you cry and
however much blood you shed, you will not change the abuser.
Many people believe that they have a special connection that
can ‘save’ the abuser. Maybe you are in an abusive relationship
right now, and you think you can be the person that changes
your abuser. You won’t be. The only person who can alter the
abuser’s personality is the abuser themselves, and it’s a process
that can take years, with no guarantee of success.
You can’t save the abuser. You can only save yourself.
◊♦◊
Victims often believe that the abuser loves them, but they don’t.
Love is empowering; it liberates you and makes your life better.
Love isn’t based around intimidation and fear. Love isn’t
destroying your partner’s self-belief. Love isn’t balling your
hands into fists and unleashing them upon another person.
Physical and psychological violence is not love. Stop lying to
yourself that it is, and take whatever support is available to get
away from such destruction.
It is so hard leave an abuser. Some people are terrified that the
abuser will track them down and punish them. In extreme
cases, they are worried the abuser will kill them. The fear is too
great to walk away. The thing is, if you stay, the abuser will
continue to inflict physical and emotional torture upon you. The
abuse will kill you if you stay, or worse: it’ll drain every drop of
life out of you and you’ll spend the rest of your life existing,
maybe even waiting for death. Only by leaving the abuse behind
do you give yourself a chance of happiness, a hope of a different
future, a happier future. Walk away from the abuser and take
that first step towards the life you were born to live.
◊♦◊
Supporting someone who self-harms.
Discovering someone you love hurts themselves is a difficult
experience. The deliberate infliction of pain upon oneself is
something that is difficult to understand, but empathising with
the personal reasons behind an individual’s behaviour is
actually unnecessary when it comes to supporting them.
#1 - Avoid judging or shaming.
“Do you know what you’re putting your
family and friends through?”
“Don’t you realise how awful it looks?”
“What will people think?”
The reason for my self-harm was the inability to handle my
emotions. Overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and shame, selfharm gave me a brief respite from the self-inflicted mental
torment. Whenever others shamed or judged me for my actions,
my reaction was to hurt myself more. From my conversations
with others, this is a common after-effect of phrases such as
these. Stop using them – they help nobody, least of all the
person who needs support.
#2 - Listen to the person.
This is the key to helping anybody, in any situation. When
discussing my mental issues, it often felt like the person talking
to me was uninterested in supporting me; they just wanted the
self-harm to stop. My need was to talk about my emotions, not
for someone to tell me how they felt, and it was rare to find
someone who didn’t need to try to fix me after hearing my
story.
Think about when you converse with people. How often do you
truly listen to what they say? Do you take in what they are
telling you, or are you just waiting for your turn to talk? Active
listening takes effort, it requires patience and that is a skill that
takes time to master. Think of your body language; have you
adopted a closed-off posture, such as crossed-arms? Are you
making eye contact, reacting to what you are being told?
Chances are that your body language is giving off signs that you
are uninterested in what your conversant is saying, so try to be
aware of how you may be presenting yourself.
#3 - Many people who self-harm are used to dealing with
problems alone.
If it appeared people weren’t focused on hearing my story, my
approached changed to telling the person whatever they wanted
to hear. My mental health was the most dominant and
important thing in my life and it hurt when people appeared
not to appreciate that. If someone tries to open up to you,
please remember how important it is to them and make the
effort to listen properly.
A common reaction to the discovery of self-harm is to hide
razors, knives and other implements that can be used to cause
harm. This is an understandable reaction, but it is both
pointless and counter-productive. If somebody wishes to harm
themselves, they will find a way to do so. By hiding items that
are commonly used, all you are doing is showing the individual
who self-harms that you do not trust them, and it is very
patronising. Similarly, not doing activities or talking about
certain subjects because you feel the person who self-harms
“can’t handle it”, whilst understandable, is not helpful.
#4 - Learn basic first-aid.
Finding someone you care about in the moments following an
act of self-harm can lead to a maelstrom of emotions, primarily
confusion, distress, panic and worry. What you need to do is
detach emotion from the situation, maintain a calm head and, if
necessary, focus on treating the wound. Knowledge of basic first
aid is essential, especially if it is a bad injury. If it is a cut, apply
pressure to the wound and, if possible, keep it above the level of
the heart. If it is a burn, run it under cold water for between 10
and 30 minutes. If it is a moderate to severe burn, cover it with
Clingfilm – this will help prevent infection. Get it looked at by a
professional. Learn how to keep cuts and wounds clean to avoid
infection. All basic things, but helpful to know.
#5 - Focus on the root cause.
This may be the hardest point to get your head around, but you
need to:
Self-harm is NOT the problem. Self-harm is a reaction to other
issues in someone’s life. Those issues are what they need
support with.
Comprehending this allows you to support your loved one much
more effectively. This is where the ability to listen is crucial.
The underlying issues could be anything: sexual abuse,
bullying, financial worries, stress of exams or work, maybe even
just low self-worth. If your child is being bullied or is struggling
at school, find out why and support them as they wish to be
supported. If it is low self-esteem, focus on helping them to see
their worth as an individual. If it is some form of abuse, then,
whatever you do, BELIEVE them.
Ask the individual what support they want, if any. Ask what you
can do to help. It is good to offer suggestions, but only do so if
requested, and avoid demanding they do something they don’t
want to do. Make your loved one aware of the options they
have, including therapy, but refrain from making demands.
◊♦◊
The key to everything is support. No-one can promise you that
this will be an easy process. Even with the greatest support in
the world, it can take a long time for somebody to stop selfharming. Self-harm is the sister of addiction, and as much as
someone addicted to alcohol knows where the nearest drink is,
a person who self-harms always knows ways to hurt themselves.
The individual is in control of their self-harm. What they need
support with is rebuilding their self-worth and their confidence.
What they need most is patience and support while they learn
how to understand their emotions and how to take control of
their life. Make that the focus of your support.
It has been years since my last cut, but in times of stress or
upset, it still goes through my mind that self-harm can provide
a solution. However destructive it may be, that appeal will
always be there. No-one will never be an ex-self-harmer, but
today I’m someone who hasn’t self-harmed in a few years, and
that’s good enough for me.
◊♦◊
The cancer of depression.
Cancer is an illness that ravages the body, draining it of vitality
and strength. A disease that dominates the life of every person
afflicted with it. Even the treatment is physically destructive:
chemotherapy can leave someone without hair, nauseous and
confined to their bed. It is a devastating illness; one that affects
not only the patient but everyone else in their life.
Cancer is something that can manifest in every single person in
the world, and that is why it is so scary. The reality is that
cancer is a catch-all term for over 200 individual cancerous
growths, and despite decades of research, there is no concrete
answer to what causes it – all we have are theories and ideas. It
is only once cancer is diagnosed that we can begin to manage
the illness.
The only difference between cancer and depression is that
cancer attacks the physical self, whereas depression decimates
the mind and soul.
◊♦◊
Living with depression isn’t the fight or the battle so many
describe it as; it’s a full-on war with your own mind; a war that
can never be won, because it can only end with death. Having
depression is like having two brains controlling your body,
except one of them is an enemy, one that learns every doubt,
regret, insecurity and fear you have, then whispers them to you
in your own voice, utterly indistinguishable from your normal
thoughts. No-one, not even the person with depression, can be
sure where they end and their illness begins. Experiencing the
void of emotion, the absence of hope and the absolute bleakness
of depression leaves permanent scars. There will never be a
cure for depression, because no-one will ever be naïve enough
to believe they have beaten it.
We are nice to people with terminal cancer because we know
they are going to die, but the thing is, we are all going to die.
Life itself is a terminal illness. Some of us will face long fights
with illnesses that are immediately apparent, others will wage
internal wars for decades, never quite sure if they are winning
or losing. Some will find coping strategies to manage their life
well, others will need more support and different approaches.
None of us know what is going on in the lives of strangers.
Nobody can comprehend the depth of the torment someone
else is struggling with. By treating people with the respect and
decency that comes with understanding we are all terminally ill,
a lot of the stresses of life ease away, people become more
pleasant and polite to each other, and the worlds we create for
ourselves become places that aren’t so scary to live in. It is my
belief that the illness of depression manifests when fear
overloads the mind. Sometimes, that fear is created by a
chemical imbalance in the brain; sometimes, the chemical
imbalance is lesser, but the experiences of life cause the fear
level to build until depression manifests. Occasionally, the
illness is created by external factors - learned behaviours
impressed on people, often during their formative years, which
combine to create enough fear and anxiety to result in
depression.
◊♦◊
Depression is one of the key elements that comprise the Lawes
Disorder. It’s taken thirty years to develop my ability to manage
my illness. While therapy and antidepressants have played a
part, the only thing that has offered a long-term solution to me
is to break my fear down. By identifying the things that scare
me, it enables me to seek the appropriate support to minimise
that fear. Every mental breakdown of mine has come at a time
of great uncertainty; periods of my life where there seemed to
be little to no possibility of a happy ending.
If mental health support focused more on working with people
to identify, plan and work towards their personal ambitions; if
it prioritised building a future for individuals, while still
affording time to work through the issues of the past; then my
belief is that the suicide rate would fall, the negative impact of
mental health issues on individuals lives would be lessened, and
people, on the whole, would feel more optimistic about life.
It’s the only approach that has offered me hope that my
nightmare illness can be turned into a fairy-tale ending.
◊♦◊
The Lawes Disorder, The Reaction and Disorderville.
For 30 years, the fight to gain control of my mind has defined
my life. At some point in July this year, my breaking point was
reached and I completely broke down. My belief is that, as my
knowledge of abuse and oppression in the world grew, my hope
of overcoming depression diminished to the point where I just
couldn’t take any more. The world is too confusing to me. I
can’t understand why so many people are so scared to do what
they know in their hearts is right. I can’t comprehend why
people would hurt others to help themselves, or worse: why
they would keep silent when they know people are abused.
“Religion is misunderstood; the message behind it all is spread
the love” – The Chief
I still don’t know what I believe about how we all came to be,
but I do know that it doesn’t fucking matter either way. All that
counts is what we do and how we make people feel. Long after
we die, the memories of our lives and actions will be
remembered by those whose hearts we touched. Heaven exists
in the minds of whoever believes it exists; the only way to get
there is to make sure the good we do exceeds the mistakes we
make.
Maybe we are some sort of holy creation; maybe we are nothing
more than overgrown bacteria, mould with minds. It doesn’t
change anything, and the people who use religion as an excuse
to exact war and death upon others need to wake the fuck up
and stop killing people. They say the definition of madness is
doing the same thing and expecting different results, yet here
we are, centuries removed from the crucifixion and still people
are acting like babies with bazookas over books. It’s ludicrous to
me, and anybody involved in that, be they Catholic, Protestant,
Church of England, Muslim, Sikh, Buddhist, Jedi or whatever,
needs to realise that you are taking an example of how to live a
good life and using it to justify evil. It’s fucking absurd.
♦◊♦
Antidepressants remain a contentious issue with me. Losing my
dream job was hard, but finding out it could have been avoided
if I’d said I was taking medication was painful. In the four years
I’ve used them, my breakdowns have increased in both
frequency and severity. Part of me wonders how much of my
disorder has, in fact, been exacerbated by using these drugs. All
I know is that I’d never had a panic attack before I used
Citalopram. I’ve never hallucinated shadows moving on the
walls except for when on Citalopram. Fluoxetine worked for
short spells, but it killed any creativity I had and it was also the
drug of choice when my mind gave up completely.
What frustrates me the most is that the one anti-depressant
that helps me both live in the world and maintain my creativity
is cannabis, yet for some bizarre reason, this is illegal in my
country. One argument is the hallucinogenic aspects, but
Citalopram was more hallucinogenic than any spliff I’ve
smoked. Another argument is it causes long-term mental health
issues. As my therapist explained, I’d had long-term mental
health issues long before cannabis entered my life; it remains
the only drug that negates suicidal impulses and the urge to
self-harm; what’s more, it also enables me to manage the more
destructive aspects of the Lawes Disorder – the anger, the fear,
the pain and the inability to control my emotions.
Used medicinally, cannabis is pretty much the same as
Fluoxetine, except it enhances creativity as opposed to killing it
and it enables me to feel joy and laughter in the company of my
friends. I think that’s the only real problem the authorities have
with it, the enhancement of imagination. Look at the approved
drugs, things like alcohol, Citalopram and Fluoxetine – all of
them numb the mind. Hell, alcohol is a depressive drug,
antidepressants “may cause suicidal thoughts”, yet it is legal for
people to take them both. And you know what, it’s right that it
is legal, because people should have the choice. All the
information about them is available; people are given the choice
as to whether those drugs are for them. It’s exactly the same
with cannabis, yet that is illegal. I can only presume it’s because
governments don’t like people thinking, and that’s fucking
absurd.
What people put in their own body is their choice, and no
fucker has the right to judge anybody for it.
♦◊♦
I feel privileged to have spent eight years supporting people
with learning difficulties. It’s funny, because they are labelled as
having a ‘learning disability’, yet it is us that needs to learn from
them. When it felt like the world had cast me as the devil, they
were the angels who accepted me with love and grace. When
society demonised me for my transgressions, they focussed only
on who I was and what I was trying to be. Every morning was a
line in the sand; every day a chance to make the world we
shared a better place. They didn’t need explanations for my
behaviour or justification for my actions; as long as I made
them smile or helped them when needed, I was a good guy.
I try to live by their example, to forgive those who hurt me and
to let go of grudges quickly, but I’m not as good as them. I was
the support worker, yet they helped me more than I helped any
of them. They saved my life by accepting me when the world
condemned me. They set me free by showing me that the only
way to live in this world is to create a little world of your own
and make that the best world it can be.
The thing is, I think it goes further than that. This world is
something different to every person on the planet. The
uniqueness of fingerprints means nothing can feel the same to
any two people; the individuality of emotions, experiences and
learned behaviours mean that what is “right” and “wrong” is so
hard to define. Every war in history is over two differing ideas
of what is the right way to live; I think as long as you don’t hurt
anybody, it doesn’t fucking matter what you do.
♦◊♦
In Messiah Complex, Russell Brand urges people to “choose
your own heroes”. I think it’s great advice, and I’d expand by
saying that sometimes the people we hate most are those we
learn the most from. The Chief once said “the problem with
heroes Andrew, they always let you down” and it’s something
that struck a chord with me.
Seeing people as heroes is a dangerous thing. It creates an
image that someone cannot possibly live up to; what’s more,
there is no possible way of knowing if a person is a hero or is
hiding villainy with heroic acts. Malcolm X called for racial
segregation, yet he was a key figure behind the empowerment
of a group of people who had been oppressed for centuries. Is
he a hero or a villain? He’s neither, and yet he’s both. Whatever
he is to you is what he is; him meaning something different to
somebody else shouldn’t be a cause for conflict, it should be a
starting point for a discussion of his ideologies in the hope of
improving upon the best aspects.
My advice is this: choose your own inspirations and create your
own hero. Yourself.
♦◊♦
In my dreams, I have an image of myself at some point in the
future. I call this version of myself The Reaction. It may sound
daft, but all heroes need a name. All I am is the composite of
centuries of societal evolution and three decades of learned
behaviours. Nothing I do is inspirational; nothing I say is
anything new. Nothing I do is an action, all of it is a series of
reactions to circumstances beyond my control. All I am is a
reaction and all I want to be is The Reaction.
There’s very little difference between the person I am now and
the hero I aspire towards. The only thing missing is the fear.
Tommy Lee said in The Dirt “everything we do comes from
either fear or love” and I’m sick of fear dominating my life. The
Reaction isn’t scared: when he sees something wrong, he steps
up to the plate. When he competes, he has no fear of failure.
When he dreams, he chases, and he doesn’t stop until he makes
them reality. All that is different is the lack of fear.
When it comes to creating my own world, it already exists. I call
it Disorderville, and it exists in my imagination. It isn’t a
physical place; it’s a part of my mind and heart that those I love
exist in. When I go to The Chief’s house for a coffee, I’m in
Disorderville. When I’m at a gig with my mates, I’m in
Disorderville. When my headphones go on and I shut the world
out, I’m in Disorderville.
It’s a lovely place, but that’s because the only people who get to
spend any real time there are nice people. The wider world has
its religions and its prophets, but Disorderville just has thinkers
and dreamers. It’s fucking absurd that people live their lives
based on the ideas of a group of people who lived in a world so
different. It’s even more absurd that people kill each other over
these texts, instead of working together to come up with a new
way, a better way. We have two thousand years’ worth of
knowledge on top of these books; why not fucking use it?
Disorderville is a pretty small place sometimes, and it can get
quite lonely. My hope is that, over time, more people come into
my life and Disorderville becomes bigger in my head; that I
have more safe places to escape this world; but only time will
tell. As it stands, I’m grateful that I’m not the only one left here
sometimes.
♦◊♦
So, the final question: What is the Lawes Disorder?
When you think of the word ‘disorder’ in relation to mental
health, it is used to indicate a supposed defect within a person’s
brain. People get labelled as having Bipolar disorder, or splitpersonality disorder, or one of the many other categories people
get placed into, but it’s all bullshit. These things are meant to be
used as indicators for the best way to support someone; instead,
they get used to put people into boxes, to convince them there is
something wrong with their head, when the reality is the people
categorized as having a ‘disorder’ are just different. Unique.
Extraordinary. Special.
The dates of my journal indicate that depression attacks
periodically. This is often countered by periods of great
creativity. Could this indicate Bipolar? Maybe, but it doesn’t
fucking matter.
Sometimes when I am emotional, I hear the voices of people
who matter most in my head. Sometimes they seem almost real.
Am I hearing voices, or is it a powerful moment of conscience?
Could it be indicative of some form of schizophrenia? Maybe,
but it doesn’t fucking matter.
These terms, they mean nothing to me on a personal level. I
don’t care if the pharmaceutical industry tell me there’s a new
wonder-drug; given the damage their products did to my mind,
plus their vested financial interest in my belief that I need their
drugs to survive, I think I’ll pass. All this money wasted on
formulating these drugs when marijuana, a proven healer in my
world, the only medication that prevents my suicidal impulses,
has been here since the dawn of time. The illegality of cannabis
in the United Kingdom is an embarrassment; the denial of
freedom of choice to use something with so many benefits is
ridiculous; grow the fuck up and let adults make adult decisions
for themselves.
It’s other people who need to label my personality, not me. I’m
not bipolar, I’m not schizophrenic, I’m just Andrew. It’s taken
me thirty years to reach a point where I’m comfortable with
that. Feel free to use whatever terms to describe me that you
wish, but given that we think four times faster than we talk, it is
impossible to explain who we are enough to define each other
as anything other than ourselves. Every thought, every action
and reaction, every hope and dream, fear and heartache, every
experience and learned behaviour from my life has
compounded into a personality and mind so unique and
individual it can only be defined as the Lawes Disorder.
There is no treatment for such a condition; what the afflicted
requires can change on a daily basis. What support works is
unique to the relationship with the person offering support.
Sometimes, the Lawes Disorder offers positive insights to the
mind and the world. Occasionally, the darkness takes over; fear
takes the reins and Disorderville becomes a bleak place. To
support the sufferer, you need to develop a personal
relationship; to help, all you have to do is smile, be supportive
and, when needed, just listen to the person.
♦◊♦
My name is Andrew Lawes, and I am afflicted with a condition
definable only as the Lawes Disorder. You can call it whatever
you want, it doesn’t matter to me, because I know I’m going to
keep my promise to that little girl that saved my life. I know this
because I have a group of people, affectionately known as the
Disordervillains, who have chosen to spend part of their time in
my world; who have been there through the worst times of my
life; who trusted me to walk into the fires of hell and come back
alive. That, more than anything, is the definition of love
overcoming fear.
♦◊♦
“The Earth is free,
You were born a child of it,
Not a slave to it.
Release yourself from the cage you have built to die in,
And live.”
The Chief
♦◊♦
Bonus Content: throwaway thoughts on random
topics.
Check yourself for lumps. Breasts, balls, wherever. A simple
thing that is easily forgotten but only takes two minutes and
could save your life. If you find anything, go to the doctors.
They will treat you with dignity and find out if it needs
treatment. It can be scary, it can make you blush, but don't die
of embarrassment.
◊♦◊
People say you need to love yourself, but I think it's far more
important to have self-respect than self-love. Loving yourself
too much can be a weakness, but respecting yourself as much as
possible is paramount.
◊♦◊
One person's abuse is another person's foreplay. It’s about
respect and consent.
◊♦◊
So often people see the disability of a person, be it a physical
one, a mental one or a learning disability, and they focus on the
disability rather than the person.
I've been a support worker for 8 years now, and I've supported
people with physical, mental and learning disabilities, and I feel
lucky to have done so, because the people I've supported are
amazing, and although I may not earn much money, it's a job
that has enriched me in many other ways and has made me a
much better person.
Whatever the superficial differences that make us unique, try to
remember that people are just people, and we all have the
potential to make each other's life better.
◊♦◊
You're flawed, yet you're as uniquely brilliant in ways you don't
realise as everyone else on this earth. You can achieve anything
you want in this life, I promise you.
◊♦◊
They say when you love someone, set them free. People get
confused and think it means let them go. It has become the
accepted consolation phrase of our generation, a valiant
attempt to give hope to the heartbroken.
What the phrase means to me is that if you love someone, you
put in the love, trust and effort to do what you can to enable the
person to be themselves, and if they want you to share their
freedom, then you know it's real love.
◊♦◊
Sometimes, the greatest acts of heroism come not in grand
gestures, but in silently listening to a grand vision and making
someone believe they have a chance.
◊♦◊
When you make the choice not to educate yourself about issues
that matter, you choose to be ignorant.
◊♦◊
If you define people by the worst moments in their life,
everyone is an arsehole. When you realise that everyone fucks
up, and everyone has regrets, you stop seeing people as
monsters and you see that people are just people, trying their
best to make sense of a fucked-up world. Most people aren't bad
people, but good people who do bad things when they can't
handle the weight of their emotions. If you support people, they
can learn and become better people. If you demonise them, it
all turns to shit.
◊♦◊
In the past year, the richest 1,000 people in Britain have got
15% richer, which should be of no surprise as that is what
austerity does. That isn't a conspiracy theory; it’s basic
economic theory. The Queen has become 10% richer, and I ask
you to consider how far we have come from the medieval
system, when the Queen gains 10% more wealth in one single
year, whilst her subjects are pushed further and further
toward poverty and our public assets are given away to
wealthy profiteering land owners?
Despite them saying those who believe in socialism are
dreamers, there is always socialism for the rich. – The Chief.
◊♦◊
There is no such thing as an unbiased opinion. Your opinions
are tinged with bias from the experiences you have had in life
and from the people you have met along the way. Every single
thing that happens adds an almost-imperceptible amount of
bias to future choices, decisions and opinions. All our thoughts
are just a result of millions of tiny, imperceptible biases that we
can do nothing about.
◊♦◊
When you argue with someone you love, nobody ever wins.
Look to resolve the situation, not win the row.
◊♦◊
If you want things to be different, whatever the situation, take
responsibility and change it for yourself. The only person
responsible for your happiness, hopes and dreams is you.
◊♦◊
“I know we’ll all get it right in the end … I know we’ll all save
the world in the end …” - The Chief.
◊♦◊