Skara

Something that has been all too easily overlooked in the midst of this phase of "oh shit the world's on fire are we going to die we definitely are oh fucking fuck why is everything fucked" has been the fact that this unprecedented level of universal bullshit has presented us with the most incredible opportunity.

Oh don't get me wrong, everything is still utterly, comprehensively fucked, but hear me out here. Or read me out or whatever. That's just not as good a phrase though. It doesn't roll off the tongue. Unless you're reading out loud. I mean, I'm saying this out loud to myself as I type it but....listen I do have a point, if you'll just let me finish....or begin.

Our freedom to live as before has been taken away. In its place has been compulsory quiet time. I for one feel as though I have been granted a chance to do something special. A chance to learn more about the world around me. To educate myself, to truly gain a foothold. I've been presented with a chance to delve deep into myself, and better myself through considered, introspective thought.

It's not a chance I've taken. I've mostly just watched TV.

Don't you dare think you can sit there in judgement of my profound failings! You with your homemade bread. Your newfound, and oh so temporary love of biking and hiking in the absence of Tinder super-liking. You are no better than me. Maybe some of you are.

Not you. Never you.

Sure, we have all learned a great deal more on the manipulative power of media, the fragility of government, the depth of systemic racism across major nations, and the strength of human will....to avoid doing the right things for themselves and all others. We didn't actively seek it out. It's just not been possible to ignore it anymore.

Bury those fears, baby. Bury them way down inside. Stay up until it's daylight again, then fight the intrusive thoughts of your own failings as you try to sleep. Sleep less as the thoughts grow stronger with every day you try to push them back.

Maybe it's time to watch Six Feet Under again? O.J.: Made in America's on iPlayer.

Fight the thoughts. You're worthless. Don't think about it. You don't deserve this. Not the good stuff. Don't dwell on it. Focus on the darkness at the back of your eyelids and go to sleep. Don't focus on any darkness further back. Go to sleep when the birds chirp.

Don't.

So, overall I've done a pretty good job of dealing with the all encompassing terror. How about you?

I have granted myself one bit of gazing into the auld inside memory box though. Less of a waltz down memory lane, and more of a stumble down the dimly lit corridor of my romantic past.

Today is my wedding day, after all.

Or it would have been. Virus stuff.

I thought about my first relationship. It was an abusive cluster fuck. Mutual awfulness. It was the instant after the pin is pulled on a hand grenade, just stretched out for years. An imminent explosion in the air cracked with tension.

The first time I met her parents, she'd lied to her dad to hide that I was coming over, as she knew he'd be furious if he found out she had a boyfriend. We were in college. Her mum was very welcoming though. Her daughter gifted her some body butter. The mother told me I'd have to rub it all over her naked body. She ran her hand up my inner thigh and cupped my.... She laughed. It was an experience.

For four and a half years that relationship made me wholesale miserable. I had no idea how fractured beyond reason it was on the daily. Love is a constant stream of fighting, and apologies for reasons imagined. Love is fear. Love is panic attacks that you know the cause of, but won't admit to yourself for fear of acknowledging what that must mean about your relationship. Love is so much uncertainty. Love is always verging on hatred. It's a thin line, they say.

Except it isn't, is it?

The first time I met Miriam's parents, I'd spent about 12 hours of travel from Scotland to....still Scotland making jokes about Wicker Men and immolation.

Fear disguised by humour. I'm good at that.

Miriam's parents were lovely. Her dad didn't seem to hate me on sight. Her mum didn't do anything to make me lock the door at night. They were so kind, and welcoming. Miriam's family are just really decent, all round good folk. If you're reading this, I've decided you can come to the wedding when it does happen. No need to thank me.

I remember the first time I told Miriam that I loved her. Ruvved her.

Ever panic so hard you Scooby Doo?

"I....ruv....roo?"
"What?"

As I crab walked away (I did the claws) in the silence of that Meadows night, I closed the ever-expanding distance between us with a shout telling her never to speak of this again. Nothing happened. I had said nothing.

Zoinks!

How could I not ruv her though? I'm not going to gush, but she's just the best person I've met. A friend once told me of how it felt to have people in school talk to her about how kind, sweet, and shy Miriam was. She felt the giddy little thrill of being in a secret club. That secret club that knows how funny, mischievous, and bizarre Miriam can be. I'm proud to be a member of this club. It's a club that knows how much Miriam will hate that I'm writing about her

Hey, Miriam.

When she told me she loved me too a few weeks later, I called her a liar, stormed off to work and slammed the door behind me. I really thought we were joking, doing a comedy bit. I didn't know she was actually serious until she asked me on the phone later if she'd made things weird. I'm not very smart.

I want the big moments to be perfect. I live to surprise. A man for a grand gesture.

That being said, when gesturing I can lose control of my wildly flailing limbs and accidentally slap passing children in the face. Twice that's happened. Another day. Another day.

I have known for a long time that I wanted to marry this woman. The second she suggested that she may, possibly, kind of, sort of, potentially be alright with the idea if I were to one day ask was all the encouragement I needed. That and a plan.

There's this scummy, grubby book of poorly constructed sentences held together by questionable descriptions of genitalia. Paragraphs of prosaic penile pretentions put in place by pretty passable pottery persons. It's a neolithic set, would-be sex romp based in an Orkney that needs foreign fornication to save it from inbreeding (no really, that's the plot), written by a potter who claims it's the next Game of Thrones. I doubt this man has ever had sex. I bought it for a penny.

Miriam does not like this book. She does not like this book one bit.

Ever seen The Shawshank Redemption? Of course you have. It's in your top ten, even if you're too ashamed to admit your list has something so obvious. Andy Dufresne and his rock hammer hidden in a hollowed out bible. It took him 19 years to chisel through that wall.

I assume 5 years of that were spent hollowing out the book.

A whole day in my then new job was spent carving at poorly imagined erotica with a stanley knife. I intended to cut through 200. I think I gave in to cramp at 80. Little boxed out sections of dickscriptions littering my desk. Not the intended intro, Colin sending samples to his wife.

"His engendering nib casting silken strands...."

"What is Deebs doing again?"
"He's proposing."

I had a plan alright.

We hadn't been to Orkney in a while. Probably fearful of all that prehistoric pubic pummelling I'd read so much about in a book of some kind. Anyway, now seemed the time. Miriam's sister had just moved back, so there was a legitimate reason to push a visit to the isles.

(Sorry, Hanna, for including you in a paragraph and plan involving the "literature". It's a really, really, truly unrelentingly terrible book. I think I love it.)

I burned before in the summer sun on the bird paradise island of Hoy. Now, I'd return a conquering hero in a hat, with a ring in hollowed out porn for the insane and propose atop a cliff. A plan that could not fail. Unless she threw the book into the sea without opening it. Which....yeah, that was a real concern.

I bought a ring sizing thing online. But how to subtly measure the ring size of someone who doesn't wear any? Get drunk and leave the ring sizer sitting in front of the couch? Get drunk and just straight up measure her finger with neither subtlety nor subterfuge?

Why not both in consecutive days? Perhaps I should have been drinking less.

And still she didn't know it was coming. Not yet anyway. I'd told her I would be proposing within the next year, when finances were a bit more stable. Certainly not at the point when switching from weekly paid job to new, monthly paid job. A clever ruse.

So, I got drunk again.

It was my last day at my previous theatre home. Five years. I'd ordered the ring the day before. It meant something. I drank. It was nice. Somewhat intoxicated upon returning home, I'd told Miriam of one particularly touching farewell card I'd received from a colleague (and dare I say, friend). Was it a nice night? Yeah, I think i'll miss it after all. Then promptly fell asleep clutching a packet of biscuits. Again. Every time.

The hungover shell on the couch was breathing. Barely. It was enough to be registered a success.

"Oh is this the card you got?"
*garbled gibberish*
"Can I read it?"
*garbled consent through scarcely hidden tears*

It opens as follows:

"David....

OK, Deebs.

Congratulations on escaping from the Lyceum, and on buying a ring, and making all these steps forward in your life. I'm sure you'll meet any challenges with grit and grace."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Can you see it?

She raised her eyes from the card. An imperceptible periscope above the breaks for this broken vessel of a man.

"You bought a ring?"
"Shit."

I laughed for a couple of minutes. What else could I do? I'd absolutely fucked it. The ring hadn't even arrived yet. My heart was drowning in the pool of sweat at my feet. There was no denying it, although Miriam maintains that I could have made a cursory attempt. She underestimates the hangover. What was I gonna do, become an Ultimate Fighter?

"I have to make a phone call. About work."

I called my then recently former boss. I just needed to get out. To get away from the putrid stench of my stupidity.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Chris, I....fuck!"

He laughed at me. He was right to do it.

Miriam was sitting on the wooden floor of our flat eating an orange Mr Freeze. She claims to like them, but I know that she eats them because they're my least favourite of the available options. It wasn't how I intended. It wasn't what I planned. There was no ring. No stunning vista. No grand, sweeping romantic gesture. No terrible erotic fiction in my hand.

That last part isn't a euphemism.

There was just a sweaty man, hungover and despairing at his own failure, but lucky in love and lost in hope. And an orange Mr Freeze.

She said yes. We both agree that it was the most fitting proposal from this consistently ridiculous fool. It was perfect in its own way.

We'll get down that aisle one day soon. Every day has been the best day. And today will be too. Today we'll drink champagne and wait.

....wait, the pornography!

After all the thought that went into cutting what constituted the heart out of that lacklustre lust list, there was no way I was letting it lie. And I did as said a week or two after proposing on that wooden floor.

She hates that book. She loves me though.

Locked Down

Well, shit. I've been a bad writey typey person. I used to post this stuff fairly regularly once. Usually about stupid things I did in public settings while drinking. Well now everything is different.

Now there is no public. How's lockdown going?

You better believe the drinking's still there. Ooh boy is the drinking continuing. Do you ever think to yourself "maybe I should lay off the rum?", but then realise you can't go outside, you've been wearing a dressing gown for a week, and the only variety left in your life is in the number of ice cubes in your glass?

Most times three, if you're wondering. Sometimes I like to change it up though, and instead have a whole bunch of shitty broken up pieces of ice that largely melt as they touch the glass. Then I find myself choking on surprise ice fragments and questioning every life choice I've made as I consider the imminence of my death.

One week. I've been furloughed for a week, thank you for asking.

Up until this unplanned extension of my personal freedoms, there was a month and a bit of working from home. My main personal revelation in that time was just how little my life had changed.

I was still hooked up to a screen from 10:00 to 18:00. Still shotgunning entire packs of biscuits with regularity. Still feeling a slight knot in my chest every time I was confronted with a task outside my comfort zone, until I remembered to breathe like a normal fucking human and just get it done.

I did take more tea breaks. Even those were just me giving a look across the room to Miriam, met with a smile and, yes, sometimes cheering, before I fucked off to the kitchen to make her a cup. I don't touch the stuff. No hot brown for Deebs. My body is a temple. One of those neglected ones that, when it finally does collapse entirely. a team of archaeologists would enter and say:

"What a fucking awful temple. No tea or coffee anywhere inside it though. Was that wall built entirely of potato? Were all the walls?"

I eat potato like I'm living in the emergent shadow of a blight. If I stop, I'm fearful there will be no more. I can never stop.

After both finishing our working days within the same room, we'd cook, eat, and watch a film, play a game, and/or read a book. Maybe there would be wine. Maybe Miriam would propose watching Lord of the Rings for the gazbillionth time and I'd have to stand my ground again.

I fucking hate Lord of the Rings.

There, I said it. It's been weighing on me, the idea that maybe one person doesn't know my opinion on a given subject. I just....it's shite. I wish I could just cast it into some firey pit. I wish there was a firey pit I could walk to. I wish I could walk anywhere. Just to get away from Lord of the Rings.

Fight me. I'll yank your little hobbit cape from your shoulders and drown you in a lake.

Not yet, obviously. Can we do this over Zoom? Can I drown you over Zoom because I disagree with your taste in film, and literature? Should we set up a time? When works best for you? You don't trust Zoom? Alright, how about Houseparty? No, I haven't used it either. We could just do a WhatsApp video call, maybe? No, we don't actually need video either I suppose. Does save in having to cultivate that illusion of normalcy by getting even semi-dressed. Does anybody use Skype anymore?

I got side-tracked. Where was I? Potato chat?

Fuck, well then furlough came a-callin'. It wasn't unexpected. The arts is a fragile industry at the best of time, but the arse has kind of fallen out of it a bit now. And all it took was a more or less complete global shutdown, and total change of human life as we know it.

That doesn't make it sound like the fragility of the support networks within the arts was to blame actually.

Either way, I commend the existence of this furlough scheme. And the temporary safety net it has provided to so many. I'm glad my company has fought as it has for the employees within, and their clients without.

So, how has furlough changed this little life of mine? Nobody asked. Yet, if you're reading maybe you want to know. Or....how fucking bored are you? How many ice cubes for you? Are your single rums turning into triples too?

In short, nothing much has changed. I've just replaced Zoom meetings with the return of an addiction to Football Manager that put a crippling stranglehold on a large amount of my teen years. Without Football Manager, I might have spent some time studying. Without Football Manager I might have developed a better personality. Without Football Manager I might have achieved something. Anything.

Without Football Manager I wouldn't have spent the last 7 days staying up til 5am calling a bunch of virtually overpaid virtual athletes doing virtually nothing to justify their virtual wages that they are a virtually useless pack of cunts.

It's fine. Everything's fine. I'm good. How are you?

Rings! That's the other thing! Not Lords of, no. I was supposed to be getting married at some point. Probably. I should write about how that came about. I will. Not got anything else better to do since I can't trust Leyton Orient to get their shit together against Forest Green anyway.

Still, we had a wedding planned. We were going to get married on July 17th....checks to see if he's right about that....yep, 17th. Small family deal, reception kinda party thing the day after. This virus has torpedoed the b'jesus out of that plan.

Our families have never met. Miriam's family have been learning the names of mine. No, seeing them written down will only confuse you further. I can't explain why putting an "m" and a "h" together makes that sound. It's just how it is. It's language. It's confusing, and different and great.

I was already making plans for how to deal with my dad. If he attempts to make a speech, and I'm too far away to tackle him, I need someone else to take him down. Go for the knee! SWEEP THE LEG!

It is beyond certainty that he is going to call Miriam by my ex-girlfriend's name. He really seems to think that's hilarious. It's not a slight on Miriam, it's a slight on me. He knows how much it bothers me and....well, that's how we show we care in Ireland, isn't it? If you're not laughing as you make someone's life that much harder, then what's the point in having them in your life?

He will call her Norwegian. He will call her family Norwegian. They're not Norwegian dad. They're from a weird little island in the middle of Scottish nowhere, and they may burn me if you provoke them.

We've been putting a playlist together. Most, if not all, songs I have added to the playlist exist solely to act as a pointed jab at various people in attendance. I am a petty man. I am willing to put my future wife's happiness at stake in order to have that moment of standing in the middle of a confused dance floor as the theme tune to Round the Twist plays and I REMEMBER EVERYTHING YOU DID, YOU SON OF A BITCH AND I HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A LOVELY TIME!

There's some good tunes on there. Still working to get a bit of Horslips in. She'll come around.

There is several hundred pounds worth of wedding related paraphernalia sitting in the wardrobe. I have a suit. It's exactly as flared, striped and green as you think it is. Or not. I've got a wedding hat. Of course I do. It really ties the whole thing together, man. We have wedding rings. They're sitting, boxed up, on the mantle piece taunting us. Even now I hear them call to me.

After all why not? Why shouldn't I wear it?

Fuck it, might as well go live in a cave with this precious, rocking a tattered loin cloth, withered hairline and cutting a pathetic figure as I already mostly do.

How's lockdown going? It's going fine. It's the same as it ever was.

On Friday, I'm watching Geostorm for the sixth (?) time. GEOSTORM! If you've not seen Geostorm, and want to watch a story about an alcoholic's efforts to understand a time in which world leaders have come together in an attempt to stem the threat of an invisible force of nature, only to find themselves undermined by the utter stupidity of American political wrangling....just....just give it a miss maybe.

At least there will be communal fun times over....Zoom? Houseparty? WhatsApp? Google Hangouts are still a thing?

Three cubes of ice. Gerard Butler garbled some science at a scientician- drink!

Normality: The Return

Coming back to work is never the most pleasing of pleasures. I've been in France for a week subsisting on a diet of breakfast wine, and....more wine? Breakfast wine, but later? I'm confident there was wine. The people were excellent. They tell me that without Scotland there is no party.

They got this all screwed up.

No, Scotland. No party.

We stayed at a farmhouse in Nice. The last house at the top of the mountain. The pool was filled with bugs, and some water. The frogs were loud, yet inconspicuous. The Women's World Cup was a lot of fun. We went to the opera in Lyon courtesy of friendship being magic.

Now I'm back. Catch yourself on.

I wake up before my alarm, as always. It's the fear of it that wakes me every day, the sleep deterrent. I throw on one of the many available combinations of striped flares and floral shirts, brush my teeth and roll out. Standing at the bus stop, I get to thinking that I don't even like these flares anymore.

"Guess who's back?"

His blank stare suggests that my boss truly doesn't know. Or, is he even awake? He's got two young children, so he barely exists in a state of permanent half-sleep. I'll lead him through the excitement.

"....me. It's me. I'm back."

I slowly lower my sunglasses to see his eyes glaze over in a way that tells me he was hoping it would be the reveal of a far more interesting person.

"So, what have I missed?"

He turns away. I can't quite be certain, but I think he starts to whimper. I feel uneasy. The whimper turns to a sob. Now I'm back.

My co-supervisor can't be here today. She has better things to do. Something about a migraine. Sounds divine. I take my seat at the front, read through some emails, and prep for a busy day of catching up. It's time to open, so I switch on the phones and wait for that first call. Nothing happens.

Time passes.

Slowly.

I've missed this.

"Would you like seats in the stalls or grand circle?"
"No."

If you look closely at the options, you'll notice that this was not a yes or no question.

"I'm not sure you understand. We can offer you seats in the stalls, or the grand circle. Which would you prefer?"
"No. I want what I had before."
"Alright. Looking at your booking history, it seems you had seats in the grand. Is that what you'd like?"
"No. I want the upstairs."
"Cool. So that's the grand circle then."

I really have missed them. Any time I move my head, a rush of fluid in my skull makes it feel like the pressure will crush my brain. I do it a few times just to feel something.

After work, I meet that girl I've been seeing. Can't remember her name. She was there for that French wine. We walk home. I buy some jeans. They're slim fitting, and manage to both be slightly too big, yet noticeably too small at the same time. At some point in the evening, I make myself a White Russian.

I cancel the alarm a few minutes before it's due to go off. Not sure how long I've been staring at the ceiling. I kiss that girl on the cheek and stumble into some slim fit jeans. And, yes, a floral shirt. This bus is 3 minutes late. There's a baby on board clawing at its mother's eyeballs while screaming. How adorable. A notification that I'm tagged in a picture from France. Do you ever really recognise yourself in pictures? Do you look at a picture of yourself and say "that's me"? I don't. I can never remember being the person I see in pictures. The baby laughs as it tears some hair from its mother's head. This journey has taken 3 minutes longer than yesterday.

On arrival, I'm greeted by an Irishman and a tall, bald guy sitting at the front of the theatre. I had to fight my way through a swarm of youths blocking the entrance to get here, and this is how I'm repaid? My boss has distilled my basic personality traits (Is Irish. Is bald.) and split them between two separate people. They could be inferior clones if they weren't charming, and better than me in most ways. Am I the inferior clone? Usually.

My boss slept for three hours last night apparently. He's singing to himself. Sadly, but in a comically high voice. I stare at the picture of the stranger that hangs from a lanyard around my neck. When was I you?

They've congregated in front of the doors. I pretend I have work to do just so I can open the doors and tell them to move. I tilt my head to the side to feel that pressure again. The comforting vice of encroaching death. I switch on the phones and inspire the troops:

"Take the closed sign down. We're open."
"I don't wanna be open."
"It's OK, closed or open, it really makes no difference."

A customer sends an email about making a group booking to see the pantomime. I give her some information about our Christmas show. It's not a pantomime. We never do pantomimes.

"I know that. I've been coming to this theatre for years. What dates do you have available for the pantomime?"

I think about death a lot.

I suggest my bullet-proof marketing idea again. Every so often I mention it at meetings. We should have collectable cards featuring pictures of staff, and their key stats. We could include a pack with every ticket purchase. If you get the full set, you get a prize. Everyone thinks I'm joking. I think I was before.

Deebs
Sarcasm- 10
Hope- 0

I check that the phones are on. They are. I send some emails.

"I'm not sure if you're working today. If so, there's a package for you at the box office. If not, there's still a package for you at the box office."
"I am in. It's a dog bed. You don't mind if my dog joins us tomorrow, do you?"

Deebs
Sarcasm- 10
Hope- 10

I decide to write something. What was the last draft I had going?

"I refuse to die in a theatre. Shove me out the door as I take my last breath."

I went to Prague with that girl I like last year. One night, we talked about how I nearly got hit by a car because I was looking the wrong way crossing the road shortly after we arrived.

He died the way he lived- stupidly.
He died the way he lived- loudly cursing everyone.
He died the way he lived- against his will.

The phone rings. Caught off guard, I blurt out an involuntary "what the fuck?". When the call ends, he signs off with:
"Excellent.
 Thanks very much.
 Have a nice day.
 Stay safe."

The overkill in his attempts to end our brief interaction has mostly left me feeling threatened. Why wouldn't I be safe? What should I be looking out for?

He died the way he lived- confused.

One of the maintenance guys asked my age a while back. I told him I was thirty four.

"Fifty four?"
"Thirty four."
"Be serious."

I am being serious, Ivan.

"Be serious."
"Wait....which side of this surprises you? How old do you think I am?"

He left.

Sometimes, I think about a younger me. When I was that younger me, I had a fixation on the idea of meeting a future version of myself. What questions would I ask me? I suppose that one of the clearest signs of ageing is that I now imagine being the future version meeting the past model of myself.

Would I be happy with the answers I could give? No, turning 21 did not magically unlock a world of neon lit nightclubs where I would automatically feel at ease enough to go home with any woman who caught my interest. You should probably get some better haircuts while you still can. Stop wearing purple fleeces with neon green striped tracksuits. We're taller now, at least.

We live in Scotland now. It's actually kind of great.
We have really good friends, and we continue to meet cool people.
We might not always like our job, but it's interesting.
We hit the jackpot with our girlfriend.
There's a dog coming to work tomorrow.

Life's not bad.

The Void

I don't know how people write. I don't understand how this used to be a thing I did.

It's not even that I haven't known what to write, but I have no idea how to actually get it done. There have been myriad ideas, but I'm not going to tell you what they were. I'm not about to tip my hand like that. That's how people like you steal ideas.

Yes, you. Specifically you.

Outlines have been scribbled down in various notebooks that are scattered about solely to catch a turned phrase, and the stories are there. It's just the closest I've come to writing anything would be some brief "reviews", if you can even call them that....which....yeah, I think I am calling them that, but with quotation marks to give me some wiggle room.


What did I think of Geostorm?

"This beautiful film. The Citizen Kane of films that have Gerard Butler futilely trying to punch clouds in their stupid cloud faces. Rosebud in this instance is an exploding satellite from which Charles Foster Kane falls, leaving him with massive brain injuries."

Thoughts on A Quiet Place?

"I farted myself awake a few nights ago.

Throughout this film I couldn't shake the idea that this is how I would have died. The dread was only exacerbated by my futile attempts to stealthily eat crisps at the back of the screen.

More tense than a first date with someone who clicks at a waiter."

Fast Times At Ridgemont High?

"This film reminds me a lot of my first relationship.

I spent the entirety fantasising about Phoebe Cates."

Hey, Deebs, how did you feel about Garden State?

"Having lost my virginity to the opening 3-4 seconds of a Damien Rice album, I figured that my second sexual experience playing out with the soundtrack to this film in the background would be an improvement.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to achieve orgasm when you're picturing Zach Braff's mopey face? Actually, sadly, not difficult enough. Really unpleasant musical accompaniment to lying on a soiled mattress beside a crying woman.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I brought a friend to see this on a whim just after his mother had died. It was a bad decision."
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Mostly, I choose to compare films to past relationships. Films tend to cry less.

Anyway, I suppose that getting back into writing involves embracing the basics. What are my basics? I was born, I guess. It's not as if I can remember that part but, I exist so it's a reasonable deduction. In retrospect, that whole being born thing was regrettable for all involved, but I'm too tall to send back. Let's hit some bullet points on life since then:

• Wrote stories.
• Played football.
• Watched films.
• Worked in a bank.
• Studied journalism.
• Worked in a bank again.
• Worked at a film festival.
• Watched a lot more films.
• Worked at a fringe festival.
• Worked at THE fringe festival.
• Wrote a bunch.
• Worked in a theatre.
• Worked in a different theatre.
• Wrote things about working in a theatre.

That's that settled then. Seeing as I've never written anything about working in a theatre, I'll continue to not do that.

What? No, never.

Still.

I won't bore you by writing about unusual people leaving their comically large bras behind in the theatre. Why would they take that off? How could they forget they weren't wearing it? Could I fit my head in it, hypothetically? Probably, but that would be weird.

It was weird.

This isn't helping me write.

When I started this blog, it was on the back of incessant peer pressure. Friends wanted me to write scripts and story ideas, and my girlfriend told me I was wasting my life. Then those friends pushed for me to at least start writing a blog as an outlet, and my girlfriend told me I was wasting my life. Then that relationship ended, so I tried to use this thing as a diary to get some feelings out.

My ex girlfriend told me I was wasting my life.

One of those friends starting championing the writing of another guy, and I damn well wasn't about to let someone else find any sort of happiness in doing the thing that I couldn't commit to doing myself. Now, I'd done some stupid things in my life up to that point.

Just going to pause here to let your shocked gasps pass.

As it turned out, I was right in the middle of a beautifully stupid period in my life where I would continue to get into bizarre scenarios.

Gasp break.

It made for some great pub chat, so I set about bringing my follies from pub to page. I put out a steady stream of stories about festivals, fuck ups, and....I'd like to say "females" to keep the alliteration flowing but, a certain subgroup of subhumans that populate the internet have utterly ruined that word.

It all seemed so easy then. I had a substantial back catalogue of personal failings to call upon, and frequent festivals to replenish my repertoire. When I left Dublin for Edinburgh, there was a definite shift in the things I wrote about. This page had really always been a way for me to chronicle my own life, and so I wrote more about day to day things in a new city.

Sometimes I wrote about accidentally slapping small children off their scooters in the street in broad daylight. I said day to day but, I didn't necessarily mean mundane.

Part of the pull of Edinburgh was that it was a festival city. The abridged version I tell is as follows:
"Came to Edinburgh to work the Fringe, got drunk, stayed,"

Clearly it's a longer, more nuanced story than that. I came to Edinburgh to work the Fringe, got drunk, got paid, stayed. So, not much longer. Still, I migrated from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to a couple of stints at the Edinburgh International Festival to keep the good times rolling, and then stopped the rolling.

The first proper fight Miriam and I ever had was on the way back from my first visit to Orkney. We got the ferry back to mainland Scotland at 6am, and arrived in the physical manifestation of hopelessness, Thurso, at about 8am. The only thing open on that freezing, rain soaked morning was a little cafe that did a decent breakfast. Being only mildly defeated by the squalid misery of Thurso, I doubled down on my Irishness with a breakfast baked potato. Somehow, Thurso infected our breakfasts with sorrow, and before long we were arguing about the things I'd written in the past, and how it cast others in a negative light. I'd always considered myself the idiot around whom otherwise regular folk orbited in my tales. Thurso and its airborne pathogens of dread had drawn my blog, and my relationship into its mire of passive fury. It darkened our moods and led to five and a half hours of uncomfortable silences getting lashed on in Thurso, an eternity in a peculiarly stocked Thurso newsagent, and a further forever in what passed for Thurso's museum.

I'm not sure that the profound level of my hatred for Thurso is translating in text, so let me illuminate it further. In that museum were a pair of rope spun slippers. The sign attached to that exhibit read:
"These slippers may have been made by a fisherman's wife while she was bored waiting for her husband to return from sea."
They could offer no certainties on one of the few things contained in their own museum, yet even they were reasonably certain that it would have to have been a product of somebody's intense boredom.

I loathe Thurso. Nobody lives in Thurso, they just exist there in a state of perpetual near-death.

My life is split into two parts- before Thurso, and after Thurso. And after I-swear-to-fuck-I'll-stop-mentioning-Thurso everything I wrote was noticeably bleaker.

When I wrote about my mum's dementia, people complimented me on being able to write so honestly and with humour about a shitty situation. Shameless self-plug for writing about sad stuff:
http://fooltide.blogspot.com/2014/11/mrs-doyle.html

That response was genuinely lovely, and entirely unexpected. It's never seemed difficult to write about things that are happening, because, save for some hyperbole and artistic license in the wording here and there, the facts speak for themselves far louder than fiction. I have tried and thus far failed to commit to writing fiction in the last couple of years. The ideas are there, but that feels like more soul being bared than actually just talking about real life. It doesn't matter if anyone judges me for the way I've written about my experiences, but they sure can judge my attempts at building a story from scratch.

There's a typewriter gathering dust in my flat.

So, I've stuck to writing the day to days. There have been fewer drunken fuck ups to break up the occasional sad stories. I've been in an excellent relationship with a brilliant woman for about six years. She will absolutely hate to read the part calling her "brilliant", and the part where I suggest we're in a relationship. It just seems cruel to remind her of that. While that's an admitted positive, it has cut down on the farcical misunderstandings that made up the majority of my posts. What I'm saying is that this is clearly all her fault.

In the absence of alternatives, I tried to write about working in a theatre once. It went over well. These missives I post usually get 100-300 views, this clocked in at 3000.
https://fooltide.blogspot.com/2016/09/how-to-talk-to-box-office-staff.html

Inspired and emboldened at the relative success of that post, I decided to never write about theatre ever again. I didn't set up a Facebook page. Its non-existence meant that it could never build up a steady following in Ireland, the UK, and Australia. It continued to not exist after a year of not existing. I do not have a zipper folder of its contents.

Then there was nothing. Further nothing? Actual nothing though.

Can't write. Feel guilty for not writing, and then get struck by that middle of the night burst of creativity that comes with trying to sleep. The longer I waited without writing, the more difficult it became. I grew apprehensive at the merest thought of typing anything. I'm even shite at responding to messages from friends now. A state of perpetual apprehension, which is in essence the literary equivalent of Thurso.

I've restricted any hints of creativity to social media posts ("This is Deebs, he's funny....on Facebook."), and work based emails about football. I was uncomfortable to hear some very positive responses from work colleagues to things I've written. Not because I didn't appreciate it, but because I didn't feel I deserved it. I can't understand people who tell me I'm a good write, because....well, I don't write (someone just pointed out to me that I misspelled "writer", which speaks for itself, so I'm leaving it in. Thanks Henderson). I really do appreciate kind words, and advice given, but I don't feel they've been earned.

My latest, burgeoning plan is to trick myself into writing. This is the beginning of that very plan, as I look to get the creative juices flowing (Note: the phrase "creative juices" births some unceasingly grim imagery). I've "commissioned" (asked very nicely) Miriam to get her artistic skills back up and flourishing by painting a piece inspired by Big Trouble in Little China. Partly, I just want to proudly hang this work of art on the walls of our flat (the early progress looks excellent). As a side benefit, I'm harking back to that jealous little need to make sure nobody else succeeds nearby when I feel I should be doing likewise. If she is getting back into the swing of things, I'm hoping for that petty little voice urging me on to do the same. I've really missed that adrenaline rush that comes from finishing a story, I do have a couple of ideas that have been on the back burner for some time:

Specifically, an odd encounter with a woman named JoJo (2 years ago), and a whole diatribe about hair. In related news, below is the picture that made me realise I was going bald. You're welcome.

And here we are, with me writing about being unable to write. It's a start. A restart.

It's the blogging equivalent of a pair of rope spun slippers.

Totally Fixable

I haven't published anything new here in over a year. Radio silence through 2017, and maybe you wondered why. Maybe not. I hope you didn't care. I hope you were too busy living your life. I hope you stay busy living.

Today, is a friend's birthday. Mostly, I'll grab a drink with someone on their birthday. Sometimes, distance means I'll just send them a message. Not necessarily the horse's head in the bed kind of message, but just something to let them know I'm about, thinking of them....watching them. Often, I'll leave them some caustic acknowledgement that Facebook has reminded me they're a little bit older now.

So, let me tell you a little bit about Sam.

That Bruno Mars looking motherfucker was a pain in the arse. He was sarcastic, quick with a put down, and never let me forget his promise to replace me as a better version of Deebs. He was an Arsenal fan, and fuck knows he deserved many more years of suffering through that. Sam knew too much. He knew the girls I was into, in spite of my denials. Of course he knew- he had that bloody camera with him at all times to document every drunken misstep I made. He worried that, if he ever made it in film, history would record me as his first muse. He was a pain in the fucking arse, and just a really good dude.

A lot of people miss Sam.

Sam's not here to hear it, read it, or know it. How do you tell your dead friend that you're thinking of them on their birthday? I can't, can I? So, today I can only hope to speak to someone else.

If you're reading this, I'm speaking to you.

The theme tune to M*A*S*H. I couldn't imagine a worse song than that to get stuck in my head when it recently did. If you're not familiar with the lyrics, let me tell you the title- "Suicide Is Painless". Just the worst, supremely bad timing. It's never painless, by the way. Never.

If you've ever thought about it, or if you ever will, know that it is never painless.

On September 5th 2012, I was sitting in my room in Edinburgh's scenic Tollcross, on a two-seater "couch" thing that may have kicked off years worth of back pain. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw that someone had tagged Sam in a picture, and my eyes caught those three hair-raising letters- an R, an I, and a P.

"Huh, that's weird."

I clicked on Sam's name, and went to his profile page.  A second picture jumped up. An R, an I, and a P. My eyes widened, and my body went cold. I felt like I could feel a separation between my body and my legs. My upper torso was no longer mine, and my legs turned to chalk. My head was swimming, but it was the only part of myself I could be sure was still me. I shuffled across the hall to my flatmate's room.

"Hey. Do you know what's going on with Sam? Did you hear anything?"

We sent some messages to Dublin people, they sent some messages too, and eventually it came back as we feared. An R, an I, and a P.

"If someone comes back and tells me this was suicide, I'm not going to believe it. He wouldn't have killed himself. There's no way."

My flatmate may have been trying to convince himself, but the tallying was going on in both our minds. At that moment, I was pretty sure what Sam had done. I think we both were.

I stayed in my room. I just stared ahead. I'm not sure how long for. My back didn't hurt for a while, at least. I was cold. The other flatmate was in the kitchen having a drink with his cousin, who'd just arrived that day. I shambled in there eventually.

"You OK, man?"
"My friend just died."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Do you want a drink?"
"Yeah."

I went back to my room with a beer. I think I drank it over the course of an hour. I kept staring. I think I sent messages to some mutual friends. I think I let people know. I just kept staring. I think I had more to drink as the night wore on. Fuck.

I couldn't make it back home in time for Sam's funeral. From what I gather, a decent amount of people who likewise knew him from various festivals managed to fill out the church quite well. Hearing his family talk gave them a bit more insight into the kind of person Sam was. The picture of a troubled guy became a bit clearer. How could we have known, when he didn't want us to. There's no question mark there. It's not a question. We couldn't have known.

I can only try to imagine how it was for Sam's family. How it is. Fuck.

Some of us put up pictures of Sam in the days after, and maybe we'll think of him every now and then. Maybe a Bruno Mars song will come on, and we'll remember him. Maybe Arsenal will get knocked out of the F.A. Cup by Forest, and we'll remember him. Or maybe, as today, a Facebook reminder will pop up to tell us that it's another birthday he's missed. Maybe we'll leave a nice Facebook comment. It all seems so pointless, doesn't it? He still exists as a Facebook profile. Sometimes, I've seen people wish him a happy birthday, and it's apparent they have no idea he's dead.

"Happy birthday dude! Hope all is well with you!"

Life goes on without you, and so does your pain. Everyone has a little piece of your pain to carry now. It sucks you had to carry it alone for as long as you did.

Suicide is never painless.

Between 1937 and 2012, an estimated 1600 bodies were recovered of people who had jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge. That jump is not something that many people survive. This is a quote from one such survivor, Ken Baldwin, who jumped in 1985:
“I instantly realised that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable- except for having just jumped.”

I haven't published anything new here in over a year. You may have read some stuff elsewhere, and there have certainly been plenty of times I've tried to write, but it all just stopped. I couldn't finish anything. These posts tend to be anecdotal, entirely personal and subjective, and I simply couldn't open myself up enough to put my own thoughts out there in 2017. Even the attempts at lighthearted stories kept veering into really dark places. I wanted to write about JoJo's spaghetti and her gay boyfriend, but I just couldn't do it.

It was not a good year.

I posted a piece once about depression. I don't think I've ever suffered from depression, but I've seen the damage it can do. I mentioned Sam in that post, talked about him pretty similarly to how I have above. I'd lost one friend to suicide, and I hoped I'd never have to lose anyone else to it. I hoped that anyone who saw my post would know they could talk to someone if they were in a bad way.

I don't know if they read that post, but I'm sorry to say that there's another Facebook profile on my list of friends that has outlived its owner.

I don't know how to write this part.

I was there when someone else got the call. I didn't believe them. I waited to ask them to repeat it, because I'd misheard them. I had to have misheard them. No fucking chance I hadn't.

I spent time with the family of a person who had just committed suicide. Travelling to be there for them, for the person who wasn't there anymore. A person who had everything going for them. A person who would never do that. A person who did that. An R, an I, and a P.

It took forever to travel there. Focusing on as much monotony as I could take, all the minutiae of travel. It's easier that way. I had to be there this time. Fuck. I had to think about it, but first I had to think about anything else for a while. For as long a while as I could, before everything would be real. I had forever not to think about it, until forever ended and I was there. With the family.

I never want to see that much anguish ever again. I never want to hear that pain. All the bargaining, and the guilt. The tears, and the glassy eyed stares. That pain. Every inch of my spine seizing when I think about their pain. Fuck.

I tried to console, and to just listen. I silently cried a few tears when nobody was around. This wasn't about me. Unfair to cry in front of anyone. Fuck. I excused myself to check up on friends.

"I know this is out of the blue, but if you ever need to talk...."

I came back for the funeral. I tried to talk to people the way people are supposed to talk to people at funerals.

"I'm sorry."

I patted people on the shoulder. I shook hands. I felt like an impostor in amongst all of this loss, and despair. I shook more hands. I raised a glass, and drank in memorial. I got up in the morning, and carried on. One person didn't. For all those fractured people, a part of them was lost forever.

I wished that was the last time I'd see that anguish. It wasn't.

That much pain doesn't go away. It doesn't leave with you. I cannot fathom the depths someone must have reached for there to be no light. I can't imagine how they could have felt. I never want to be able to imagine it. I don't want to experience one bit of the suffering that sees that as your solution. I'm so sorry for anyone who has felt no way out but that.

And I wish they could realise that there is hope. There always is. It might not seem like it, but there absolutely is hope.

And if you can't feel the hope, then consider the pain. I was just a tourist in other people's grief, and I couldn't write. I drank for a month and a half. I mean, I was drunk for about a month and a half. Any bit of money I had saved was exchanged for alcohol. Vodka mostly. Not social drinking, but sitting alone drinking to pass the time at the expense of friendships drinking.

Your pain doesn't go with you. It passes on to those who love you. All the people who wish they could have the last conversation back, to tell you how much you are loved. To hug you for an uncomfortable amount of time.

You can fucking do this. You're stronger than you think.

Please keep fighting. Please keep talking.

How to Talk to Box Office Staff

The much publicised article on "How to Talk to a Woman Who is Wearing Headphones" has received plentiful scorn and criticism over the last week or so. Some have viewed it as a how-to guide for those who wish to harass women in the street, but have lacked the confidence to do so until now. Others have expressed differing viewpoints, probably. How else are you supposed to talk to women against their will if someone's not there to provide step by step instructions? And that's a good point. If you can't learn to take basic social cues, or take "no" for answer, then how are you supposed to force people to do what you wish, even if they are ugly bitches that you didn't even want to talk to anyway? Well, I say "people".... Obviously, we all know that women aren't really people. Not like you and I, fellow human men.

Anyway, speaking of non-people, and inspired by the powerhouse of modern thinking that wrote the above mentioned piece, I thought I'd share with you a guide on how to interact with box office staff. And, if you don't like it, I'll just edit it and also add in some testimony from my fans. I could have fans.

How to Talk to Box Office Staff

These days, it can be hard to appear cultured and pretend to be tapped into the artistic pulse of society. In a world where advancing technology has allowed for new media and the ability for any man, woman or cat to gain a voice and an audience, sometimes it can be tricky to find the right event at which to be seen. In these difficult times, it's good to know that you can walk into any theatre and find someone to ask about their upcoming performances. After all, theatre is what the intellectuals look at, eh? It might not be as good as TV or something, but if you just pretend to know what you're talking about then people will see how smart and interesting you are.

Often, the staff will appear busy, but that doesn't mean you cannot speak to them. It's their job to serve you, and they'll appreciate the opportunity to speak to you. You pay their wages.

The Approach

As you approach, awkwardly dance in front of them to suggest that you are unsure of which member of staff to approach. Laugh as you do this, so they are put at ease and can appreciate the originality of your hilarious gambit. Men, be sure to choose the pretty girl if one is present, and inform them of the reasons for your choice. Women, defer to your man's better judgement in choosing the appropriate staff member here. Stand directly in front of them, displaying no weakness (as close as humanly possibly. Ideally, close enough that they will be able to taste you. If you can manage to actually be inside them, that's perfect).

Have a smirk that betrays your confidence that you own them, even though you have no idea what you're on about. It's not important to have even the vaguest clue what you're here for, as it's the help's job to work that shit out for you. Most of them will hang up the phone on whatever other loser they're talking to at this point, so just start expecting them to psychically divine your needs from here on out.

However, if they haven't looked at you, or haven't noticed you yet, simply get their attention with a click of your fingers. Maybe stare at your watch a couple of times, and sigh audibly no less than once every 5-10 seconds. They will most likely speak to you at this point, appreciating that you have more important matters to attend to, and regretting that they've wasted this much of your time.

If they persist in dealing with whatever else they're doing before accommodating you, make sure to convey your exasperation in the tone of voice you use when they finally grant you audience.

Of course, if they steadfastly refuse to recognise your importance, direct your attention to their co-worker. Do not tolerate their insolence. Feel free to dart your glance furiously between the two. Subconsciously, they will feel the need to compete for your custom. They are as bitches to you.

The interaction should proceed as follows:

Customer: Tickets.

Staff: (impressed at your stripped down approach to conversation) Yes, sir. What would you like to see?

Customer: What's on?

Staff: (should be giggling and flirting by this point) This month, we have a show called....

Customer: Two tickets.

Staff: OK, what date would you like to go?

Customer: I can do any day.

Staff: Alright, well our best availability would be this Tuesday, where we can....

Customer: Can't do this Tuesday.

Staff: How about next Thursday?

Customer: Can't do days that begin with the letter 'T'. Actually, I can only go on a Friday, three weeks from last week.

Staff: (respecting your ability to keep them on their toes) So....two weeks from now then?

Customer: *sigh* (this will stamp out their sass)

Staff: (contrite, besotted) Would you prefer seats in the stalls, grand circle, or upper circle?

Customer: I don't know. What do you have?

Staff: Approximately 400 seats are still available for....

Customer: Show me each one on your screen.

Having asserted your dominance in this conversation (and torn the computer from their clutches so they cannot withhold any of the secret seats that we all know they keep hidden from us) they will be yours to mold. They will crave your acceptance, and spread word far and wide of the day they met their match. Refuse to give them details. It's all just a trick so they can call you up in the middle of night and beg you for money to feed their drug addictions.

Look behind you, over both shoulders. If there is no queue, continue as before. Should a queue have developed, gesture with your fellow customers in a manner that conveys the futility of your dealngs with these simpletons.

Take out your phone, and make a phone call, whilst maintaining your position at their counter. This will further demonstrate to them that you have better things to do.

Common Mistakes Made When Approaching Box Office Staff

I) Providing any reasonable amount of information that they could use to push through a booking in a supposedly reasonable amount of time. They're swindling you, somehow. Stay frosty.

II) Heeding their advice. You know better.

III) Remembering details. These tickets that were sold to you as restricted view do not have a full view of the stage. This shall not stand! Stand up straight, lest they deduce how ineffectual your genitals are, and unleash your righteous fury. Poke people in the chest with your finger. How long have they been alive? Not as long as you, that's how long!

IV) Allowing them and their ilk to dictate where you can and cannot go in the theatre. Barriers were not meant for you. Move those stage lights out of your way. Rules were made for weaker people than you. You fought in wars....or at least, you would have had there been any good wars on when you were younger.

V) Taking their word for it when they say that a performance is "sold out". The correct response is to ask them to clarify this statement repeatedly. What does "sold out" mean anyway? There must be one ticket. You only need four. Are there none in the stalls? Fine, grand circle then. Not one ticket available in the whole theatre? Alright, alright....how about two and two?

VI) If this approach makes you feel uncomfortable, you may attempt to communicate with them as people. You can remain patient, present your preferred options and listen to what they have to say, on the assumption that they may have a keener insight than you into the workings of the venue. This will not garner their respect. The more assertive males among us shall instruct our women to wave at you from the centre of....I don't know....the boxes, or something. That's where the Queen sits like, yeah?. You will learn your lesson through envy, peasant.


So, there it is. Now you know how to speak to box office staff. Be the sociopath you were born to be. Fuck shit up, compadre.

Painless

Three and a half years ago, I started to write an entry in this blog, but I just couldn't finish it. Every few months since, I've thought about returning to the quarter written draft that remains, but....well, today I've deleted that piece. Today, I start again.

Time travel has always been my go to daydream. I'd get lost in the surface thoughts of a future version of me showing up to tell me all that lay ahead, give me a sense of who I would become. Recently, it hit me that, seeing as I now see myself as the one who travels back, I really have gotten older. The future I saw for myself never anticipated the baldness.

I'd tell myself a lot of things about the future that became my present, and amongst them I'd focus on society's changes, even within the last decade. And make no mistake about it, society has and will continue to change in incredible ways. Opinions will change and people will evolve. It's what we do, now likely at a quicker rate than ever before. And a large reason for that has been the impact of social media. I believe access to these sites and apps has been a genuine tool for positive attitude shifts in our culture. It really has brought the world together. Sure, there are still kinks to be ironed out. Nobody wants to view more evidence that their crazy aunt Pauline really hates brown people, but there's reason for hope in it. Not about Pauline though. Fuck Pauline. You hear that, fictional family member? Fuck your fictional self.

"Things change, people change, hairstyles change, interest rates fluctuate."

But some things are not changing quickly enough.

Life can hang by a thought.

In September 2012, I was sitting on a too small couch, drinking beer and scrolling through Facebook when I saw something that stopped my heart for just a beat- a picture of a friend. That was it. Nothing significant in the picture at a glance, and I could easily have scrolled past had three letters not caught my eye:

R.I.P.

I gulped, and went to his page, thinking it was likely a joke from a mate of his, but aware of the nagging feeling in the back of my head that this could be more. Another picture. Another eulogy. I shambled into my flatmate's room and asked if he'd heard anything from back home about this. We did some digging, and over the course of an hour or two we received confirmation of what we feared. It hit hard.

Now, some of you reading this will know who I'm talking about, and I don't doubt you felt that same punch to the gut as I did. We're never ready for news like that. Everyone's got their demons, but we're never prepared for the demons to win. Over a week I tried to write down some thoughts, some feelings and find some catharsis. It didn't work, and the words I could commit to seemed so woefully inadequate. It's been three and a half years and they still seem so, but here we are.

If I were to travel back in time to talk to an even 21 year old version of myself, I'd find someone with a largely myopic view of mental illness. I remember having a discussion with someone in Spirit or The Academy or whatever it was then/is now that involved me mentioning how I saw suicide as an entirely selfish act. There's people out there with real problems, and you'd hear celebrities talking about depression, as though they have the right to feel sad when they have so much going for them.

"The easy way out."

I knew depression was more than "feeling a little sad". I wasn't entirely clueless, but in imagining talking to this version of myself, this would have to be a major point in our discussion. I'm fortunate enough that I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of prolonged lows I have experienced in my life. Even when things have been bad, I've had refuge in other thoughts or pursuits. Yet in those prolonged low spells, it was harder, darker and a more claustrophobic feeling closing in.

I can't claim to know how it feels to suffer depression, or anxiety or any other form of mental anguish or illness. Not really. I can ask a mother how it feels to give birth, and get an idea of how it might be, but until you yank a person through my junk I could only have an abstract picture. Watching a film, not living the life. So, for that reason, I apologise if it comes across as though I'm suggesting I have any idea what the fuck I'm talking about here. I don't.

There are periods where life can be too much. And I don't mean the responsibilities, needs or specific outside fears of life; I mean life in general. Those times when you can't get out because anything, everything and nothing in particular all feel too much. You're stuck in a prison of your own mind, but it passes. You have the keys.

For some people, life is lived in solitary confinement. Complete isolation, and darkness. They know there's a world outside of this black void, but they're starting to forget how it felt to live there. We can visit. We can experience the horror from behind a door and tell them we're there for them. Maybe they can describe their confinement, and we can sympathise and console them from the other side of that door, but we're not in there with them. And in the absence of light, they themselves might not even know what they're living with in there. They can't see where the walls are. We get to go home. And maybe one day, if they're lucky, so will they. They know where the exit is, but they're getting tired of waiting for the key to open it. And then there's this other door. They don't know what's on the other side of it, but something tells them it's not good. It's not the exit to the place they want to go, and they know that it will lock behind them if they go through. How long do they stay in that dark room before going through that other door becomes a better option than staying here and hoping?

This might not be how it is for everyone, and, like I said, I can only fool myself into thinking I have any inkling of how it feels to live with mental illness. And so, I can only apologise if my interpretation is offensively wide of the mark.

I know a good number of people who suffer with depression and myriad other mental illnesses, and I've barely noticed how we've grown in our ability to speak about these matters. Yet, we have. The taboo is not broken, but it's getting there.

A person I know once told me of a time (roughly 15 years ago) when they, as a teenager, went to a doctor to discuss their suspicions that they may be dealing with depression.

"No, you just have an artistic temperament."

I've known a person who was sent  home from hospital the night after a suicide attempt, despite having earnestly stated that, if left alone, they would try again. They tried again that night, and ended up back in that same hospital.

I've known a person who, after some really bad news, began to cry just a few silent tears before chiding themselves aloud because "crying is a sign of weakness".

Yet, I've also known a person who, when I was going through a hard time a few years back, reached out to me. They told that if I needed any counselling to help me through it, they would pay for me to go see someone who had been helping them through some stuff too. If you're reading this, you might not even remember that moment, but it helped and for that I thank you.

I know incredibly brave people- some who suffer in silence, and others who openly disclose and discuss the battles they face. I can't tell you what you need, and I might not be able to help, but I hope you know that there is help out there. If you need to talk to someone, anyone, then please do. It's easier to speak than to take back those things that remained unsaid. I know that speaking is not always what everyone needs, and so I say to seek comfort in whatever it may be that offers you hope or help.

I've spoken to a few friends in the last year alone who've spoken to counsellors to work through dark times in their lives. And I know, for them at least, it was a great benefit.

In Ireland, and elsewhere, mental health funding and treatment is not good enough. It's just fucking not. Too many times we still hear of this serious matter that ravages many in society being brushed aside. Not seeing the problem does not mean it does not exist. It's not the one you see that gets you.

I don't know that there was one incident or defining moment that made me realise that depression was not as straightforward as I'd believed. Nor was suicide some sort of cowardly act. It was sadly something that was beyond control, and well beyond my understanding. There are no barriers, borders or safe spaces to prevent the onset of such conditions. It's not as though it's a choice. I suspect I just grew up, and was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people with a greater understanding of things than I did.

This has to change. It might not seem like it, but talking about it is helping. So let's keep talking about it.

Remember that, whatever else, you don't have to be "happy" for anyone else though. Nobody's happy. Just strive to be how you need to be to get by. And if you need to talk to someone, talk to someone. Talk to a professional, talk to a friend, talk to me. Please, just talk to someone. We'll listen.