A Christmas Tale

Christmas is fast approaching. I can see the lights in shop windows as they begin to play the same old songs, and the biting cold hangs in the air like a force created solely to push young lovers that much closer together. This will be my first Christmas alone in 5 years, and so I got to thinking about the people I will be spending the holidays with this year; my family.

So with that festive spirit in mind, I'd like to tell you my favourite holiday tale of all. I'm unsure how much this story has changed over the years, but it's importance to me has never wavered.

It's a tale of a young mother and her three children. I remember this tale as well as I remember the young lady upon whom the story rests. She was cold, scared and tired. But more than anything, she was determined. You see, each year Father Christmas would visit her town, perched upon his float, and without fail this young mother would take her three young boys to see him as he rode past. Regardless of the demons and monsters this young lady had fought off throughout the year, nothing was more important to her than the happiness of her children; and everybody knows that nothing makes kids happier than Christmas. 

So with that in mind, the young mother collected her three children and wrapped them up warm and tight, ensuring that they were safe against the elements. She instructed her eldest to hold her right hand and the hand of his younger brother, whilst she held her youngest close to her. As if it were the most important meeting of their lives, the mother marched with her children to see the jolly man in red, but alas, they were too late. The mother had been in another battle with a monster that night and it would seem that battle had cost them those precious moments. 

Where most would simply give up and wander home, something seemed to drive the mother onward. Determined that her children would indeed see Father Christmas, she kept walking, resolute and strong. The family walked for what seemed like hours, following the chimes of the Christmas float as they slowly edged away. During this chase, a most wonderful thing happened. It became a game; a treasure hunt of sorts. The young mother would walk from street to street, convinced that the float was only minutes away as her children beamed with excitement and anticipation. Unfortunately, it appears it wasn't meant to be. The children were not reunited with Santa that night, nor that Christmas. The family went home to fight some more monsters, and the young mother was presumably left feeling like she had failed. 

However, 20-something years later, I sit here recalling this memory as my favourite Christmas adventure ever. Not because we saw Father Christmas, or because we got to have our very own treasure hunt, but because it reminds me of the strength of a parent's love. Especially mine. God only knows what my Mum was going through that night, but for reasons I can only assume boil down to love, she was determined for us to see something special. Little did she know that she was what made that night memorable. As she has done for every single family experience I've ever had. Regardless of all the hardship, I have always known I am loved. 

This will forever be my favourite memory of my Mum, and I don't even know at this point how much of it I've imagined over the years. The reality of the situation isn't important though; because the story is a perfect representation of the amazing type of woman my mother is. 

Suddenly spending Christmas with my family seems like a beautiful prospect.

Storytelling

I've spent a great part of the last few days simply remembering my life. In lieu of very little, I find myself recalling experiences and acts that I haven't thought about in years; perhaps even since they happened.

Spending all night playing computer games with my little brother. Dancing down the Albert Dock with Charlotte. My first few months in University.

As far as I can tell, there has been no consistent trigger for these memories, but for one reason or another they have each crept to the forefront of my mind for a time, only to retreat back into my subconscious moments later. With each of these recollections comes a feeling that might most aptly be described as 'bittersweet'. Whilst these memories hold great significance, the inability to revisit or relive these experiences is a constant source of frustration for me.

This is why I love to have a record of things. Whether it's through my films, my photographs, or my writing, the documenting of these memories lends them a level of substance that they could never have just dancing around inside my head.

I'm a strong believer in the importance of memories. More than anything else in this world I believe we are shaped by our experiences. Our memories are essentially nothing more than subjective interpretations of these events, and in many ways we allow ourselves to be defined by how we remember something; even if that memory doesn't entirely reflect the original truth of the situation.

With that said, it's important that we don't manufacture these experiences. With the uprising of social media and camera-phones, it's all to easy to live life through the eyes of your lens. There's only so many times you can filter and crop an image before the memory that the picture was meant to represent is completely unrecognisable. Such is the selective memory of the digital age. If you were to believe everything you saw on Instagram, you could be forgiven for believing that everybody is living a far happier life than you might be, but we all embellish our own stories.

Since I was 13 years old I have been enamoured with the thought of travelling the world. For a long time I was convinced that this adventure would lead me to a single moment when everything would click and make sense to me, but the more I think about this, the less I believe it. To quote one of the first songs I ever recall hearing;

"Life's a journey, not a destination."

I had lived under the impression that I would wander from one place to the next, living through these predetermined events that I had laid out for myself and then I would have my own story to tell. It now occurs to me that I was looking at this from the wrong angle. You shouldn't plan memories, because the imagination is a vast and wondrous thing; how can life contend with that? Instead, I believe we should simply attempt to gravitate towards situations and events that allow these memories a natural genesis. If it's worth remembering, you'll remember it.

I've been told on a number of occasions that I've a talent for storytelling. Perhaps this is why I hold memories in such high esteem. All we are is what we've done, and when our bodies begin to fail us, all we will have is our stories. I want to be sure that when I reach 70, I can take my grandchildren on great adventures with nothing more than my words.

That's how I'll know I've lived.

Cause and Effect

Let's talk about happiness; emotional subjectivity at its most basic.

In my ever-expanding pursuit of happiness, I have begun practicing meditation. I've even earned a sticker for "making a good start", and who doesn't love stickers? Now, prior to actually having tried meditation, I would have dismissed this specific pursuit as new-age hokum that serves up nothing but placebo. With that said, it's easy to forget how powerful placebo can be.

The dictionary definition of the placebo effect reads as follows:

"A beneficial effect produced by a placebo drug or treatment, which cannot be attributed to the properties of the placebo itself, and must therefore be due to the patient's belief in that treatment."

Simply put, the placebo effect is the phenomenon of having something affect you in a positive way, purely because you're expecting it to. So, if you had a headache, you might want an aspirin. If I hand you a sugar pill that you think is an aspirin, your headache might subside just because you think it should. This effect is used in pharmaceutical testing all the time in order to determine the effectiveness of a particular drug versus the results of sheer positive thinking.

Still with me? I hope so.

A huge part of overcoming my depression involved changing the way I view the world. Instead of having instantly negative reactions to the smallest of obstacles, I had to learn to step back, breathe, and think about why I was so pissed off. It began to occur to me that for as much as I wanted to scream and shout about the injustice of it all, this kind of behaviour serves nobody. More than that, it puts me on the back-foot and I avoid listening to reason. I suppose meditation is an extension of this effort. Do these results I'm experiencing stem from placebo? Or is there actual benefit in sitting in silence, and breathing out all my angst?

See, breathing is important. Aside from the immediate benefits it brings (not dying, for example), it gives you a moment to consider the situation you're in, and how best to approach it. I choose to ask myself three questions:

"What am I really angry about?"
"What am I planning to do about it?"
"Is what I'm about to do going to be negative or positive?"

If the answer to the third question isn't positive, than 9 times out of 10, I don't do it.

The most amazing aspect of trying to avoid all the negativity is that you become more open to seeing the beauty of things. Things that might have been irrelevant to you before suddenly take on a great deal of meaning. Take today, for example:

This morning, I went for a walk and saw two children playing alone in the park; a brother and sister no older than 6 years of age. In lieu of nothing, the big brother kneels down and zips up his baby sister's coat to stop her from getting cold. Something that simple and sweet made my entire day. At 6 years old, this kid is already so invested in his sister's happiness that he made sure to keep her warm and safe with no prompt from anybody. On my way back, I saw him holding her hand as he walked them both home; safe and happy.

I find I'm noticing these little things more and more as time goes on, and every single one of them brightens my mood to no end. The most beautiful acts of kindness are those that have the potential to affect people you're not even aware of.

So, today I'm happy because I chose to be. Now, I'll leave you with this:

Be happy. Don't just hope you will be, choose to be. Whatever it takes. Most importantly, remember that whether it's the result of medicine, positive-thinking, or the placebo effect; happiness is happiness. Don't waste time questioning it, because it's not the cause that matters.

It's the effect.

The Light Switch

Recently I've hit a bit of a slump. The creative wave I was riding appears to have broken, and I find myself remembering that I'm not the strongest of swimmers. So instead of trying to be creative, I'm going to be honest.

The last few weeks have brought me to a bit of a standstill. The reason for this seems to be that I'm walking the fine line between the person I want to be and the person I have been for the last 5 years.

To clarify, I have spent the bulk of the last half-decade struggling quite profoundly with anxiety and depression. This isn't something I've ever spoken about openly before, because it wasn't until recently that I finally accepted the simple truth; I was ill. I had an illness.

This realisation took a long time to come to, but I'm happy to say that it's the most important epiphany I've ever had. I feel that it's important because my illness and my description of it is slowly being relegated to the past tense. I'm using words like "was" and "had" and I can't tell you how amazing and new that feels to me.

By now, you may be wondering why I was depressed?

Firstly, I should clarify that that question is easily the most infuriating and difficult question I've ever had to answer. Simply because I have no idea. Depression is a weird illness. It's the emotional equivalent of being trapped in a dark room with a group of people who are screaming at you to turn the light on, but you can't find the light-switch because somebody keeps moving it. After a while, people just begin to assume that you don't want to, and that you're being purposely difficult.

I assure you; that's not the case.

Nobody enjoys feeling that way. Worse than how you feel is the lack of understanding you have for it. The hardest thing is watching people give up on you because of it. Note that this distancing isn't immediate; people stay with you and have the best of intentions, but eventually that darkness becomes too much. This departure can feel cruel at the time, but if I've learned anything in the last four months, it's that this may be for the best in the long run.

Being on my own has allowed me the time to completely focus on myself and figure out exactly how to make myself better, and for the most part, it's worked. For the first time in a long time I wouldn't self-identify as "depressed". I've found the switch and I'm seeing a light at the end of a very long tunnel. More than that, I finally feel strong enough to talk about it.

What I'm about to write will be as serious and as honest a statement as I have ever made. I write this with no irony, and no hint of exaggeration. When I was 21, I promised myself that if I felt like this when I was 30, I'd end it. I repeated this promise to myself nearly everyday for 3 years. I'm happy to say this is not a promise I will keep.

I make this admission because I know how easy it can be to lose yourself to that. So if you're reading this and you've felt that way, I'd like to leave you with what I've learned in the last four months.

It really does get better. As somebody that was so convinced that I'd feel this way forever, I cannot stress that enough.

Just give it time. Don't be afraid or ashamed to talk about it, and remember to breathe. Sometimes that's enough.

Life really is beautiful. You just have to find the light.